Staff-Sergeant Raymond Howard wasn't prone to panicking. An experienced vet, he had served under Major Ashton for most of his career. He never questioned orders, and always saw them through to the end. Always keep a cool head, his father had told him, no matter what. He had built his career on that simple principle, and that same principle had seen him survive where many others wouldn't. Some called it luck, but Howard had always thought different. Now, he was beginning to rethink his attitude.
Now, he could use all the luck he could get.
Thick ballistics hammered into the path ahead of him. They exploded in gouts of orange flames, pelting the windshield with a mist of charred dirt and smoking pebbles. The transport's wheels churned up billowing clouds of black soot as they powered across the tortured valley floor. The driver, Private Hicks, recited a mantra of endless swear words under his breath. The shadow of the crude orange dropship loomed over them, hungry and impatient. Machinegun fire licked from its turrets, stabbing at their rear tyres. It was almost toying with them.
It was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.
"Fireteam Alpha-One, this is Kilo-Five Seven, do you copy over?" The speaker in his helmet squawked.
"Uh, copy that, Terminator." Howard answered, holding his helmet-mic steady with his free hand. "Receiving you loud and clear."
Howard had to strain his ears to hear over the deafening explosions bracketing the battered Stinger. One of their tyres was a on fire.
"Keep heading due north of your position, there's a clearing about two minutes out from your location. Evac is in position and awaiting your arrival, over."
"I'm not sure we're going to be able to make it, Terminator." Howard flinched as a fist sized rock was thrown up against the windshield, sending a spider web of cracks across the glass. "We're taking a serious amount of fire here, over."
After a moment's hesitation, Jerry's voice came back over the com channel.
"Ten-four, Alpha-One. Sit tight: Terminator is inbound."
Tinyblower was losing patience. The humie pilot had skill - that much was certain. For two whole minutes, he had deftly avoided the Blood Giva's fusillade, doggedly defying death with each passing second. Tinyblower tightened his grip on the support strut and ordered the dropship to overtake their stubborn prey. The crude landing craft powered forward with a burst of its engines.
The Nob turned to the ten other Ork Shoota Boyz crouched within the dropship's drop bay.
"Prepare to fight, ya gits!" he growled, "We'z gonna kill us Humies!"
They snuffled eagerly, racking the slide on their Shootas. Some tightened ragged bandoliers of clinking ammunition, re-adjusting their helmets as they prepared themselves for the imminent combat. The Gretchen manning the hatch turrets brought their weapons up to full power. They chattered to themselves giddily. They were ready.
Tinyblower gave the order.
"WAAAAAGH!"
Howard's jaw fell open. The hostile air ship, its patience clearly eroded, had zoomed down into the valley right in front of them. It swung about on its axis, presenting its profile. A short green skinned...thing manning a side turret cackled and unleashed a scintillating storm of heavy fire across the Stinger's bonnet. Armour plating peeled away like so much tissue paper as the shots sliced home. The windshield exploded in a blizzard of flying glass. Like a thousand burning knives, the shards sprayed inward. Hicks shrieked as the fragments cut deep into his eyes, he had always kept his visor on no matter what, and now he paid the price for his negligence. Howling in agony, his ragged hands clawed at his ruined face. It only served to drive the shrapnel deeper.
Hicks let go of the steering wheel.
The vehicle veered to the side, clipped a boulder, and flipped completely. It bounced and rolled with a sickening crunch, throwing its occupants free of their restraints and hurled them mercilessly against the ground below. Most died instantly. Howard's life was saved by his power armor, which nearly split in two as his head jerked forward into the dashboard. He lolled about, unconscious. One of the vehicles wheels detached from the wreckage entirely, rolling on its own volition for several metres.
Had Howard been awake, he would have heard the distant whine of Terminator's thrusters, drifting ever closer.
Jerry brought the Pelican over the next rise of canyon wall, his targeting reticule green-lit on the HUD. He barely had time to digest the scene in front of him: the rising smoke, the crumpled Stinger, the lurking dropship. He didn't have to. His pilot's instincts took over. Jerry had seen a lot of wierd shit while travelling aboard the Anchises but this one takes the cake, they were green, mean, and big killing machines. Standing almost as tall as a Marauder, no matter, shoot enough bullets into something and it will inevitably die. With a feral grin, he clamped his finger tightly against the flight-stick's trigger.
The drop-ship's 20mm rotary canons chattered as the rounds chewed deeply into the spine of the surprised dropship. Several cut straight through the ship altogether. One Gretchen on the starboard turret simply vaporised in a puff of orange mist. The pilot saw one of the Ork Shoota Boyz hurl themselves clear of the crippled vessel. Redoubling his efforts, Jerry raked the hostile air ship m with a second salvo.
The dropship didn't explode. Instead, its engines simply belched out a thick belt of smoke, and the gutted craft fell from the sky with all the grace of a cannon ball. Satisfied, Jerry lowered the ship in for an inspection run. He keyed the com as he was about to set the Grizzlyn down a hundred metres south of the Stinger's wreckage. Try as he might, he couldn't quite keep the satisfaction from his voice.
"This is Terminator to Control. Scratch one Tango."
He had just about to un-tab the com-switch when Sandra began to scream.
Perry looked up. Hurtling toward the cockpit was a wall of rocket fire.
He didn't have time to think. Jerry grabbed the flight stick.
Weyland watched from the shadows as the Alpha-Ork Nob surged toward the unknown human ship, its assault cannon spitting angry death. The human vessel jerked to one side, its rear engines ploughing into the rock face behind it with a sickening crunch.
The pilot's quick reflexes were both the dropship's salvation and its undoing. The Ork dropship's missiles sailed cleanly through the air, exploding harmlessly against the far canyon wall. Unfortunately, the ship's rear engines had been crunched to twisted balls of useless metal. For a second, the ship wobbled precariously in the air, its remaining engines whining furiously as the ship struggled valiantly to stay aloft. The Nob howled in bloodlust, and unleashed a second salvo.
This time the Nob's shots bit deeply into their prey. The port wing was ripped away and the aircraft rammed into the dirt in a spray of blinding sand. Its engines had failed entirely. The Nob threw down his weapon and began to beat his mighty fists against his chest. He roared in triumph. The sound made Weyland's blood boil.
Alarmed that their leader's was isolated on the ground, the third Ork dropship swooped in to support. It touched down, and began to disgorge its troops, before rising off into the sky once more. Twelve more Ork Boyz armed with Choppas and Shootas rushed forward to unite with the Nob, adding their own coarse voices to the bellowing victory call. After a moment, the Orks fanned out, stalking toward the downed human dropship. The hunt was almost concluded.
"Get in position, Space Marines." Weyland warned, priming his plasma gun, "The time for vengeance is at hand."
Jerry awoke to the sound of gun-fire. Through the constant ringing in his ears, he could make out the staccato crack of a C-14 Impaler Gauss Rifle, interspersed with the heavier thunking sound of the aliens' more primitive weaponry. He shook his head groggily, and checked his watch. Its face was cracked.
14:02:32 was frozen on the display. He'd been out for all of three minutes.
Jerry popped his restraints, drew his side-arm and looked about for Sandra. The little girl's seat was empty. He found her cowering in the equipment locker, her hood pulled tightly over her head. Traumatised, she rocked back and forth on her haunches, saying nothing. Unsure of what to do, Jerry left her there for now, and scurried down the rear ramp to join the battle outside.
The Grizzly had carved a shallow trench into the valley floor, and it was from there that the Dominion Marines effected their resistance. The hulking green aliens advanced on their position steadily, ducking behind boulders, bushes and scattered debris, all the while chanting in crude english, "Ere, we go! Ere we go!" that unnerved Jerry a little. Organised and efficient, they took turns darting from cover to cover. Jerry took a deep breath, and dove down into the trench.
Private Hughey was already dead. A series of four lucky projectiles had driven deep into the exposed area of his power suit chest piece. His body lay twisted at the top of the trench-lip. With a sickened look, Perry noticed that Hughey's leg still twitched spastically. Occasionally, stray rounds would slam into the corpse, jostling it about like some grotesque puppet.
Not wishing to meet the same fate, Jerry scrunched as low as he could as he bellied forward to where the three remaining Marines had taken cover. They had spread themselves as far as they could along the trench line, in a desperate bid to dilute the Orks'' extraordinary firepower. Dug in and determined, the Marines peppered the enemy with return fire, slinging grenades over the trench lip whenever the opportunity arose.
So far, they had taken down three of the advancing Shoota Boyz. Their grass and grime-drenched bodies sprawled in the dirt.
"Glad you could join us, flyboy!" Corporal Mikey grinned, tossing him Hughey's C-14 Gauss Rifle. Perry caught it deftly. "Know how that thing works?"
"Vague idea!" Jerry replied, scrambling up to the trench lip. The gun mostly was wielded by men in power armor to handle the recoil, nevertheless, the large rifle can fired by unarmored shooters. At 200 depleted uranium spikes, they could give even the Protoss a run for their money. Jerry realised Hughey hadn't even gotten a chance to fire a single shot.
Hands shaking, Perry flipped the safety from stand-by to active. As the air around him buzzed with lethal metal, the pilot desperately tried to recall his the basics of Fundamental and Preparatory, all those years ago. He sighted the rifle, resting it on the sandy lip in front of him.
Select target, aim, fire. Select target, aim, fire…
"What the hell are these things?" voiced Perry as he sighted down one of the Ork Shoota Boyz, up close they were really big, and really scary with those nasty machetes they were carrying. "The hell if I know!" replied Perez, the Marine in front of him.
Jerry triggering a short burst at an advancing brute. The assault rifle juddered in his hands as it blurted angrily, banging violently against his shoulder almost dislocating his firing arm. The massive alien roared in indignation, it's crude armor absorbing the shots. Undeterred, it continued charging and firing his weapon.
"Point and shoot, right?" Jerry yelled out, feeling decidedly unsure about himself.
"More like spray 'n pray!" Private Linderman corrected, demonstrating by unleashing a torrent of shots which sent a trio of the aliens diving for cover. Linderman turned to say something else, but then the trench lip erupted under a withering hail of explosive grenades. Linderman vanished along with most of his cover. When the smoke cleared, only a bloodied and smoking boot from the CMC-300 remained.
Horrified and enraged, Jerry re-sighted and fired a more sustained burst. The same greenskin he had clipped before roared in pain as its chestplate collapsed and the rounds stitched across its chest. This time, Jerry didn't release the trigger. Toppling forward, the monster spun to the dirt and lay still.
Elated, Jerry went to target another Ork. Lining it up in his sights, he pulled the trigger. All he received in return was a dry click.
"Shit, I need a reload!" Jerry cried, panicking. Mikey didn't even look up from his iron sight as he tossed the pilot another clip. Jerry's hands trembled as he fumbled to slide the new clip home.
"Fire in the hole!" Private First Class Perez roared, ripping a grenade from his webbing and flinging it in the direction of the advancing Orks. Two of the beasts, too slow to react, were consumed by the savage cloud of shrapnel. Perez took aim with his rifle and resumed firing.
They gave a good account of themselves, all in all. As the Ork Boyz advanced, the Terran Domnion Marines demonstrated surprisingly remarkable discipline and commendable marksmanship, given their reputation until the very end. On an individual basis, the Marines were woefully outclassed. With the average Greenskin towering at an average height of 2.8 metres, the Orks were on par if not stronger than a Marine in Power armor, more resilient and - if that wasn't enough - they were almost zero tolerant to pain, ensuring that they shrugged off all but the heaviest of injuries. Several times the Marines made shots that should have killed an average opponent.
Sadly, the Orks were no average opponents. That fully a third of the creatures had been gunned down before they swarmed the Marines' position spoke volumes of the Marine's courage, tenacity and valour in the face of overwhelming odds. It was Fire-team Alpha-One's proudest moment.
It was also to be their last.
Corporal Mikey made a priceless headshot before a return round punched through his visor and spat viscera out of the entry wound. He collapsed without a sound. Private Perez, courageous to the last, charged forward as the enemy leapt over the trench lip, bayonet at the ready, choosing to meet them head on. His courage was legendary. Alas, it proved to be a futile. His shots rebounded harmlessly off Tinyblower's armor before the massive alien struck him down with a single murderous swipe of its assault canon.
Jerry's assault rifle clicked dry once more, and he flung it aside, drawing his side-arm. He racked the slide, and bellowed a nonsensical war cry at the top of his lungs. The C-7 pistol barked angrily. A carpet of shell casings pooled at his feet.
He emptied a full magazine into the face of the oncoming Nob, before the massive beast guffawed and swatted him aside with dismissive backhand. He hadn't so much as dented the Nob's shields. Jerry tumbled back into the trench, winded. The remaining Ork boyz, seven in total, lined the trench lip in a semi-circle around him, back-lit by the blazing sun. They stared down at him, red eyes glittering balefully.
"Gimme' a real fight, Humie!" the same one who killed PFC Perez and smacked the Flight Officer bellowed.
I have to keep them distracted away from the lander, Jerry decided. Better they toy with me than find the kid.
Jerry reached up and pulled off his helmet. Screaming, he hurled it at the Ork Nob. Jerry rose to his feet, standing tall and proud. In reality, he was scared shitless. With slow finality Jerry drew his combat knife. Bracing himself for the end, the pilot crouched low into his best imitation of a fighting stance. Truth be told, he hadn't the slightest clue what he was doing, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least cut the bastard.
Last stand time, he thought grimly.
Sensing Jerry's defiance, the Nob turned and handed his assault cannon to one of his boyz. Leisurely stepping down into the trench, Tinyblower guffawed as he took in his opponent's desperate appearance. The Nob cracked his knuckles in anticipation. He was easily twice the pilot's height.
"I'z gonna use ya bones to pick my teeth humie." Tinyblower promised.
"Well then I hope I give you indigestion. Prick." Jerry shot back petulantly.
Before Jerry had a chance to kick himself for choosing the corniest last words in the history of mankind, a dazzling wall of hissing plasma sailed through the air overhead.
Announcing its presence with a cheerful splash, it latched itself onto the helmet of the Ork Shoota Boy minding the Chieftain's cannon, whereupon it began burning and boiling hide of the greenskin with superheated plasma. The hulking alien howled in outrage, dropping the cannon as it panicked. He desperately tried to tear the keening ball free. The Ork only succeeded in having his hands fused to the plasma stain. His green leathery skin bubbled and hissed as it was melted by the searing heat.
the plasma sizzled downwards, ignoring the screams of the Ork and came into contact with his grenades.
Then he exploded.
The result was devastating. Two things aggravated matters. Firstly, the Ork Shoota Boyz were laden down with stacks of volatile ammunition so typical of their race. Secondly, the assault cannon, which had been discarded just below the initial explosion, took the force of the blast. The chain reaction vaporised four of the aliens instantly, and flicked the others into the air. Jerry only survived because Tinyblower bore the full brunt of the explosion.
Miraculously, the Nob had survived. Tinyblower toppled forward onto one knee, roaring in agony. Most of his back armour had been sheered away. His flesh hung down in ragged strips. Enraged with pain, Tinyblower ripped his metallic head-crest free, and leapt toward Jerry. Jerry's ankle caught on a rock and he tumbled to the ground. The Nob screamed in fury, linked his fingers together into a single fist, and raised them high above his head.
A shadow darted overhead.
All Jerry caught was an impression of a massive parody CMC-Power Armor smudged in Navy Blue with gold markings and oversized shoulderplates, as the figure leapt on top of the shrieking berserker. The Nob lashed out with a roar, swatting the figure aside. Not losing momentum, the newcomer rolled smoothly into a crouch and – without pausing - lunged again. The Nob swung his mighty Choppa, only this time, his opponent wasn't there.
The Blue armored figure, who moved too fast despite his appearance, ducked under the swing, and then counter-attacked. There was a glittering flash, a blur too fast to follow. To Perry, it looked as though the figure had simply swept past the towering Nob without stopping. For a moment, nobody breathed.
Gurgling, Ork Nob Tinyblower slid apart in two halves, neatly bisected down the middle.
The remaining Orks howled in anguish, rushing to avenge their fallen leader. They never made far as they were cut down by Bolter fire from the other Ultramarines laying back, striking each of them down within a heartbeat. Within seconds, it was all over.
The figure turned toward him. Its power sword, encased in blue energy, as lethal as it was sleek, hummed menacingly. Perry scrambled for Mikey's discarded C-14. A heavy boot landed on his wrist, pinning him in place.
Two more figures stepped into along with one view around the trench lip, one had the same armor as the one who killed the Nob, the other was human, male in a long black and armored coat. With a panicked yelp, Jerry realised he was surrounded. His limit reached, Jerry valiantly fought the urge to soil himself.
"Be at peace, mortal." The intimidating helmet of the Ultramarine burned into him as he peered down at Perry. "This is not your day to die."