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+++ 04.45 hrs. {Sys. Local – Knossos}
+++Tempestus Seg. #1669/H
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NavGrp_Designation: Lambda
Individual_Designation: Justicar
Loc_Name: Frt._Cargo_Aux | (Lv 76)
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Girard and Solly stood at the center of the freight elevator, plummeting through the depths of the Justicar. The darkness eventually gave way to a safety-mesh enclosure and exposed the vastness of the auxiliary cargo repositorium. The vaulted ceilings of the cargo bay rose high into shadowy darkness, punctuated by high-intensity spotlights that lined the lower rafters. Tidy rows of cargo containers varying in size and dimension ran in ordered groups across the square kilometers of available space. Rusty gantry cranes loomed over the containers, and the squat shapes of cargo haulers zipped about on the surface. In the furthest corner, rows of Arvus Lighters squatted motionlessly, the boxy cargo craft staged for when the liberation of Knossos hit its operational peak.
On the far left of the cargo bay, mesh enclosures packed with smaller containers lined the wall at even intervals, beneath the traffic control viewports. Within these secluded cages, the 22nd housed their personal armory. All of their war gear, custom weaponry, and bulk freighters' worth of ammunition and supplies awaited them. Should they somehow find themselves without the mighty support of the Imperial Navy, the regiments of front line troops, armored battalions, air wings, and even the war machines of the Adeptus Mechanicus also committed to Knossos, Girard and his men were still equipped to fight a war of their own.
"Looks like there's still an auto-cart down there." Stern pointed down to the blockhouse situated at the floor-level entrance of the bay.
"There better be. I'll have to crack some heads if they took them all," Girard shook his head.
As he waited, he glanced absently down at his gear, idly twirling his rifle sling in one hand. His armor was a minimalist affair, mainly consisting of a streamlined take on the sturdy Kasrkin-Pattern carapace chestplate, colored a flat olive drab. The plating was fitted with extra load-bearing straps and pouches for power cells, vox sets, and navigation tools. The rest of his field supplies rested on a thick padded pistol belt, similarly fitted with an array of pouches. The lighter kit, free of bulky shoulder pauldrons and arm and leg plating, was a far cry from the cumbersome carapace that was the stormtroopers' trademark. To do their specialized work well, it paid to travel light.
Solly and Girard heaved their assault packs off the deck and slung them over their shoulders as the elevator car shuddered to a halt. They hustled out as its door ratcheted upward, toward a yellow auto-cart marked with faded black chevrons. The air had gone from breezy to stuffy now that they were at the bottom of the cargo bay, and a faint humid haze suffused the ground level. They waved happily at two dejected night watch armsmen posted inside the blockhouse as they mounted their yellow steed and sped away toward the cargo cages.
"So, thoughts on this Navy attachment?" Solly called from the driver's seat. Girard shrugged, leaning in to yell over the noise of the whining electric motor.
"I certainly hope they're worth the trouble," Girard said.
"Agreed. That Maksa-cho-however you say it, she seems like a sharp one – hopefully sharp enough to keep to the back, and let us do our work." He said. Girard smiled: for all his grim determination and soldierly virtue, even Solly had his moments of gossip-mongering.
"Yes, I suppose we'll have to see, won't we?" He said, allowing the speculation to die before it had a chance to take root and continued their ride in silence. Presently, the cages rose overhead, signaling their arrival. Beside them was a cluster of yellow utility carts, abandoned at the closest edge of the cage.
Inside, the voices of his men could be heard, punctuated by the odd shout or round of laughter. Stacks of palletized containers occupied one corner, still held fast by heavy cargo straps. A trio of green, rectangular shipping containers occupied most of the cage, their contents packed with deadly munitions and wargear. Behind the containers, fat bundles of cabling snaked across the deck to massive power jacks, feeding them power directly from distant sub-reactors. Also scattered about the space, around stacks of hard cases and auxiliary gear, were numerous folding chairs, a range of rubberized dumbbells, and an upturned cable spool doubling as a table upon which several of the stormtroopers were now arranging their gear. Further down the bay was the motor pool, and command vestibule for the Elysian command elements. Rows of all-terrain vehicles sat silently in reserve, and the short row of command trailers was already bustling with activity.
Girard and Solly stepped up the lip of the first container, its interior cast in the soft light of small glow-bulbs. Inside, sturdy wire armory cages ran floor-to-ceiling, holding stack upon perfectly aligned stack of hotshot cells, bolter ammo crates, solid round boxes, and more exotic munitions on metal shelves. Locked hard-cases, slotted into secure racks at the rear of the container, housed krak missiles, melta charges, and the rest of their explosive ordinance.
Johannsen's wiry form stood at one of the bolted-in work tables that ran through the center of the container, performing functions checks on his weaponry. Aside from his carbine, he also carried an Accatran pattern meltagun. The blocky fusion weapon would be useful in not only carving apart enemy armor, but in more clandestine operations as well. He glanced up for a moment, before returning to his work.
"Almost gonna leave without you two – thought you might be getting cold feet," He said with mock sincerity, smiling around a lip full of bac-chew. Wulfhausen piped up from the rear of the container:
"Nah, they just wanted one last round with your little slam-piece up in the armorers' ward. What'sername, Shoshanna?" He chuckled as he heaved a case of hotshot cartridges out of an ammo chest.
"Her name was Solana, and she's a lovely lass, I'll have you all know." Johannsen pointed a gloved finger about, punctuating his words with quick jabs. Girard sucked in air between his teeth, shook his head and slid past the debauchery-prone stormtrooper. He was not always known to have the most discerning tastes in women.
"Ah we know, we know. Just tell her I said sorry about the limp," The big man chuckled, shouldering past Johannsen and planting the ammo chest on the end of the table.
Each man plucked out several cells and stuffed them into their various ammo pouches. They shuffled about the container, loading down their frames with ammo, grenades, battery packs, and a garden variety of field essentials. Girard carried his assault pack by the top handle, filling its pockets and pouches like he was on a commercia shopping spree. He finished collecting his gear, stepped out (and away from the ongoing banter) and made his way to the next stop.
Inside the next container was the detachment's weapon lockers. Long, double-stacked rows of gun racks sat open, still heavily stocked with the stormtroopers' tools of the trade. These were a commando's tools, highly customized and leagues beyond the clumsy weapons issued to standard troops. He stopped at one rack and pulled his weapon from its resting place. He hefted the matte black, short-barreled Mk. XVIII lascarbine into his grip, extending its sturdy telescoping stock and locking it in place. With a gloved hand, he checked the angular cluster of combat optics perched atop the weapon, and glanced through to check the luminous red sight triangle within. He then assured the tightness of the shortened barrel, now mostly concealed by a smooth, rectangular flash diffuser that gave the weapon a kind of refined elegance. He brought his hand back up, feeling the angled foregrip fixed to the bottom of the weapon. Finally, he fished his sling from his flak carrier and fixed it to the corresponding lugs and slung it over a shoulder before continuing.
Many such rifles still occupied the weapon racks, each in their own individual configurations. The power cell housing was modular, allowing a soldier with the requisite tools and training to hot-swap the components in the field to match shifting ammunition constraints. Currently, they were fitted for hotshot cells, placing armor-melting power in a comparatively tiny platform. This flexibility came at a cost, however. They lacked the full-auto fire rate of even basic lasweapons - to say nothing of hellguns and the like. Such unique and versatile weapons were difficult to come by even for the prestigious stormtrooper regiments, but Elysia's location along galactic trade routes made their requisition markedly simpler. Despite such fortune, collecting the necessary reams of stamped authorization parchments, Writs of Minor Modification, and under-the-table favors for Mechanicus notary clerks was no small task. Further down the racks was more weaponry: menacing combat shotguns, long-barreled anti material rifles, massive hotshot lasguns, and heavier crew-served pieces. Girard glanced over one rack, near the end of the row: one of the needle rifles, colored in the same verdant tones as their uniforms, was missing. Specialist Veidt, roguish and aloof lad that he was, had already come and claimed his prized weapon.
Girard emerged from the silent weapons locker, and climbed into the third and final container. The tinny sound of battle-hymns echoed from the rear of the space from a portable phono-caster, drifting between stacks of maintenance equipment and hard-cases still stamped with purity seals. Girard smiled – the sound of music meant that Gabriel "Master of the Guns" Gren, the boisterous and bellicose Munitorum Gunnery Chief, was on deck. Though he only commanded the small team of expert Munitorum techs assigned to the stormtroopers, his gung ho demeanor and by-the-book methodology kept the otherwise surly armorers and comms maintainers in line. Girard stepped around Wulfhausen, who was busy loading battery packs into his long-range auspex, to step up to the meshed-in counter. One of the armory clerks was already digging through the shelves at the rear of the container as Girard approached.
"Mornin', Sergeant." Another clerk slurred, heaving himself off a stack of hard cases and depositing an array of radio equipment, cables, and vox bead cases onto the table. Girard smirked at the man's sleep-dulled movements as he accepted the items.
"It is indeed, my good man," Girard said. He hauled his gear over to the table Wulfausen now occupied, and began fixing it to his pack and flak carrier. "About ready, big fella?" Girard slapped the bulging deltoid closest to him. Wulfhausen grunted as he cinched a slim-profile vox set into its housing outside his pack.
"Always ready. Hope the Navy tarts are, too." He said, before slinging his gear into place against his flak.
"There were a few men in the mix, you know". Girard sighed, and began loading his own gear.
"Hadn't noticed."
"Look, I'm not thrilled we couldn't vet them at all, but that's not a fight we can win, is it?" Girard replied.
"S'pose not. If they get cut up out there, the Navy better not come cryin' to us about it," He muttered.
"They will, most definitely, come crying to us. Or to Metzger, or to the Colonel. Let's make it a point to at least bring back 'augged one with all her parts. That's reasonable, wouldn't you say?" Girard said, only partly in jest. Wulfhausen shrugged and gave an acquiescent nod, warming to the gallows humor. Presently, Postigo stepped through the threshold.
"Most of that sump-scum traitor garbage wasn't even proper Guard before they turned – if these sailors get dropped by some turncoat PDF, they'll have deserved it." He added, joining the conversation.
"And the shuttle ride back will be roomier – I can finally have some frakkin' space." Wulfhausen rumbled, accepting his pressure helmet from the armory clerks with its vacuum mask already fixed in place.
"Space? You'll have more space when you stop chugging down canisters of genebulk gruel, ya frakking mountain," Postigo made a quick finger-jab at his side. The massive stormtrooper twisted away with a speed that belied his stature:
"That's what the scholars would call 'deflection' - I see those little synth-et noodles you call arms," He grinned, waving a dismissive hand.
In full regalia, he cut a truly intimidating figure. Unlike some of the more bombastic and muscle bound grunts that populated the Astra Militarum, Girard and his men were often more unassuming than most. Their ability to blend in and avoid detection had saved their skins more than once, and their proclivity toward lighter kit kept them lean and mobile. Wulfhausen however, was quite the exception. Finally at full kit and inspection-ready, all of 2nd Squad had made ready and was headed for the mag-lev line that would deliver them swiftly to the shuttle bays.
Girard walked with Stark, the older trooper's med-bag expertly packed and proportioned at his side, across the cargo bay and down a winding ladder well to the station platform. The distant groans and keening wail of machinery swept up and down the tubular tunnel ahead of them, out of the sooty darkness. The buffeting wind that rushed down the tunnel smelt of oily dust, shunting along the many kilometers of tunnels and service stations. In the blackness, a pinprick of light appeared and swelled to the size of a coin, growing exponentially as the mag-lev train approached with dizzying speed. Heated air blasted through the station, scattering flecks of grit across the platform and drawing muttered curses from the stormtroopers as the train arrested its freakish velocity. It slid to a wheezing stop, brushed metal surfaces streaked with oil and grime. Inside, the lights were lowered to a sleepy intensity. Little wonder then, that they scarcely recognized the seated forms of Lieutenant Maksachova and her cohorts until they began to pile into the train car.
"Ah, ladies, gentlemen, fine morning to go to war, innit?" Johannsen beamed, waving enthusiastically at the seated sailors. Before any of them could respond, Wulfhausen piped up from the back of the group.
"Stretch, it's nap time. Shut yer trap, or you're ridin' on the hood." Wulfhausen grunted.
Lt. Maksachova and her comrades, much like the Elysians, had a robust equipment budget. Girard spied all manner of sophisticated comms equipment and scanners fitted to their black flak plates and on their combat webbing. The glossy submachine-stubbers cradled by each, to include their three armsmen companions, were fitted with all manner of expensive optics and attachments, and were a much higher quality than the caseless rifles or shotcannons carried by their rank-and-file. At Lt. Maksachova's hip, Girard could see the grip of a long-barreled plasma pistol jutting from its holster. Across their chests, they carried their own packs ready for a grav-chute insertion. The mag-lev's machine spirits sensed that no more passengers were forthcoming, and drew its doors shut. In a slow and frictionless glide, the car slid away into the blackness of the tunnel.
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2nd Squad hustled out of the car and across the next platform into their hangar. All around them, Navy crews raced about as they prepped the shuttles for launch, hauling fuel hoses and maintenance equipment across the grilled deck. The actinic flare of las-cutters and arc welding attachments burst from the mechadendrites of the Mechanicus tech seers, tending to the craft like doting parents. Even the green-suited crews of Munitorum techs rushed past in small groups, working in concert with the long list of departmentae that maintained the hangar bays. Presently, a familiar face waved to 2nd Squad from across the bay:
"Ladies, Gentlemen, on me," Captain Metzger called out to his men. He and the command element were waiting beside the yawning loading ramp of an orbital shuttle. "Enough legroom for ya, eh Wulfie?" Postigo pointed up at the looming shuttle. Wulfhausen gave a casual shrug.
"Still looks a little tight, but I'll give it a chance," He said. Metzger waved Girard and his men over, with a group of Munitorum aides tending a row of grav chutes beside the shuttle.
"The 'chutes came late, but let's strap up before we hop out," He said, gesturing to the gear beside him.
The stormtroopers and sailors swapped their packs to their chests before donning the grav-chutes. They formed a line at the ramp as munitorum aides performed a final inspection before being waved inside. Girard took a seat beside Veidt, whose exotic rifle rested between his legs. He buckled in beside the patrician faced stormtrooper, and nodded in his direction.
"Ready to get some mileage out of that needler, Krisztopf?" He asked. Veidt shrugged, his eyes still aimed at the deck.
"Only if you all can't find your marks." He said, with the one-two punch of bored eye roll and aristocratic sneer. Girard sighed: Veidt was a truly incredible marksman and dependable soldier, but the attitude that he'd picked up in his last platoon was something he had yet to stomp out. He aimed a friendly slap at Veidt's shoulder, knowing that he despised unwanted contact.
"Lighten up, little lord." He said, before cinching down his helmet and rebreather. Metzger and Beleckis stepped into the compartment and addressed the men.
"We'll make contact, once you're boots-down. Give 'em hell fire, gents." He said, before turning and descending the ramp. Through his helmet, Girard watched as the loading ramp raised and the crew chiefs climbed aboard. As darkness enveloped them, they fitted autosense visors over their eyes and began pre-flight inspections. The jump-master stepped into the compartment from somewhere deeper within the shuttle to supervice the final checks.
"Ready left?" He shouted, pointing toward the crew chief that had just finished testing Girard's restraints. The man stepped back and held up his fist.
"We're ready, left!" He shouted back. The jump master mirrored the procedure on the right, before turning to climb back toward the cockpit. The crew chiefs buckled long safety cabling to their webbing, and took up their positions at the head of the compartment. They both leaned back, held upward by the ceiling-mounted cables.
The seat beneath Girard began a slow vibration as the shuttle's engines spooled up for launch. Outside, he could hear alarms blaring and crews racing to the safety of their void-proof bunkers. The engines rose to a wailing crescendo, and he felt the ground shift and tilt as the shuttle heaved itself off the deck. As they tilted forward and pushed into open space, Girard's heart hammered with anticipation.
The Liberation of Knossos had begun.