Captain Mc'Teger held on to the straps that held him to his street, preventing him meeting the ceiling of the dropship.
The drop ship itself was bouncing and tossing with the turbulence of atmospheric re-entry. He felt the urge to vomit. Very soon. The captain looked round the drop ship. Somehow, the Navy had managed to cram the four hundred thirty men of his company into only four drop ships. Apparently, the comfort of the men was secondary to how many could be dropped at once, in as few vehicles as possible. It was like some archaic vid-game for the Navy Ratings…
Mc'Teger's company was the Light, of the 9th Heavy Infantry. The elite of the battalion. All Heavy Infantry battalions had two companies who were distinct from the Centre Companies; the Grenadier and Light Infantry Companies. The Grenadiers were the biggest, strongest men of a regiment, and were the best stormers and close-quarter men. The Light infantry, who had less armour and marginally less equipment, were the smartest men. They were the recon element, the skirmishers, and they were trusted with using their own initiative in bad situation. They could form on the battle line like all the other Companies, and fire their volleys and perform a bayonet charge, but they were also useful in other ways.
Only, he didn't feel elite. He felt like a child on his first flight. Mc'Teger had made many drops, but no drops straight into combat at high velocity re-entry.
"Don't worry, sir, we'll soon be down." Sergeant Nerar chuckled from his left-hand side.
"I can't wait. I'd rather take Abaddon himself." Mc'Teger groaned. The men around him laughed. That was all good, but would they be laughing when his morning rations ended up on their fatigues?
"Two minutes!" a voice broadcast into their ears via micro-bead links in their helmets." Oh great, two minutes! That would pass like two hours! Oh hell. Just keep those freeze-dried protein blocks IN your gut. Two minutes. That's all.
Thud.
His harness released. Men stood and dashed to the main hatch, already lowering itself.
"We're on the ground?" Mc'Teger couldn't stop himself asking. Nerar replied, laughing.
"Yes. Anything wrong with that, sir?"
"No, it's just…I thought the comm said two minutes, but next thing we were on the ground."
Nerar looked a little sympathetic. "I hate to tell you sir, but you blacked out for a moment there."
"I didn't, did I?" the captain asked, mortified.
"No one noticed, sir. Had them checking their hellguns."
"Thanks," Mc'Teger muttered genuinely. Before him, the hatch had fully opened, allowing pale light and the noise of dozens of dropships. Mc'Teger thumbed on his power sabre, checked the mag of his hell pistol before bellowing to his troopers.
"Men of Garrowa! Forward!"
His eighty-odd men charged forward, streaming towards the nearby shadows of the towering road bridge. They moved from cover to cover, squads detailed to cover side-roads and building entrances as they passed them.
Another ninety or so troopers appeared from the right flank, all bearing the marks of Light Infantrymen. More Light Garrowans could be seen smashing windows overlooking the bridge, support weapons being set up within them.
"Lieutenant Bylar, where is Lieutenant Drang with the rest of the Company?" Mc'Teger asked one of the junior officers who ran over to him.
"Their transport was hit, sir. No survivors," the lieutenant replied. Oh hell, a quarter of my men! The captain's thought raced.
"How many were hit?"
"3 Company lost twenty men to a rocket strike. It managed to land, but exploded as most of the men got out. The rest of the regiment seem to have made it relatively intact." The young officer said. Even under his helmet, the Lieutenant looked visibly pale.
"It is okay, Bylar." McTeger said. Now he was on the ground he felt fine, his calm, battle-hardened experience returning to him. The captain looked at his data slate, a little bit of dismay and annoyance showing on his face, before he spoke into his comms "Listen up, Light Company. The 9th have to take this bridge. The Light Company is the first company in, so we will advance on the bridge. The Navy boys have dropped the battalion over a two mile area, scattered thanks to that heavier-than-expected flak. We do not have time to wait for the rest of the regiment to form up, but we have to get there before the enemy. Squad leaders, have your squads form on you. Let's make this advance a little more orderly. And let's get some payback for those of us who didn't make it."
He looked at the faces of those nearest him. None seemed worried, none were nervous. Most of them had a grim determination about them.
"Alright, move out." The men cheered. Two hundred and fifty men headed forward, hellguns ready, carapace fixed tightly in place. The Garrowans were here for the bridge, and they would have it. Unsupported, the 9th's Light Company made for the bridge.
Colonel Frayzar watched as his regiment advancing through the abandoned streets. All around him, he could hear the distant fire of AA batteries, presumably the same AA fire that had robbed him of over two hundred men from his regiment already. Explosions could be heard after the whine of shell falls. But in this quadrant of the city, there seemed to be no signs of life. Of any kind.
The Grenadier Company was clearing rooms in some of the flanking buildings, and those over-seeing the bridge approach. The other companies were moving forward in well disciplined, orderly groups, none becoming lax or complacent at the complete lack of anyone in the streets. Apart from the three and a half thousand troopers of the regiment, there were no signs of life. No Imperial citizens, no enemy cultists, nothing. There were battle-scarred walls in the streets, ruined habs, ransacked shops, crude graffiti that hurt the colonels eyes, but no people.
Not even bodies. There was a fair amount of blood on the streets, evident of where killings had happened, but no bodies. AA flashed in the distance so there was definitely some life in the enemy, but nothing anywhere the Imperials had reached.
Nothing.
"Sir, where is everyone…" Sergeant Major Misdeagan asked, the grizzled old trooper obviously spooked by the near silent city.
"I only wish I knew, SM." Frayzar admitted. "What news from the Company commanders?"
"All the Companies are formed and now underway, sir. The tail-most is 5 Coy, they were dropped well outside of the LZ."
"Damn it all. We're a good twenty minutes behind the Light Company, and it will take me another half hour at least to get the battalion to that fecking bridge! Who needs the Navy." Frazyar ranted. "Vox officer!" the colonel growled at a nearby corporal.
"Yes, sir?" the reply was quick and crisp.
"Vox the regiment. I want the pace picked up as soon as possible."
The corporal was already in the process of unhooking the mic from the caster on his back. "At once, sir."
More autocannon fire could be heard in the distance, and through a gap between habs, Frayzar saw a lander erupt into flames and then detonate with massive force.
I'm glad that's none of my lads, the colonel thought rather uncharitably.
The colonel glanced at some of the graffiti, and he saw more archenemy symbols to their vile gods. They made his eyes water. And some seemed to….writhe, almost…as if alive. Here and there, he could see troopers slowing down as they glanced at the runes.
"Sergeant major, flamers up. I want those symbols burned off the walls whenever we see them."
"Yes, sir," Mesdeagan's voice was steely.
Frayzar threw of the queasy feeling in his gut, and urged his men on.
"Move! Spread out behind that cover!" Mc'Teger called to his foremost squads. He had made it to the bridge approach, and his men were now advancing onto the roadway. Abandoned and fire-gutted vehicles, both military and civilian, covered the roadway, the signs of battle evident all around. Broken PDF lasguns lay around some hastily erected rubble-barricades at Mc'Teger's end of the bridge.
"Sergeant, get five squads, make those barricades viable defensive positions."
"Sir." A burly Light NCO nodded and walked towards his men shouting.
Mc'Teger keyed his micro-bead, hoping he had enough range to reach the colonel.
"Mc'Teger to HQ, Mc'Teger to regimental HQ." He waited for a moment through the static, but nothing came back. The captain tried again, again receiving nothing.
With a sigh, Mc'Teger called his vox man, who finally patched him through to the colonel.
"Go ahead, Light." Frayzar's gruff voice crackled through the vox handset.
"We are at the Bridge now, sir. I am having my men take positions on it, behind vehicles and rudimentary PDF barricades. Do you want me to attempt a full crossing?"
There was a brief pause.
"No, captain. We have no idea where, or how many the enemy are, and I don't want my Light Company getting cut off behind enemy lines. Wait for battalion to arrive."
"Of course, sir. We are digging in and should be in good shape to hold the bridge until your arrival. Any idea when that might be, sir?" Mc'Teger answered with his own question.
"Hopefully no more than half an hour, but be prepared to hold on for longer if necessary. It seems we've been dropped away from the main travel artery to the bridge, so the regiment is navigating the side streets and hab quarters. It's taking time. We'll get to you as soon as I can, if I have to personally kick every arse in this regiment." Frayzar said fiercely.
"Thank you sir. We'll see you soon, I have no doubt. Mc'Teger out."
"That the colonel?" Sergeant Nerar approached.
"Yes. They're on their way. We dig in, and we wait."
Nerar made a sort of snort-laugh and trudged towards his own squad. Mc'Teger knew it wasn't directed at him.
The captain watched his men work. Some were filling some burlap sacks with dirt and rubble from the roadway's foundations and setting them across the top of the barricades. Corporals directed teams of men to force some of the vehicles into more easily defendable enfilading positions.
The bridge itself was a tall, skeletal suspension bridge. There was no way for any enemy to get over the top without climbing gear. The bridge had a pair of walkways on either side under the span, wide enough for two men abreast that came out on the shore side, giving a perfect flanking enfilade to the bridge. The captain had already despatched men to cover these, and had trip-wires set for them too. They were a dangerous opportunity to flank his men, but Mc'Teger was sure they would also prove a hazardous crossing with squads positioned to cover their exit.
His three hundred and thirty surviving men were spread along the bridge to about halfway, and all around the safe shoreline.
In the gloom of the opposite side, amidst the buildings and ruined habs, Mc'Teger could see shadows playing against walls, the lick of flames sending flickering lights against their surfaces like ghosts. Some seemed almost human in form…
"Lieutenant Mk'Erder, can you see anything?" the captain keyed his microbead to his forward OP, the furthest unit along the length of the span, a mere thirty-five metres from the end of the bridge.
"No, sir, why?"
"Keep your eyes open just in cas…"
Before he could finish speaking, never mind hear a reply, a heavy hail of lasfire pattered across the bridge, striking the front of several barricades. An RPG banged into the shattered hull of a salamander, sending shrapnel flying.
"Cover and reply! Men of Garrowa, cover and reply!" Mc'Teger screamed, bracing his pistol for targets.
The shadowy forms had become dirty men and women, wearing torn clothing and carrying a bewildering array of small arms. There were dozens of them, and they seemed to be pouring from everywhere.
All around, Garrowans were returning fire, in tight, accurate bursts. The cultists, although being 400m away, could easily be heard screaming and throwing insults in their abhorrent language. Hundreds could be seen now, and they were unleashing a veritable storm of las and auto fire. They may not have the battle trained accuracy of the men they were facing, but there was enough of them to make the bridge a very dangerous place.
"Lieutenant, can you get a view on where they are coming from and how many they are?" Mc'Teger voxed over the snap of las fire crackling around the Light's heads. The captain received no answer. "Do you receive me, lieutenant Mk'Erder?"
A moment later, the lieutenant's voice came back, quiet and restrained.
"No, sir. Negative on that."
"Why not, lieutenant?"
"I can't see them, sir."
"Again, why not? They are right in front of you Lieutenant!"
"I've taken some rockcrete splinters to the face. I can't see, sir." The lieutenant replied quietly. There was no whining, no weeping or sobbing. The lieutenant's voice was hushed, but calm and steely.
"Hold on, I'm sending some men to get you out of there." Mc'Teger called back. Bellowing at a nearby medic and a corporal's squad, he sent the men scampering for the lieutenant's position amidst a heavy cover fire.
Enemy las and auto shots thumped into the barricades and ruined vehicles. Every now and then, a Light trooper would take a round to his armour and fall, slowly shaking off the impact and getting back to his feet. Occasionally, the man wouldn't get back to his feet. The main danger was coming from a trio of well-covered heavy stubbers, whose rounds could easily break through the Garrowan Carapace armour. Frayzar had lost six men to them already.
And if any of those rockets actually hit their targets…
The Garrowan hell rounds were doing far more damage when they hit. Their hellguns were the Amp7 pattern 'Angellus', manufactured by the Machanicus Conclave on the homeworld. Whilst not as powerful as the hot-shot lasguns used by Imperial Storm troopers, they had more stopping power than a normal las. Those troops supporting the Angels of the black Blade, usually in the thickest, fiercest of fighting, needed the additional power in their rounds. It came with a trade-off though – where a regular lasguns could fire anything from forty to eighty rounds on a single cell, an Angelus Hellgun could fire around thirty at best. The idea was with better training and accuracy, and the stopping power to kill with one or two rounds, you needed less capacity.
When a Garrowan round hit, cultists were losing torsos and whole limbs to the force of the weapons. But the cultists were well protected by the barrier between the river and the habs.
Along Mc'Teger's positions, grenade launchers fired with a 'whumph', dropping frag rounds on the heads of the cultists. Only two metres away from Mc'Teger, a plasma gun flared and spat super-heated energy at the enemy positions. A smell of ozone hit Mc'Teger as a piece of wall, and the cultists with it, were turned to molten slag with a flash as they were incinerated by the power of a small star for a micro-second.
Another Garrowan went down near the captain, a las round taking him under the brow of his armaplas helmet. There was a loud 'thunk' as the laser round spent its energy on the inside of the man's helmet, and the now faceless corpse tumbled to the ground.
Mc'Teger swore and holstered his pistol, taking the rifle from the dead trooper with a handful of clips. The captain showed his men he was just as good a shot as they, clipping one overweight, dog-ugly cultists and exploding the skull of a second in as many shots.
From time to time, the enemy would approach the head of the bridge and advance. The squads with the injured Mk'Erder were there, and easily brought those cultists down. Even the fusillade they were suffering from the opposite bank wasn't enough to remove the Light troops.
"Drive them back!" Mc'Teger bellowed. "I want those scum removed from my bridge-head!"
The men around him bellowed their approval, snapping off quick, aimed shots.
The cheering from the cultists was getting louder, and Mc'Teger noticed Mk'Erder's men darting back from their position amid a flurry of enemy fire. Dirt spurted at their feet as they ran.
"Covering fire!" Nerar bellowed in his parade voice, beating Mc'Teger to it by half a second.
First came the medic, aiding Mk'Erder. They made the barricades, and kept going to the other bank. The troopers slammed down behind cover, and turned to fight.
"What happened?" Mc'Teger directed at an NCO.
"We could see along the highway sir, down the hill. Cultists to the southwest. Thousands of them! They were charging towards the bridge,"
"Fix bayonets!" Nerar anticipated. Hellguns fell silent for a moment, replaced with the slide and click of metal on rifle.
The noise grew louder as a great mass of archenemy cultists came into view, heading straight for the bridge. Those who had been firing on its length stopped to join the charge. All sorts of weapons were in evidence, all of them in some form delicate and ritualistic, yet brutal and horrible at the same time. Old auto's, battered las weapons, hostec pistols, clubs, slim blades. Many of the horde had pale skin, in patches discolouring purple, like bruising, only it seemed to be changing the shape of the affected area, too…
"Hold you fire! Take aim and wait!" Mc'Teger said through his micro-bead. "Check your clips, reload if you have to,"
Some of his men ejected half used clips, saving these for 'last chance' boxes, wanting a full load out for what was coming.
There were hundreds of cultists on the bridge now, and many more swarming the opposite shoreline. Their screams were merging into one long wail of obeisance. They came one, flocking towards Mc'Teger.
The captain could hear the squads guarding the walkways under the bridge firing, but they had their own fight right now.
"Keep you order," Nerar muttered to the nearest men. "Because you don't have to worry about those bastards, oh no.
You have to worry about what I'll do if you fire early!" A couple of men chuckled. Mc'Teger gave the cultists a few
more yards.
"Fire!"
The bridge erupted in a storm of light, grenades and fire.
"My Lord, I am sorry, but this is unreasonable! You are putting the lives of hundreds of thousands of Guardsmen to waste!" said a voice in High Gothic. His face, and that of his colleague, were hidden in the folds of his hood and the shadows of the holding vault.
"Their deaths are but a drop in the ocean. The technology is far more important, Adept." Another voice replied.
"You think I do not know this? But this force and felt you have assembled, Lord General, is a waste of valuable resources and weapons, never mind the men. And by telling the Administratum, this is a liberation effort is downright lies, and misappropriation."
"STCs are too few and far too valuable to be squeamish, Adept. It must be recovered!"
"These forces could be en route to Medusa V, but you have them here on a hunch! You have no proof! And you cannot waste such forces without it. As a member of the Administratum, I cannot allow this to go on!" the Adept snapped back.
"You will do nothing, Adept. And, furthermore, you will mention nothing of this to anyone, without my express permission." A new figure stepped from the shadows.
"Your authority does not reach that far," the hooded adept hissed. "I will report this, Inquisitor. You have over stepped your boundaries." The hooded adept turned and hurried away.
"What will we do?" the second figure asked, voice in a slight panic.
"There will be no trouble from him, Lord General." The other replied, before muttering into a hidden vox. From the darkest shadows, a dark figure, blacker than the blackness around it, detached itself and seemed to almost slighter along the wall, following the path of the adept.
"As I said, General, all will be fine."
"Sir," the Grenadier Captain, Timadea, said to Frayzar. They could hear the disciplined volleys and keening wail from the bridge, now only about half a mile away at most.
"I hear it. How fast can you press the Grenadier company?"
"How fast do you need?"
"Get there ten minutes ago, support Mc'Teger until the battalion moves up."
"That's always the problem with Heavy Infantry. Ever wished you joined the fusiliers?" Timadea asked with a chuckle.
"No, because then I'd be from Genethro Prime, and that city smells like the arse end of a sick grox." Frayzar returned the jest, also mocking the second greatest city on Garrowa for the sake of it.
"Grenadier Company, on me!" Timadea called out, and his men trouped to him. They were all tall, strong men, veterans one and all. The Grenadier and Light Companies were the only ones in Heavy battalions who did not receive replacements from fresh drafts. They drew theirs from Centre companies, so all their men were experienced soldier.
Timadea took a hellgun from one of Frayzar's colour party, and went off at the job for the bridge, whose upper stanchions were now wreathed in dark smoke from the battle bellow. Behind him, three hundred and sixty-two Grenadiers, ready for a fight, followed him, fixing bayonets as they went.
