The hanger was massive. Large enough that three whole hab-blocks could fit in it's space and still it wouldn't be full. A mix of dropships and gunships were perched on the deck with tech-priests and servitors clambering in, around, and over them like some form of parasite. Most of the crafts were already humming with life, their powerful engines washing onto the deck.
With las-gun in hand, Jvarn-along with Hayt and Kilm-jogged down the great expanse. Passing other dropships, they could see other Venites loading into them through open side doors. The bay was filling with the tide of dark blue uniforms that slowly trickled into dropships. Many prayed to the God-Emperor for protection. Spilling into their own dropship, the three troopers were met an empty dropship.
'Huh,' Hayt uttered simply as he looked back at the tide of Venites.
'The briefing must be taking longer than usual,' Kilm offered, sitting on the edge of a bench and leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Her brown hair, which normally reached her shoulder blades, was in a tight braid that started at her neck and went up under her beret at the top of her head.
'Could be,' Jvarn intoned as he took a seat next to Kilm, swinging his las-rifle onto his lap as he did. Noticing that the charge pack he had plucked from his bag was still clenched in his left hand, Lunk slid it into the weapon and heard it purr to life, it's machine-spirit happily awakened.
More troopers filed in from Eighth and Ninth Squads. Jvarn, Kilm, and Hayt were part of Ninth Squad. Each squad had a total of eight troopers with one marksman, one flamer, one medic, one vox-man, the sergeant, and three riflemen. All of Sixth Regiment were Veno VI born. All of them original troopers. All of them proudly wearing white berets.
Other Regiments' officers frowned upon the Venite berets because they weren't 'standard headgear' or were 'too visible'. These complaints usually died down the moment a Venite dropship hit surface and disgorged their passengers in the midst of a conflict, usually turning the tide in favor of the Imperium.
Glancing around the bay of the dropship, Jvarn saw the other troopers settling in. Taking a quick count, he realized that the only ones missing were the two Sergeants. Sergeant Fion of Ninth Squad and Sergeant Buik of Eighth Squad. Both were capable leaders and complemented each other nicely as Fion thought tactically and Buik thought brutally.
After a couple minutes, the two sergeants finally bounded onto the craft. The hatches were slid into place and locked, sealing the dropship from the outside environment. With doors sealed, the sergeants stepped to the middle of the bay. Fion had a data-slate in hand.
'Troopers, gather around!' Buik called out. Everyone was quick in doing what he said. Buik had a famously short temper.
'Alright troopers,' Fion began, 'the world we're going to is called Cailtan. It orbits a lone star, designation Nine-Point-Three-blah, blah, blah. What you need to know is that it is an ice planet with islands of 'soil' upon which their settlements are built.'
'So it's like Six, only frozen?' Hayt asked, his head titled slightly to the side.
'Correct,' Fion answered with a smile, his brown eyes-the same color as every other Venite's-seeming to sparkle at the question, 'No one exists in the ice wastelands and the large distance between the islands is one of the reasons why we were called in. The other reason being we were the closest.'
'Fok. Here I was thinking we were special,' remarked a trooper from the Eighth, causing some chuckling to ripple across the bay. With some shuddering, they all felt the dropship raise up and begin to move out of the hanger.
'Orbital picts show an assault underway on one of the settlements. The fly-boys plan to set us down in the midst of it. Hostiles, however, are simple Chaos cultists led by some upstart. Should be a beach walk,' Fion finished, stowing his data-slate in his thigh pocket and seating on a crash bench, 'Take your seats folks.'
The troopers obeyed and sat down at their spots on the crash benches, pulling the harnesses down over them. The vox was quiet with only a few mutterings between squad leaders about landing tactics. Jvarn found himself adjusting his beret as he felt the dropship moving out into the black sea and begin it's path to the planet. Looking over at Kilm, Jvarn saw that she had put her long-las between her legs and was sleeping soundly in her crash seat. Hayt, on the other side of Kilm, was affectionately rubbing his flamer, the packs at his feet.
Someone, Jvarn couldn't tell who, began to play music over the vox. It was the cry of a flute, soft and solemn as it rang out familiar notes.
'In the darkest hour of night,' began the troopers of the Six's Sixth, their voice mingling together to form one sound, 'they pack their bags. They march to fight, under the golden flags. Born to sail, heading to fight in the black seas. Never fail, they will be as brave as any Astartes.'
The flute seemed to wail as it went into a solo of fast flying notes. Jvarn noted with barely a thought that a single tear was rolling down his face and the faces of every trooper around him. Even Buik, the hardest Venite Jvarn has met, had a tear hanging from his eye.
'Regiments of Veno Six, heading off with nothing but picts. In the service of the Emperor, you will make our existence happier. When you are called to die, remember your cry. Puskai Veno. Puskai Imperiar.'
The vox melted to silence after the final notes of the flutes played. That song had been composed by a famous Venite flute/vocal duo and was played on the Founding Fields before the regiments were filed onto troop-ships. The song had been recorded by a few soldiers in the Sixth and was played before each and every mission. A lucky charm, of sorts, for the troopers.
By now, the troopers were being shaken in their seats by the fury of atmospheric re-entry. Jvarn sat in silence as he offered a prayer to the Emperor for not only his protection but the protection of his comrades. Though they had performed their lucky charm, only the God-Emperor could fully offer protection to the troopers and only He knew when that charm might fail.
Finishing his prayer, Jvarn noticed the lack of shaking. Anticipating the upcoming actions, he took his rebreather out of his belt pouch and slid it on. The white device covered his nose and mouth and began to feed him oxygen-rich air.
'Re-entry successful. All systems green. Open side-doors,' reported their pilot, safely tucked away in the cockpit.
'Opening side-doors,' Fion replied while motioning to Jvarn. Nodding, Jvarn removed his harness and stood up. Grabbing the overhead bar, he moved to the door and yanked down up on the locking lever. With the door unlocked, he looked back into the bay to see that both squads already had on their rebreathers. Looking across the bay, he nodded to the soldier from Eighth who stood by the other door. With a yank, the two slid their doors open, allowing the cold air to rush into the bay. Jvarn immediately began shivering.
'Fok! It's cold!' griped Teik, one of Jvarn's comrades in Ninth Squad.
'I don't know what you're talking about,' Hayt commented, chuckling as he got to his feet, flamer still in hand. Jvarn walked over and helped him get the pack settled on his back.
'It's cause you have that damned flame-hurler!' replied a trooper from Eighth, Gart was his name.
'What's wrong with that?' asked Vola, the Eighth's flamer. Though he tried to speak threateningly, the grin on his face informed everyone of his playful intentions.
'You think the Commissar is warm with all that hot-air he has?' came the voice of the pilot. Everyone laughed at that one. In the midst of laughing, Jvarn thanked the Emperor that they were on a private vox network for the drop. The laughter died when the pilot came back over the vox, worry in his voice.
'In the name of-Brace! Brace!'
Grabbing a handhold, Jvarn looked at the doors in vain of seeing what spooked the pilot. Not a second later, the craft shook with such violence that a trooper from Eighth was flung out of the open door. His screams were abruptly silenced by the wailing wind. Jvarn himself was slammed into the wall and found himself stuck there as outside forces acted on the craft.
'We're hit! We're hit!' screamed the pilot over the vox, 'Engine two is down, Engine one is overheating! We're going down! Six-Twelve is going down!'
As the pilot announced his demise over the vox, the spinning continued to increase, pushing Jvarn further and further into the wall. The wind howled in his ears and blood began to pool in his legs. His vision began to blur at the edges. With a scream that was prematurely cut off by the wind, another trooper was pulled from the craft's open doors.
A thud reached Jvarn's ears. An Eighth Squad trooper had just slammed into the bulkhead next to Lunk. The hit appeared to have knocked him out as he made no effort to grab onto anything. Reaching over, Lunk took a fistful of his jacket. An explosion sounded outside of the spinning craft.
'Engine one is gone! Rudders are non-responsive! Altitude: Twenty-seven thousand and dropping fast! Repeat, Six-Twelve is going down.'
Jvarn's vision had come to resemble a tunnel now with the dark walls closing in. He had to look directly at the trooper in his grasp to see him now as the world continued it's violent spinning. So it was this mission, Jvarn thought as the darkness closed in, it was this mission the charm failed. As the darkness finally filled his vision, Jvarn smirked at the irony of it all. A world opposite of their home would become their grave.