Squad 1 formed up and dropped from the wall, leaving the lines in place to allow squad 2 to follow up. Separating into three 4 man "brick" formations they stalked off, weapon stocks rammed tightly into shoulders.
With Hawkins at the front, he and Seth faced forward while Haynes and Krabb watched the flanks.
The brick behind opened fire straight away as they advanced straight down the middle of the compound, suppressing any and all movement in windows with accurate fire as targets presented themselves.
A family, husband, wife and child attempted to cross the dirt track in front of them, faces covered by ragged scraps of their clothing in a vain attempt to escape the effects of the gas.
Hawkins and Seth drilled them, 2 shots apiece, hellguns cracking violently, fur lined clothes bursting into flame as bodies bereft of life thudded to the hard packed dirt.
Stepping over the smouldering corpses, Hawkins heard the vox crackle into life as his targeting reticule followed the movement of his weapon, tracking in small figure of 8 patterns to his front.
'Squad 2 complete boss, moving up behind you.' Sgt Granger's squad was inside the compound.
Hawkins moved his supporting hand to the mic at his throat 'Roger that, 1 minute to target.'
Somewhere up ahead the hydra turret boomed into life again, the quad barrelled monster tearing up at some unseen target, intense muzzle flash strobing into the night.
A guardsman burst from a doorway up ahead, antique autogun raised.
Crack Crack
2 simultaneous shots slammed him back through, missing most of his chest.
Squad 1 rounded a corner and looked down to the end of the narrow track.
There, surrounded by a hastily erected sandbag bunker and a rapidly rising pile of tinkling brass, the quad barrelled Hydra turret sprayed death into the air.
Its gunner leant back in his cradle seat, spinning the weapon round as he tracked whatever he thought he could see, the immense weapon fed by powered ammo feeds leading to 2 enormous ammo hoppers.
Hawkins could barely think over the din, the constant shooting felt like someone was squeezing his head with every burst.
'Somebody shut that bloody thing up!' He yelled over the rattle of automatic fire, unaware that a grenade was already sailing through the air, courtesy of Seth's launcher.
It impacted in-between the 2 left side cannon, blasting one barrel clean off and buckling one beyond repair. The sudden boom didn't affect the rate of fire however, and the weapon experienced a number of breech explosions as rounds found they had nowhere left to go.
The hoppers detonated with an ear splitting bang, tearing the oblivious gunner to pieces and scattering the weapon pit across the track.
'Good shot.' Hawkins remarked, suddenly aware of screams and las-blasts, accompanied by the sounds of shouting and doors being kicked in.
It seemed the Warhawks had decided to start securing the compound, keeping up their side of the plan, if a little late.
'Cheers boss.' Seth replied, already moving off, nearing the drab vox array building.
Approaching within 100 metres of the target, Squad 1 came under fire from a number of shooters on the roof, great-coated traitors wearing guard issue respirators, sneakily waiting in ambush until the Storm Troopers got close.
Squad 1 ran in its entirety across the open patch of dirt, lasbolts and hard rounds kicking up around them as they sought the dubious cover of the Vox building itself.
Squad 2 replied within seconds, laying down a withering hail of fire, punching holes through helmets and flak vests, causing the traitors to duck into cover lest they find themselves the unwilling owners of new orifices.
For the second time that day Squad 1 slammed into a wall, naturally falling into stack formation either side of the heavy door blocking their entrance.
In the Imperial Guard, an officer finds himself further and further away from the fight as he gains rank and experience, it seen as one of the perks of surviving that far and a necessity of command.
To a commando, it was all about the stack.
A new Storm Trooper started as rear man, cover man and setter of melta bombs.
As he gained experience he moved on to 3rd man, thrower of grenades after the door has blown.
Next came the 2nd man, weapon up, hand on the leader's shoulder, covering his blind spots.
And finally the lead man himself, the most dangerous position to be in, first into the fight, normally first to take a hit.
To a Storm Trooper officer, leading from anywhere else would be cowardice.
Krabb set the melta charge, stepping back and looking to the rear.
The charge reached atomic fusion in microseconds, melting the thick door into molten slag in the space of a breath, burning the air itself with its intensity.
Haynes threw a primed frag through the breach, patting Seth as soon as it was in.
Seth patted the shoulder of Hawkins as it detonated with a crump of overpressure and the 4 men moved as one, plunging into the darkness.
Hawkins' brick found themselves in a smoke filled corridor wide enough for 2 armoured commandos to walk abreast, Seth stepped up beside Hawkins as they stalked forward, calling out information to the bricks following up behind.
'Door left, door right, stairwell centre.'
Hawkins' brick ignored the threatening doorways, leaving the rooms to be cleared by the men hot on his heels, the commander making a beeline for the stairway.
Hey diddle diddle straight up the middle
Captain Hawkins heard explosions and bangs to his rear, the rooms being cleared as a cluster of guardsmen poured down the stairs, suddenly aware that their haven was breached.
The men were dressed identically, fur lined greatcoats and helmets over off-white guard flak, their rugged faces sporting thick beards to a man.
They began firing wildly as they descended the stairs, caught by surprise at the speed of the Imperial assault.
When the Valkyries had first been spotted by the wall sentries on the approach, not one of the defenders had been expecting to fight a close quarter gun battle within 3 minutes.
The first 2 men jerked spasmodically as Las bolts slammed into them, punching great holes clean through torsos, the bodies' rag-dolling the final few steps. The men behind couldn't stop themselves and tripped on their erstwhile comrades, one man's helmet liner catching fire as he took a grazing shot to the head.
The next two skidded painfully on their rumps and crouched low, trying to see below the lip of the low ceiling to get a clear shot at the commandos advancing on them.
Hawkins and trooper Seth spat Violet death at them, firing rapid single shots into the press of bodies trying to get down, get out of the way, get into cover.
At least a dozen great-coated guardsmen pushed past the fresh corpses of their comrades, several vaulting the banister as their battle buddies returned fire.
Las bolts whipped up the corridor, ricocheting off the walls, floor and ceiling, the traitor's haste making their fire inaccurate.
One shot ricocheted off the floor and flew straight up, shattering the lume-strip above Hawkins and his men.
Shards of shattered plastek rattled off their armour as the corridor plunged into darkness, illuminated by the erratic flickers of multiple las weapons.
Sheer weight of fire alone saw a number of shots get through, a Las bolt hit Hawkins in the abdominal plate and another spanged off his helmet, Seth took a bolt to the thigh armour, deadening the muscle there and Krabb took a hard round to the shoulder, the bullet thunking into the meat between plates, Krabb responding with a sharp intake of breath yet maintained discipline, not slowing his relentless advance.
The commandos saw the world in a coating of green, the night setting of their targeter monocles lighting the enemy up with bright outlines, las muzzles betraying their positions as they tried to huddle behind what meagre cover remained in the tight corridor.
Hawkins' Hellgun whined as it cycled dry, the commando shouting 'loading' over the cacophony of weapons fire as he dropped to a knee, calmly ejecting the used power cell and retrieving a fresh one from his chest webbing.
Krabb was standing behind him and immediately began firing over his leader's head into the mass of panicking guardsmen, ensuring that there was never a lull in the rate of fire from the Storm Trooper's guns.
'Back in.' Yelled Hawkins as the fresh cell slid home, prompting Krabb to cease fire as the commander rose to his feet again, cycling his weapon at a manic rate to suppress and kill the enemy.
The brick proceeded in this fashion to the bottom of the stairwell, which they advanced up in bounding cover, 2 men moving at a time with Seth reaching the top and priming another frag grenade, slotting the bulky cartridge into his launcher.
Without warning, a hulking Guardsman barreled through the doorway into Seth, grasping for his weapon, pressing it into the smaller man's carapace. Before Hawkins could get off a shot the junior Storm Trooper had rolled his shoulders and flicked his hips, launching the enemy soldier down the stairs and into the Captain.
The Storm Trooper commander was hurled off his feet by the impact, losing grip on his weapon but maintaining presence of mind enough to roll with the impact, landing on top of the fuming traitor.
Hawkins' machete cleared its back sheath and chopped down into the Guardsman's head, over and over, hacking his skull apart and spraying Hawkins in viscera. He didn't have time to wait for the power cell to cycle-up so the heavy blade alone did the work, turning the traitor's head into so much mulch.
Breathing heavily, Hawkins called up Squad 2 as Seth regained his position and pumped another frag through the doorway with a comforting thump of concussive force, allowing Granger and his men to Echelon through his squad and clear the next floor in a hail of grenades and las-blasts.
This relentless momentum continued and soon the entire compound was clear, devoid of traitor guard life, their departing souls regretting standing up for concepts such as "independence" and "freedom".
The Imperium tolerates these things in the same manner an apex predator tolerates his prey fighting back, Hawkins mused as he looked from the roof over the vanquished compound.
Major Shiba reported minimal casualties through the company vox, though he did mention a distressingly heavy number of civilian casualties in the Storm Trooper's wake.
Hawkins told him to take it up with command and cut the transmission off, making his way to the summit of the mountain as his men set demolition charges around the super structure of the immense vox array.
Hawkins looked out across the mountain ranges as the thunderous blast signalled the end of the Enemy's long range vox capability, synchronised with several other explosions visible atop the dark peaks of neighbouring mountaintops miles away.
He looked down into the valley far below to the North, to the many lights of the traitor held cities, barracks, ammo dumps and supply depots. With no way for them to communicate with forces in adjacent valleys, the war just got a whole lot easier.
Textbook strategy, divide and conquer.
Hawkins smiled as he removed his helmet.
The quarters on the troop ship were a converted storeroom. Hammocks were stretched out between aisles of shelving, kit was stowed on the shelves themselves in neat piles, and the stores held there previously removed and kept in the ships main hold.
The Storm Troopers had cleared a space at the end of the room for recreation and training drills and at present were sat upon upturned ammo crates, observing cleaning rites on their weapons.
The commander of the Harikoni 405th, a Colonel Amione Sulken, leader of the 405th for many years and an officer of fine reputation, suggested that the 101st billet separately from the rest of the troops, to avoid any animosity generating as a result of their unusual qualities.
Hawkins had to agree.
Colonel Sulken strode in now, resplendent in his immaculate dress uniform, his highly shined boots clicking on the plasteel grating as he entered the store room.
The room smelled of gun oil and sweat, the men being forced to wait until debriefing before they could administer themselves, this didn't bother them initially, as weapons were always priority after an operation, but they had been waiting for some hours now with no word.
Coupled with being pulled off world to re-join the fleet, which was a highly irregular act in itself, Hawkins could sense the men getting annoyed.
Captain Hawkins looked up from the barrel lens he was attending to and regarded the officer.
He had never seen Sulken dressed in dress rig before, the man was usually a practical soul, more than happy to carry out daily duties in fatigues and field cap.
This was unusual.
Captain Hawkins made no attempt to rise from his perch, being under direct command of the Commissariat, Sulken's rank meant nothing to him.
Instead he merely inclined his head, his countenance expectant and more than a little irritated at being kept waiting so long.
The Captain was stripped to the waist, the upper half of the flight suit left to hang as he aired his stinking torso.
His skin, like those of his men, was pale. This wasn't the pale of a spacer who rarely saw the sun, his skin tone was practically grey, unnaturally so.
His body was lean and well-muscled, product of the process used to create him and it was covered with scars earned in battle, the largest of which was a jagged line of tissue that circled his entire right shoulder, indicating the surgery to graft a freshly grown arm onto his wounded frame.
He lost the original to an Ork warboss 5 years before, the green bastard bit it clean off below the shoulder as Hawkins rammed his bolt pistol down it's throat, ending it's existence in a hail of mass reactive rounds.
Hawkins' head was topped with tightly cropped grey hair and his face was remarkably free of scars, the commander's entire head marred only by a single incision scar on his temple, it followed the line of his skull horizontally and ended with the missing tip of one ear.
He and his men shared milky white eyes, entirely lacking irises or pupils and tattoos of black ink adorning their left cheeks indicating name, number, blood group and rank all topped with a tiny Aquila.
The message they gave was clear, these men are somebody's property.
The Captain was just about to enquire about any updates when 2 more men followed the Colonel in.
The first was a barrel chested giant standing ramrod straight, dressed in the characteristic black storm coat and peaked cap of his trade, a silver skull grinning menacingly from the centre of the headgear.
The face below it was craggy and lined, a permanent scowl on the man's features making him appear as if carved from granite.
His right hand rested on the bolt pistol holstered at his hip and he surveyed the room around him with some distaste.
Captain Hawkins bawled 'Commissar on deck' and stood to attention followed a split second later by his Storm Troopers.
Hawkins saluted his commanding officer.
Colonel-Commissar Armitage was a rare breed, serving with distinction in the Storm Trooper regiment, then as a Commissar for 30 years before combining both when tasked to command the 101st, achieving both political and military rank.
The man commanded over 500 of the albino commandos throughout the campaign theatre, spread out among different battlegroups in platoon sized elements. He was a very busy man and to see him in person was a surprise, to say the least.
The last man was dressed in similar attire to the Colonel-commissar, a storm coat of deepest brown as opposed to black, with black gloves and jackboots completing his plain outfit. The man had an ageless face, he could have been 30 or 300 and his slightly receding black hair was neatly oiled back from his forehead in the style favoured by high born guard officers and noblemen.
He carried no visible weapons, indeed his only adornment was a small rosette pinned to his coat lapel, the colour of deepest crimson and sporting a Stylised "I" symbol in its centre.
'At ease Captain.' Armitage boomed in a voice used to being obeyed without question, before turning to face Colonel Sulken.
'That will be all, Colonel. Our guest and I have business to intend to.'
Sulken, not one used to being dismissed so lightly, was having none of it.
'I have an issue to raise with your men, Colonel-Commissar.' He did not pause to allow for a response. 'Major Shribe and a number of his men were witness to the unlawful slaughter of Imperial citizens by your unit on its last operation. They offered no resistance, yet were gunned down without mercy. What do you have to say for yourself, Captain?'
All eyes turned to the Storm Trooper officer.
'They were harbouring traitors, they were traitors by association.'
'They were held against their will!' Sulken snapped. 'We are here to liberate the loyal citizens of this world, not butcher them. A good officer needs to know when to show Compassion as well as strength, Captain Hawkins. You and your abhuman freaks are akin to mindless automatons. ' He spat.
'Compassion is weakness. Weakness is death.' Hawkins replied flatly.
He thought he caught the ghost of a smile on the Colonel-Commissar's face.
Sulken fumed. He opened his mouth, about to launch into a tirade of insults when another voice spoke, less bombastic than either of the officers yet full of authority.
'We're done here, leave.'
The man in the brown coat said, tipping his head towards the door.
Sulken's eyes flashed and for the slightest moment he looked like he might protest, then he stormed out of the store room in a jingle of ceremonial plate and medals.
Hawkin's sent trooper Stahl to close the heavy bulkhead door behind the Colonel with a nod of the head, allowing what followed to be said in privacy.
'At ease, men.' The Colonel-commissar said, and the platoon of Storm Troopers visibly relaxed.
'You spoke like a true believer, Captain.' The words came from the brown coat wearing man, that same quiet voice demanding attention as he stepped forward to address the men.
'I am a true believer, Lord Inquisitor.'
'Very observant.' The agent of the holy Ordos replied with a tip of the head, tapping his rosette with a gloved finger.
'What are you?' he blurted suddenly, catching Hawkins off-guard.
What are you? A bizarre question, thought the Captain, one with many possible answers when given without context or preamble.
He went with the most obvious answer.
'I am the Emperor's loyal servant, my Lord.'
The Inquisitor's face remained unreadable, his expression neutral as he continued to speak in his soft voice, the sound totally lacking any intonation or emotional subtext.
'Be more specific.'
Hawkins responded immediately. 'I am O-762 Captain Hawkins, Commander 1st platoon, 101st Storm Trooper Battalion.'
The Inquisitor responded again, as if anticipating this answer.
'That's who you are. I asked what are you?'
Hawkins frowned and looked around at his men, catching the subtle physical signs of agitation that ordinary humans would miss when looking upon eyes of blank whiteness. Whatever this test was, Hawkins was clearly failing it.
Sergeant Granger gave him the slightest nod of encouragement, a barely imperceptible movement.
He looked straight ahead once more, and gave his reply.
'I am part of the Afriel Strain. Genetically engineered clone soldier, bred to fight and die in the Emperor's holy wars. I am a weapon, lord.'
At this, the Inquisitor allowed himself a small smile before replying, this time with fire in his eyes and an edge of zeal in his voice.
'Exactly! You are stronger, faster and braver than any natural born soldier, clones of our greatest heroes. And you men in particular, exceptional by even those standards, the peak of human ability were chosen to form this most elite Unit. A Unit unlike any seen before, a "Special Force" some might say.'
The Inquisitor was becoming increasingly animated, hands gesticulating with chopping motions as he went on.
'And this force was devised by me, some years ago for one task. A joint venture, built by the Adepts of Mars, souls hardened by the righteous Commissariat, armed by the Guard and given purpose by the holy Ordos themselves. Each one of these organisations has a common goal in mind. Each of them prepared to put aside differences for this mission.'
'You do not realise it men, but you are part of a much bigger plan, one that is about to be set in motion. If it succeeds you will be the first of many, entire divisions of "Special Forces" all focused on the same task.'
The inquisitor paused, looking at each Storm Trooper individually before resuming his speech in a quieter, conspiratory tone.
'Do you trust my word, Captain Hawkins? Do you trust that the Emperor enacts his will through the Holy Inquisition?'
'Without question, my lord.'
'Good. Then believe me when I say we are about to embark on a mission of utmost importance. One that must remain utterly covert. It will seem to any higher authority that we acting out against the Imperium, but I assure you that we are not.'
He paused again to allow this information to sink in.
'An enemy exists within our own ranks that must be purged. We must be poised to respond to this threat whenever it rears its ugly head, and even if you succeed the cost of souls will be high.'
'Are you willing to do what needs to be done, Captain?'
Hawkins didn't hesitate. He figured that anything endorsed by the Colonel-Commissar would be a legitimate operation. The man had sweat blood for the Imperium his entire life.
'Anything for the Emperor, my lord.'
'I was hoping you'd say that. Colonel-Commissar?' The inquisitor stepped back and leant against the wall, content that his part was done.
Armitage boomed, his familiar voice filling the space of the entire storage room with its power.
'Phase one is already underway. 2nd Platoon has already taken the bridge and muffled vox access to the rest of the fleet, they are also taking care of the Astropath. Your first task is to eliminate all 405th Harikoni personnel on board. Deck by deck clearance, I'll leave the particulars up to you, Got it?'
Hawkin's mind was reeling, but his outer composure remained one of calm.
'Roger that sir.'
'Good.' The Storm Trooper Colonel replied. 'Gear up, we move in 5.'
Hawkins and his men moved as one, silently re-assembling their weapons with practised movements before helping each other into their matt black armour rigs.
Hawkin closed the zipper on his brown drab flightsuit.
What in Throne's name is going on? He thought as he wriggled his hands into his shooting gloves, flexing the visible grey tips of his fingers, hearing the worn grox hide palms creak under the movement.
He didn't even know that 2nd Platoon were on board the troop carrier, let alone the fact they were in control of the bridge at that very moment. The Colonel-Commissar must have brought them along with him.
What the hell have we been dropped into?