Girard's voice echoed off of the surrounding buildings, bouncing through smashed out windows. The stormtroopers made their way forward, toward the observatorium.
"Don't all jump up and thank us at once, now." Solly muttered. He spat on the outstretched corpse of a traitor. Presently, a voice called out to them from somewhere inside.
"The Emperor Protects, indeed!" a booming voice echoed Girard's proclamation. Everyone in the formation relaxed a fraction. A stocky figure appeared in a 2nd floor window in the central building. After the first man revealed himself, more silhouettes began to rise from the windows and parapets of the facility. After a brief pause, the man called out again:
"And to whom do we owe this intervention?" he beamed, speaking in boisterous tones and carefully-rehearsed timbre. Girard held up a gloved hand:
"Sergeant Burkhalter, Elysian 22nd. We're here to help." He shouted. The man turned back to call something indistinct to another defender, before turning back to the window.
"Well Sergeant, you and your men could not have timed your arrival better if you'd tried." He said, leaning against the window sill. Down in the yard, the stormtroopers maintained a strong defensive posture facing back into the woods. The front doors to the command building, now a mess of arc-welded plating and scrap metal, began to shift. The door heaved to the side, opening wide enough for a man to pass through the gap. Lt. Maksachova stepped up beside Girard:
"The data stacks are in the sub-basement of the command building, straight ahead." She tucked her thumbs under her flak, letting her stubgun hang on its sling. As the stormtroopers quietly marched toward the doors, the man called out again:
"Please, come inside – and welcome to Observatorium Primus."
[] [] []
Girard emerged from the elevator car and into the command vault. He and Solly had remained behind to complete a check-in with Metzger while the rest of the men made their way below the surface. As they travelled through the facility, they had a chance to take measure of the defenders of the observatorium. A great many civilians numbered among the survivors, cradling worn and battered weaponry and sporting mismatched, ill-fitting combat gear. While many voiced their appreciation, rushing to the stormtroopers and voicing their tearful thanks, many simply remained silent as they passed. Protracted combat was wearing on everyone here, and those untrained in such matters showed the most strain.
Down below, the civilians all but disappeared, replaced exclusively by a small garrison of PDF troopers. Men and women in deep woodland fatigues, still maintaining a semblance of military discipline and bearing despite the circumstances, stopped along the hall to watch Girard and Solly. Scattered calls of "The Emperor protects!" echoed around the halls as they passed, and Girard raised a hand in thanks, remaining silent as he carried onward. Past stacks of well-worn telemetry equipment and cargo palettes, through vaulted halls lit with mis-matched glow globes, he and Solly came to the frosted glass doors that lead to command vault proper.
Beneath a gunmetal, polyhedral dome, a T-shaped arrangement of catwalks bisected the main floor of the command bunker. Along a rockcrete floor, arrays of beeping tactical monitors, subdued chatter from olive-suited personnel, and squawking radio transmissions created a soothing backdrop. Girard scanned the space, and spotted the polycam hues of his men in an instant. Next, Girard spotted Lts. Maksachova and Gianos at the center of the group. They stood over a holo-display, conversing animatedly with a PDF officer. When they reached the display table, Girard offered a hand in greeting:
"Sergeant Burkhalter, Elysian 22nd." He said quickly.
"Chief Warrant Officer Curran, Vidalian 9th Mountain Brigade. You're a long way from home, Elysians, but we're glad you've come." The man said, shaking Girard's hand firmly. He was a fit man, sporting the olive drab attire of his comrades in arms, with a pair of gold-plated gryphon collar devices denoting his rank. Though his outward appearance did not betray his emotions, Girard could see the relief washing over him.
"We have the gist of things, but what's the latest on the situation here, sir?" Girard removed his helmet, taking a moment to run a gloved hand through his sweat-matted hair. Curran braced himself against the table and gave a well-practiced sigh of exasperation.
"The Novum Tempestus attacks have been picking up, these past few weeks. Now that they've overthrown the Administratum enclaves and the cities on the coast, they've finally started paying the installations here in Vidal more attention. If they stay the course, we'll soon find ourselves overrun." He said grimly, scratching at the stubble about his face. Devoid of any desire for theatrics, Curran was simply stating an uncomfortable truth. He pointed dismissively to the holo-projection of their surrounding area:
"You know, we saw this attack coming. We were lucky this time. They're a far cry from the off-worlders, the Legios Saevos butchers, and thank the Emperor for that." Curran said. Girard noted the way he spat the foreign term
"Saevos? I'm not familiar." He noted the way the lieutenants both frowned at the name.
"In short, shock troops and occupation armies of... darker powers, so it's been briefed. They've come in from deeper within the sector were able to gain a foothold in eastern Vidal. Orbital defenses were compromised and just let them right through. Once they made planetfall, nothing could stop them. My guess is they're consolidating their forces and letting the locals do the dirty work out here in the hinterlands." As Curran explained, Girard noted the hatred on the PDFers' faces at the mere mention of these invaders. He looked to the lieutenant, whose face conveyed a 'We'll talk later' sort of expression.
"What you stopped out there was a larger than usual. In the past, it was all foot troops and recon elements that tested our perimeter. Nothing like this." He continued. Girard nodded, stepping up to the holo-table.
"A classic strategy: Test the resolve of the defense, before committing the main force." He said to Curran. The Lieutenant looked up from the display:
"I hate to say it Sergeant, but we have more problems than the incoming troops." She exchanged glances with Lt. Gianos.
"Well, let's not lose momentum now – what else is there?" Girard said.
"This rebellion came on fast, and the, ah – the data we need, is not here."
"Elaborate."
"Crisis protocols normally initiate a data-dump to secure sites like this, but the fiber optic networks were severed before the crisis threshold was officially reached." She drummed her fingers on the console, nodding as Girard pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He breathed an exasperated sigh on par with one of Curran's, and the warrant officer interjected.
"Yes, unfortunately these scum knew what they were doing. They caused all manner of havok - we've been calling out to the void for months to no effect. Aside from you and your men, those light shows in orbit were the only sign anyone had come for us." Curran explained.
"If what we need isn't here, then where is it now?" Girard asked. Gianos stepped up to the console and pressed a scrolling rune. The console's processor hummed as the display slid south, rendering an undulating race across the surrounding landscape. She stopped the display over a cluster of tidy polygons surrounded by flatlands and swathes of pine forest.
"Quite a bit further south. Everything we need is inside this star port – Perjed's Landing." She said, exchanging quick glances with the armsmen in their company. Solly stepped up beside Girard:
"How far?" He asked, already displeased with the answer he would receive. Gianos glanced down at the display, then to the dataslate in her hand, performing a quick calculation. "From here? 882km." she said, earning a chorus of incredulous muttering.
"Just a quick jaunt down the road, hey?" Johannsen said from beside Wulfhausen.
"We might have a work-around for this. Solly and I were on the line with our leadership back in orbit. The surface batteries covering this hemisphere are going quiet – we're not the only troops making planetfall today, and we're working fast. This site is secure for now, and the air campaign is beginning as we speak." Girard explained.
"Even still, unless there's a working, sanctioned teleportarium aboard your vessels, I daresay we're on our own for the moment." Curran said.
"True," Girard turned to address his men. "Postigo, Streeter, and Veidt - let's get overwatch on the woods," He pointed to each man in turn, before looking to Curran: "Got anyone that can give my men the grand tour?" He asked. Curran nodded, stepping away from the console and leaning over the railing:
"Jura! Up here!" He shouted down into the banks of work stations. A short and severe looking PDF trooper swung up a nearby staircase.
"What's the word, sir?" She nodded, eyes narrowing with focus as she stopped at the gathered troops.
"Our Elysian and Navy brethren will be lending their firepower to the coming fight – show them to the best vantage points; you and your men are to help them however you can, understood?" He said. Jura nodded quickly, unslinging a battered long-las from her shoulder.
"Of course sir, right away – gentlemen, let's take a walk." She glanced over the three stormtroopers' fearsome array of weaponry with no small amount of admiration.
"Ma'am, we're ready to join the fight – if you'd have us, of course." Armsman Verenti piped up from beside Gianos, speaking from beneath a short and bristly moustache. Maksachova, Girard, Jura, and Curran all exchanged quick glances, but it was Jura that spoke first.
"More's the better, I say," she said, giving her weapon an affectionate pat.
"Agreed," Girard and Lt. Maksachova said together. Verenti, Delk, and Mesh moved without a word, grouping up with Jura and the stormtroopers.
"Right then, the rest of you are with me. We're going tank hunting."
[] [] []
Girard and his men crouched in the brush, a half-kilometer down and off the shoulder of the main access road. When his squad left the grounds, a mix of PDF and able-bodied civilians were dismantling the heavy weapons left behind by the slain gun crews. He hoped the added weaponry would be sufficient. Now, watching waves of heat ripple off the asphalt of the road, Girard absently keyed up his vox:
"Status on the walkers?" he breathed.
"Still ahead of the pack – should be within hearing distance any moment." Curran returned. Girard tensed, flexing his grip on his carbine.
"Affirmative." Girard gave the signal to Johannsen.
Across the road, the stormtrooper twisted a dial on his weapon. The rhythmic thumping of hydraulic joints drifted through the trees. Girard watched as Maksachova and Gianos pushed themselves into a lower crouch, plasma pistols at the ready. The squadron of loping sentinel walkers rounded the bend, pilots visible in the lightly armored cockpits. Their lascannons panned to and fro as they shouted into their integrated vox casters, their zeal to slaughter their loyalist foes overriding military discipline. Their pace was uneven, and frequently the walkers would group together before the frontrunner leaned back into his throttle and surged ahead.
The frontrunner sentinel slowed its pace again, causing a bunch-up. Johannsen raised his weapon as they passed and gave the trigger a long, steady squeeze. A rippling cone of superheated air rocketed from the vented muzzle of his meltagun and vaporized the lower leg joints, spewing gobbets of liquid metal across the asphalt. The sentinel pitched forward, the driver's screams cut short as he was flung from the cockpit and smashed face-first into the asphalt. The sentinel slid off its feet and crashed to the ground, engines raising to a whining crescendo before cutting off for good.
The others slowed their pace. Loud curses carried over the chugging engines, and the other sentinel pilots were shocked back into a semblance of dispersion. They widened their formation along the road and looked wildly about for the source of the perceived attack, their vehicles taking on the appearance of inquisitive bipedal predators. At once, two pairs of plasma bolts sliced upward in perfect unison, punching flaming holes through the undercarriage of the two center-most sentinels. Great gouts of flame and greasy smoke erupted from their engine compartments as the bolts of pure energy cut through their defenses with ease. Shrieks of terror burst from the cockpits as the bolts of plasma flash-fried one man's legs, blistering and fusing them to his chair under the tremendous heat. He hauled back on his vehicle's controls, smashing into the other flaming Sentinel and buckling its legs with the impact.
The flaming sentinels stumbled drunkenly about like a scene from a comedy vid, crashing into one another as las-fire erupted out of the brush. Their lascannons lanced into the surrounding woodlands as the pilots fired wildly in a frantic attempt to suppress their unseen foe. The shots went predictably high and wide of the mark, sending blizzards of smoky sparks over the stormtroopers as the shots bored glowing grooves into the vegetation. The remaining two sentinels crumpled while their blazing comrades toppled to the earth, their hulls all bearing the pincushion marks of hotshot rounds. Grinding shrieks of metal echoed into the woodlands beyond, sounding the death knell of the Sentinel squadron.
Silence returned to the roadside, and smoke and crackling flames drifted on a gentle breeze. A hand reached out from one of the cockpits, dragging with it a bloodied and broken traitor. A single las-bolt leapt from Wulfhausen's position and the pilot's head exploded, scattering bone and brain matter across the road. The hand went limp. At once, Girard and his squad surged up out of the brush:
"Frontrunners are down, I say again, frontrunners are down – doubling back now," he voxed quickly, leaping over logs and leafy underbrush as he and his men beat a hasty retreat. They were moving through the armor graveyard when the main assault struck. Whoops and shouts echoed from behind them, bouncing off the front of the buildings. The shouts of bloodthirsty revenge. Two PDF troopers were huddled inside the front doors, urging the rushing stormtroopers through the cracked open door as the first shots erupted from the trees. Las bolts spanked off the burnt-out hulks in the courtyard and peppered the walls of the facility. As the last man in the retreating column, Girard darted through the entrance with rounds landing at his feet. The PDFers heaved the front door shut, slamming an iron spar back across its surface. The vestibule was dark, and the sound of their labored breaths and racking weapons filled the space.
"Closest firing points, where are they?" Girard shouted over the noise. One man thumbed the activation rune on his lasgun, face set in a mask of grim determination.
"Round by the dining hall, follow me!" he shouted, turning on a heel and sprinting out of the vestibule.
Girard and his squad kept pace with the two troopers as they raced past office spaces and servitor stations converted into firing positions. Girard glanced through several of the open doors: it appeared that the entire facility had sprung stirred to action, taking to the defense with practiced efficiency. Fathers manned heavy stubber emplacements with able-bodied sons, husbands and wives shouted out enemy positions to one another before opening fire, all of them mingling with the surviving PDF troops. They took a hairpin turn into one such office, skidding to a halt behind a sturdy barrier of sandbags and bullet-riddled flakboard. Girard and his squad rushed inside the darkened space, spreading along another window accessible through a collapsed portion of wall. Girard took up position alongside Wulfie, resting the barrel of his weapon against a fraying sandbag with one hand, while he unfastened his ammo pouches with the other. He took in the view ahead of him, over top of his weapon's sights:
The traitor force had disembarked from their chimeras and bulk haulers, with portable ballistic shield lines moving ahead of their armor while lighter troops formed columns behind their transports. The defenders did not wait for their foe to advance further – a storm of combined-arms fire raked the tree line and the open grounds. The first troops were punched from their feet, spinning to the earth or dropping limply to the ground from a killing blow. Interlocking fields of fire stitched back and forth across the battlefield and Girard could make out the report of the armsmen's stub guns among the fusillade. As the vehicles advanced the following troops scattered, racing from scorched crater to rocky outcrop.
Fans of las-fire cut through the trees as chimeras heaved themselves out and onto the battlefield, churning up the grassy earth. Trees collapsed under their dozer blades, and Girard cursed under his breath at the sight of them. A single missile slashed down from above and struck the turret of a chimera at the center of the formation. A great plume of smoke and flame washed across it in an earth-shaking blast. It swerved left under the impact, crushing a fireteam of traitor guardsmen advancing beside it. It continued forward for a moment before a gout of flame erupted from the troop compartment, and plumes of smoke gushed from the gun ports.
Across the way, Lt. Maksachova was taking careful aim with her stub gun. Lt. Gianos and the armsmen were lined up at her side, meting out short, tightly controlled bursts of fire to conserve their scarce ammunition. Each time the weapon bucked in her grasp, another traitor crumpled to the dirt. Girard took aim, settling the sight triangle over an advancing traitor. He rested the apex of the triangle at the man's head and grounded his aim at high center-mass before firing a quick pair of shots. Despite the power of the impact the man was carried forward by his momentum, crashing down face-first. Girard blinked quickly, forcing his focus past the weapon's optic and lining up his next victim: this time he settled on a shield bearer with more troops behind.
He fired at the top center of the barrier, scoring away white-hot hunks of metal and scattering them over the men huddled behind it. Two traitors stumbled away, clutching at their faces and necks as they sought to pull the blazing fragments free. Now in the open, they slumped over as they were perforated by his follow-up shots.
The sound of a hollow tunk! slipped in between cracks of las-fire, and the side of an oncoming chimera exploded. Streeter was doing what he did best – the krak grenade's payload obliterated the upper tread and stopped it in its tracks. With the multilaser turret still firing wildly across the facility, its troop ramp slammed down and disgorged another squad. The fresh troops staggered and dove for cover as the chimera beside them detonated, another victim of Streeter's launcher. Despite the volume of fire, the swarm of infantry was advancing dangerously close to the front of the facility. More unarmored transports had unloaded their human cargo back in the tree line, and a second wave of troops now advanced en masse. From the left and right edges of the battlefield, the thump of heavy weapons announced themselves in coordinated exchanges of fire.
The telltale sound of bolter rounds ripped through the building far to his right, earning a startled curse from Gianos and the armsmen. His fellow stormtroopers dipped a hair's breadth lower behind their cover. By their hand, entire squads of men had already been gunned down, but the enemy's numbers showed no signs of lessening. Girard chanced a look behind him as two wounded defenders were dragged screaming through the hallway by a man and teenage boy, both clad in manufactory work-suits. As they were dragged to safety, they kicked out mindlessly and dragged streaks through the blood and soiled themselves as the excruciating agony overwhelmed them.
"Stark, see to them, quickly," Girard voxed across the room. In his peripheral, he saw the medicae quit his cover and sprint after them.
Girard returned to firing at the rushing enemy. As his hotshot cell went dead, he stowed it in his dud pouch and slammed a fresh one home. Before he could draw down on another foe, his satellite vox trilled with an all-hands broadcast.
"All callsigns, this is Broadsword Prime. Orbital batteries are subdued, ancillary operations commencing." Metzger's voice announced, tinny and still carrying a matter-of-fact tone. Girard scrabbled for his handset and brought it to his ear as he angled his carbine, one-handed, toward a cluster of enemies preparing an explosive-tipped breaching spear.
"Broadsword Prime, this is Broadsword Two, acknowledged. Hostile forces on site are dedicated, with significant anti-personnel munitions. Rapid reinforcement requested, over!" He bellowed over the hail of gunfire. After a moment, Metzger's voice replied through the handset, partially lost behind another explosion.
"Acknowledged, Broadsword 2. Tactical air support and reinforcement is inbound to all sites – hold fast, Emperor be with you." He said, before closing the channel. Girard hooked the handset back into his flak and switched to the squad voxnet:
"All hands attend, reinforcements en route from orbit, keep the pressure up and the day is ours," He shouted, exchanging elated grins with Wulfhausen. The big man redoubled his efforts, dumping streams of las-fire into the traitors with his hellgun, bellowing violent oaths as his focused volleys hacked his targets apart. Lt. Gianos cocked her head briefly, taking a knee and reloading her stub gun.
"Contact! Tree line, left of center," she announced quickly, slamming the bolt home and returning to the fight. Girard cursed aloud. The bulk haulers were emerging from the forest, along the access road that led to the facility proper. Riding precariously along the flanks of the tall and ponderous trucks, gripping welded handholds, traitor guardsmen whooped and shrieked battle cries and bloodthirsty howls, firing wildly toward the facility.
"Streeter, focus fire on the 'haulers. Postigo, stay on the Chimeras." Girard voxed, while pointing to a cluster of troops for Wulfie to suppress. His stomach lurched in alarm as dozens of traitors surged across the cratered ground directly ahead of their position, half-crouched in a bayonet charge. As their sickening taunts and howls echoed into the room, Girard grabbed a fistful of Wulfie's rolled sleeve and wrenched him down below his cover.
"Everyone down, now!"
Wulfhausen cursed softly, his sudden realization registering only moments seconds before a hail of multilaser rounds tore the air apart. The chimeras that remained further back at a slight elevation provided covering fire ahead of the infantry charge, saturating their position with suppressive fire. The PDF trooper beside Gianos was shredded from the chest up, and her shoulder caught a stray beam that spun her from her feet. The man's body flopped to the floor, fountaining blood and dumping steaming viscera beside Gainos. Armsman Verenti grimaced, leaping away and into a low crawl toward her.
"Get her to Stark, we can handle this lot," Girard cried out over the multilaser rounds which now ripped through the plas-crete walls at the back of the room and showered the area with choking dust.
Verenti nodded as he made it to his wounded lieutenant. She still lay on the floor, writhing about and clutching the smoking wound, her mouth stretched open in a breathless, silent wail of agony. He worked one hand under her shoulder strap and hauled her out of the room and around the corner. Girard turned back to the parapet, unfastening a frag grenade with Wulfie. They tossed their grenades in unison, the traitors' shouts of fright lost in the explosions. More dust and grit washed back into the room, speckling the stormtroopers with debris. The multilaser fire lessened in conjunction with a krak detonation, and Girard rose back to his firing position. Another squad had joined the charge from their left arc, filling the gaps torn by their grenades. Groups of traitors lay on the ground, some gushing blood from shrapnel wounds, while others stumbled about the battlefield in shock, clutching at ragged stumps of mutilated limbs.
As they began to fire, the entire line caught ablaze from right to left. Uniforms were incinerated, flak plates fused with burning flesh, and terrified screams were cut short as lungs and internal organs boiled under a sweeping melta stream. To their right, Johannsen expended the rest of his melta tank into the advancing line, instantly halting the charge. The traitors' flesh melted from their bones like bloody wax, and those troops whose power cells didn't detonate in their pouches simply sagged to the earth, streams of bubbling fat and boiling gore beading against the hard-packed ground. With no time to take in the gruesome scene before them, Girard and Wulfie fired through the carnage at the next wave of troops. Even for traitor filth of the Novum Tempestus, prone to acts of barbarism as they were, seeing an entire swath of their comrades melted to the dirt in an instant was a horrific shock. The advancing lines faltered, and those behind cover ducked out of sight.
Without warning, the ground convulsed as deafening explosions ripped through the facility. Building-sized sheets of dust and flame billowed out from where the chimeras were holding back in a fire support pattern. Girard and his men were driven to their knees, ears ringing from the titanic force of the explosions. The pressure waves forced hairline fractures into the walls beside them, and tiles crumpled from the ceiling in dusty trails of rubble.
"The frak was that?" Johannsen shouted, grasping at the sandbag wall beside him after being forced to the floor.
The dust cloud was still billowing outward when an ear-splitting crackle of assault cannon impacts raked the faltering troops just outside. The strobing effect of detonating anti personnel rounds flashed madly across the back wall of Girard's position and everyone dropped flat, covering their heads in a desperate attempt to avoid the barrage. The impacts of the hypersonic rounds were followed several seconds later by a distant, menacing bass hum as the sound of the assault cannons' discharge finally caught up with the bullets. The cries of panicked infantrymen settled back across the grounds outside, briefly overshadowed by the screaming of aircraft engines coming out of a steep dive.
"Ain't no frakkin' way," Stern mumbled to himself, speaking for the first time since the engagement began. He turned and helped Johannsen to his feet, before helping the stunned guardsman up and away from his slain comrade.
"Postigo, you get an ID on those flyers?" Girard voxed.
"Close-in Lightning formation, may the Throne bless the Navy aviators," Postigo breathed, his relief palpable even through the tinny vox-cast. The specialized Lightning variants were marked in the heraldry of the nearby world of Valparaiso, one of the many forces on standby to assist in the opening stages of the liberation.
Another pair of bass hums, like the roaring challenge of some ancient flying behemoth, echoed over the forest as two fighters streaked across the sky. Hundreds of miniature craters carpeted the grounds, and smoke rolled off the pulverized corpses of traitor infantry. One soldier, shredded from the waist down, pulled himself across the dirt, dragging muddy entrails and tattered shreds of uniform behind him.
"They're not likely to try such a shite maneuver again - what's the plan, now?" Veidt asked over the vox. Girard made his decision quickly.
"Hold fast, we wait for word from above. We broke their back for now, but stay sharp."
The speckling clang of falling debris sounded all across the grounds. The vehicles were completely destroyed, the flaming hulks further crowding the vehicular graveyard. Dying traitors squirmed out their death throes in the scorched dirt, and the few survivors had long since taken to the forest.
"Everyone, rally up at the main vestibule. Postigo, get me a gear and ammo disposition, and stand by." said Girard.
"Affirmative, on the way." Postigo voxed from somewhere up above. Girard looked about - Lt. Maksachova had gone, likely to the infirmary. He turned to Stern.
"Solly, I'm going to check over the wounded," He unclipped his satellite vox, bundled up the handset cable and passed it over, "Get up top, and check in with Metzger and the lads." He said. Solly gave a quick nod, clicked his carbine to safe and accepted the device. With the intoxicating cocktail of fear, adrenaline, and triumphant relief still thumping through their veins, Girard and his men filed out of the room, and out into the halls of the observatorium.