The squad reconvened in the center lobby of the observatorium, listening to the throaty wail of shuttle engines as the first troop landers settled onto Knossos soil. The command building trembled with the proximity of the landing ship's powerful engines, punctuated with loud thuds and bangs. The traitors' bodies, weaponry, and equipment was hurled away beneath mighty engine wash and away from the landing zone. While they waited for the hazards to pass, Girard shouted over the din to Stark:
"Piotr, how are you on supplies?" He asked of his medic. Stark waved a dismissive hand, the other on his weapon:
"Full up - managed to just use local stocks." He said.
"Good to hear," Girard said. "Prognosis on our Navy friend?"
"She'll live, but she's out of the fight for today." Stark replied.
"She will be moved to a void-bound shuttle, once the site is fully reinforced. We are ready to carry on." Maksachova added.
"And you, shipmate, how's your face? One little heavy bolter wound isn't gonna hold you up, is it?" Girard turned to Armsman Delk, his cheek obscured by a thick dressing. A stray sliver of bolter shrapnel had made a long, but shallow slash across his face during the peak of the traitors' assault. While ultimately superficial, it had still bled frightfully. The sailor shook his head quickly, realizing the question to be a friendly jibe but also refusing to seem weak in front of these veteran guardsmen.
"No, no of course not, Sergeant. The doc got me sorted just fine," He replied eagerly, nodding his thanks to Stark.
"Well, the lasses love a man with scars, don't ya know," Stern clapped Delk on the shoulder, earning a chorus of laughter. Presently, the landing ship's engines ratcheted up in intensity, signaling its skyward return. Wulfausen waited at the door, hand on the latch. Girard turned to Maksachova and her two remaining armsmen:
"Right, you're sure you can manage this?" He asked. She nodded, palming her dataslate in her grasp.
"Course I can manage, Sergeant." She said, fastening the chin strap on her helmet and checking her gear. "Our operation supersedes reinforce-and-hold maneuvers by a wide margin. Refusing a direct order from Liberation Command would end at a firing squad or servitor conversion." She added. Requisitioning one of the 'Lighters from the landing party without prior authorization had plenty of risks, but if this data retrieval was as important as she insisted, then they had little choice.
"That said, we may still encounter resistance to abrupt alterations. If yourself and Specialist Wulfhausen would not mind terribly I would have you present for, shall we say, additional incentive." She suggested. Girard gave a quick laugh:
"Wulfie? Ready to play-act the big mean stormtrooper?" He asked. The massive stormtrooper grunted, rolling his shoulders.
"Better be a bump on my next paystub." He grumbled, a vague approximation of agreement.
The sound of the engines faded as the landing ship disappeared into the atmospheric haze in a cotton-puff streak of contrail, leaving the rest of the craft to deposit their cargo. Wulfie heaved the door open and Girard and his men filed out into the late morning light. Siege Auxilia engineers were already moving about the grounds, clad in olive drab coveralls and outfitted with a wide array of work harnesses, las-cutters, autosense visors, and auspex wands. Matte grey support tracks rolled to and fro, dozer blades clearing away the shredded remains of the chimera squadron and mangled bodies. More tracks idled nearby as ogryn laborer crews, muscles straining against the fabric of their oversized coveralls, unloaded prefab barricades and fortifications.
As Girard and his men followed the Lieutenant across the yard, they were afforded their first look at the reinforcements. Heavy infantry platoons, armored head-to-toe in sleek carapace plating colored in a rich ochre scheme, provided overwatch for the Siege Auxilia crews. The unit designators painted on their shoulder guards marked them as the Tarsus Siege Breakers, drawn from a well-developed and industrialized world. Rebreathers obscured their faces, and atop their combat webbing they carried long, well-worn lasguns in the same ochre scheme as their armor. Tinny radio chatter burbled from their vox operators' equipment, and they went solemnly about their business of reinforcing the perimeter. They passed a small protection detail of these stoic guardsmen as they escorted ogryns hauling ammo pallets toward the command building, quietly nodding their greeting.
Up ahead was a single Arvus Lighter idling at the edge of the grounds, used to ferry the guardsmen's command squads to the surface. Maksachova turned and jerked her head toward the rear ramp of the craft, signaling Girard and Wulfie to follow her. They squared their shoulders, affecting an alert combat stance before confronting the pilot. They stomped up the ramp, passing a confused looking cargo master who wisely opted to remain silent as they shouldered past. Ahead, in the cockpit, the co-pilot emerged from the hatch and stopped in his tracks. He hunched forward, staring out from under his flight visor at the newcomers:
"Hullo, what've we got he- er, good morning, Ma'am!" the slim pilot snapped to a sharp salute, which she waved away. Girard noticed his gaze flit from her, to him, to Wulfhausen and back, unsure of who intimidated him most.
"As you were, ensign. Your vessel has been reassigned, under the purview of Naval Intelligence. I must speak with the pilot at once." She said, an unalienable confidence accenting her sonorous voice.
"Of course, ma'am, just a mo- uh, moment – sir! Need you in the 'hold," he stuttered, shouting back into the cockpit. After a moment, the pilot appeared, muttering as he set his flight helmet behind him and climbed out through the hatch and the ensign made his way in. He said nothing as he approached, and the light of instrument panels reflected off the plates of chrome bolted into his skull. She drew up to her full height:
"Sir, your vessel is hereby under temporary appropriation on behalf of the Field Division of Naval Intelligence, of Battlegroup Lambda. I have already charted a revised flight schedule, under the-"
"I heard you addressing my co-pilot, miss. No need to repeat yours-" The pilot's face creased with a condescending smile. Wulfie snapped back before he could continue.
"Ma'am is the word you're looking for, piss-bag. Show some frakking respect." He growled. The man's face lost a measure of its color as the enormous guardsman's jaw clenched. He decided in that moment to overlook the aggressive and insubordinate remarks of the heavily armed enlistedman, and turned back to the Lieutenant.
"Ma'am, I don't wish to impede your mission, but our fuel allotment for this maneuver-" He began. Lt. Maksachova chopped the air with her free hand.
"Spare me. Frontline reinforcement maneuvers require augmented fuel reserves – there are extra drop-tanks on your craft, idiot." Girard watched a vein rise along her neck as she swept her helmet from her head and jabbed it at the pilots. "What is your parent command?" She asked. Though, much like a savvy adjudicator at trial, she already had all the answers.
"Auxiliary Support Squadron 12-C of the Justicar, ma'am." He said. She scoffed, the hint of a grin playing across her features. She pushed her slate against the pilot's chest.
"Call in this flight path to your controllers and make ready, or I will be sure to annotate this altercation in my report – and ensure that Admiral Krandal and the Commissariat are priority recipients." She hissed. The pilot opened his mouth to protest, but stopped short at the mention of his fighter wing's commander. She put her hands on her hips, silently daring him to continue protesting. He glanced between her and the stormtroopers.
After a moment he blinked, and nodded blankly. He accepted device without a word and turned back to the cockpit. The Lieutenant turned on her heel, and planted herself in a seat along the side of the shuttle, buckling herself into the restraints. Wulfie watched the cockpit hatch shut before turning and bellowing down the loading ramp:
"Up and in, lads!" He said. Girard found a seat directly across from the lieutenant, shooting her a quizzical look as he buckled himself in.
"You certainly move in wide circles," He smiled. She shook her head.
"I have never met Admiral Krandal in my life, but I have inloaded all of the Liberation Force's personnel files. That includes the command structure and personnel files of attached units - including your detachment. Including you." She tapped her temple, eyes glinting in the darkness. "My station has its privileges."
"So it would seem."
The lone shuttle soared over the natural splendor of northern Vidal, over rolling meadows, rocky fields, and lush pine forests. Capable of impressive speeds even within a planet's atmosphere, the Arvus Lighter was a reliable workhorse and oft-impromptu troop transport. Had time permitted, a Valkyrie transport and Vulture gunship escort would have been preferable; the Lighter's minimal armor plating lack of weapon systems left it exposed to anti-aircraft fire. The shuttle stayed low, racing above the idyllic hinterlands to avoid radar detection. Back inside, the lieutenant produced a portable holo-topography module and activated the hazy display, holding it against the deck with the toe of her boot.
Perjed's Landing, the sprawling star port toward which 2nd Squad now flew, resolved into clarity in a tidy arrangement of jagged polygons. Along the northern perimeter, rows of private hangar bays, reserved for planetary nobility, occupied the furthest edges. To the west, vertical launch silos clustered about a central traffic control spire in a hub-and-spoke arrangement, linked with brittle lattices of walkways and cargo conveyors. Just south of the silos, towering above the landscape, was the central concourse. The enormous domed structure was studded with viewing galleries and gargoyle-laden crenellations. Further south, past the interconnecting flight lines, lay the utility quarter. Rows of shuttle repair hangars, utility bunkers sprouting from sloping berms, and plasma generators lined the southern reaches of the star port. All around was a thin perimeter fence, strung with razor wire and topped with flood lamps wired to portable power supply cases. Lt. Maksachova leaned against her restraints, pointing through the largest structure on the display.
"There. The central concourse was built above a subterranean bunker network that extends beneath the runways to the east. There will be plenty of viable entry points inside: freight elevators, emergency ladder wells, et cetera." She explained. Girard wriggled a finger under his chin strap, scratching idly at an itch.
"Alright gents, let's hear some ideas."
[] [] []
The clattering of river stones and labored breathing filled the air as 2nd Squad surged through the woodlands, well upon the path toward Perjed's Landing. Their agreed-upon approach involved dropping at a nearby civilian mag-lev station while the Lighter retreated to a more secluded clearing nearby. Landing directly at the starport was far too dangerous, as one could only guess at what the enemy had done to harden such a tempting target against aerial attack. A dried up creek bed adjacent to the station provided the squad with a quick and concealed shortcut to the edges of the star port, leading them within a kilometer of the outskirts and earthen drainage canals. They maneuvered through the peaceful pine forests, up a sloping embankment before pelting from the tree line toward the star port proper.
As they left the shelter of the trees, the paved immensity of Perjed's Landing sprawled before them. Down the boulder-strewn slope and past the perimeter fence, the tubular launch silos jostled for dominance with the domed vastness of the concourse, both commanding the surrounding view. As the squad hit the bottom of the outer drainage canal and raced back up the rockcrete revetment, Girard activated his satellite vox:
"Broadsword Prime, this is Broadsword 2 – primary now, primary now. Moving to ingress and bracing for contact." He panted, taking a knee as Johannsen hustled to the front of the squad. Metzger's voice crackled back:
"Affirmative Broadsword 2, securing the starport has been escalated to Priority Alpha Plus. Auxiliary elements inbound north-northeast of your current position." His voice fought through a squall of static. Girard frowned.
"Affirmative Broadsword Prime, please advise: are they augmenting our operation?" He asked.
"Negative Broadsword 2, you are to proceed as planned. Air Assault elements will clear outlying hard-points and consolidate forward to secure the installation. Eliminate resistance en route, secure the primary and await reinforcement." Metzger replied.
"Affirmative, Broadsword 2, out." Girard closed the channel and rejoined his men, who were already moving through two vertical slashes in the perimeter fence courtesy of Johannsen's meltagun.
They passed into the star port's interior, across a perimeter vehicle lane and through the fields between the flight lines. The sun-dried grass crunched underfoot as they advanced, and sweat beaded on their brows as the afternoon sun assaulted the exposed ground. They veered left, correcting course into better cover along the rows of plasma generators. The long structures thrummed lazily, metallic power coils jutting from the side of their rockcrete housing. Ahead, looming ever closer, the concourse and launch silos stood silently; track lights lining the dorsal supports of the silos blinked softly in the sunny haze. Girard pulled ahead of the fast-moving column and up to Solly and Postigo, the smell of dry grass and engine oil filling his nostrils.
"We won't be alone, soon. Full mobilization is underway." He said. Postigo tucked his rifle under his arm, quickening his pace.
"88th?" He panted.
"The same. Limited air support, from the sound of it – they want this place pristine." Girard explained. Beside them, Solly vaulted over a raised conduit, keeping pace with a grim smirk creasing his features.
"Well, no promises, there." He said.
"Obviously," Girard added. He glanced back at Lt. Maksachova, bringing up the rear with Stark and Veidt. She and her armsmen were still in formation, weapons down and eyes scanning the structures ahead. Girard slowed his pace and dropped back.
"Anything on your instruments?"
"These power stations are creating interference, but the main reactors are still online, and the hangars too." She said, glancing up from her auspex and toward the launch silos again.
"Weapon systems?" Girard asked. She nodded.
"Low-ceiling, anti-aircraft emplacements on and around the silos, no telling what else is in the concourse. We need to be smart about this." As the concourse drew nearer, Girard's men covered the intersecting lanes between the structures, alert for any hostile presence. None was forthcoming.
"They're still likely too focused on the sky – they had almost a Solar week to watch us crush their Navy, they can't expect us yet – even if the orbital batteries are going dark."
"True enough. The sooner we're inside, the better."
The squad came to a wide and open lot, at one end of which was a service entrance leading into the concourse proper. Cargo haulers and blast shields lay scattered about in the open space through which they now crept, making use of every scrap of cover to effectively mask their approach. A smattering of khaki uniforms caught everyone's attention at the base of the concourse. A squad of traitor guardsmen dejectedly paced the lot, staying in the shadow provided by the looming structure. From behind their cover of abandoned maintenance trailers and rust-pitted vehicles, the squad lined up their targets.
"Hostiles front – we're going loud. Forward wedge, steady shots on the move then we're up and in." Girard breathed into the vox. Girard chanced a look up: this portion of the concourse lacked the viewing galleries of its front side, but small windows still lined the dark brick structure at odd intervals. The time for concealment was over.
"Solly, eyes up for elevated shooters – move, move!" Girard's muscles bunched, and he shot forward.
The squad ghosted from their cover, raking the traitor guardsmen with las-fire. The chattering blast of hellguns roared against the sprawling façade of the concourse, quick and economical bursts of fire cut two men down, and miniature craters sprouted along the façade as the shots cut into the brick surface. The rest of the traitors dove for cover. Their reaction time had been swift, and the survivors cautiously took up firing positions against the sudden attack.
"Contact high!" Solly bellowed over the noise.
Two stretches of windows exploded in a hail of autogun fire, and solid rounds chewed up the pavement around the stormtroopers feet. In a flash, they dipped back behind their scattered cover. Johannsen grunted, stumbled and spun into a crouch behind a rusted cargo trolley. Solly laid his hellgun against the body of another vehicle nearby, angling up toward the new attackers.
"Streeter, Wulfie, suppressing fire up high – advance, on me!" Girard shouted into the vox.
Two metallic thumps sounded somewhere to his left, and the windows belched sooty clouds of smoke and masonry as the grenades struck home. Wulfie's hellgun pummeled the gaping holes left by the detonations, and Girard surged up and out of his cover. Debris rained down on the lot, trailing plumes of dust as the stormtroopers pelted toward the service entrance. They wove through the scattered vehicles, racing toward the shelter of the concourse before the enemy could recover. As the traitors on the ground rallied and took aim, their shock was short-lived as their foe swept through their positions. Point-blank las-bolts exploded limbs and carved a bloody swathe through the traitors, and a thundering solid-shot sidearm thoomed explosively, turning a man's head into a vomiting fountain of gore. Before the traitors could react the stormtroopers were in, among, and behind them, cutting the rest of the squad down before racing into the open doors of the structure.
A rush of booted footsteps, mixed with heavy panting and explosive profanity filled the dark and cramped space service corridor. Across a small enclosure lined with benches and lockers, another pair of doors marked the entrance to the rest of the concourse. Girard glanced about, making a rapid head count before the lieutenant called out in the darkness:
"We're going up, fifth floor, through the shuttle viewing galleries." She panted, pointing above their heads. Her eyes, glittering in the low-light conditions, tracked mechanically back and forth for a moment, before she straightened her back and made her way forward.
"Through here. There's a ladderwell that will take us up; it is the closest access point to the freight lifts." She said. Girard and the squad rushed forward, through the doors and out into the atrium beyond. A weapon was pointed at every angle, every approach covered at gunpoint as they fanned out into the tiled atrium, footsteps clattering in the silence.
"Place is lit up like a frakking upper hive dance hall," Wulfie growled and tucked his short-range auspex back in its holster, beside the heavy-caliber revolver he had drawn in the courtyard. So close to the myriad of energy signatures, the device was of little use for the moment.
"Up and through, gents – fifth floor, let's move," Girard whispered. The squad began their climb into the yawning darkness above them.