The supply depot sat on one of the auxiliary routes off the MSR which ran from east to west. Both vehicle gates, one on the western perimeter and the other on the eastern side, were flanked by two squad guard towers. Twin-linked Heavy Stubber barrels poked out from each one. Unlike a forward operating base, firebase, or other large outpost, the depot was protected by high steel fencing tipped with barbed wire instead of rockcrete walls.

  A repair shop, office building, a barracks, a subterranean fuel dump, a motor pool, and two large refueling stations were arrayed within the fences. All the lights were on, casting an amber and white aura over the camp and parts of the road. Figures clad in Flak Armor or other armor patterns patrolled the fences, stood in the towers, or guarded the facility entrances.

  But Walmsley Major guided his magnoculars to the eastern gate. Underneath the guard tower closest to their position was a bunker. From this angle and utilizing the Nighteye feature of his scope, he identified a Bombast Cannon. It was a conventional but highly effective artillery piece, capable of scattering infantry and knocking out vehicles.

  “We can’t bring in the Taurox Primes if that AT position sits there,” the platoon sergeant whispered to Marsh Silas.

  “I know, but we cannot stage the assault until our observation aircraft confirm the building with the hostages,” Marsh said back without lowering his scope.

  During the briefing, Marsh had planned to stage a two pronged attack on the depot. The infantry would circle around to the west and attack the weaker gate Namgung and his platoon of Taurox Primes would smash through the eastern gate. The sharp nature of the attack would surprise the defenders and divert them in two directions. Unable to bring their strength to bear, they would become easy targets. Bloody Platoon would then swiftly clear out the facilities and secure the hostages.

  Although the briefing acknowledged the bunker’s presence, it did not denote what kind of armaments it possessed. An anti-tank position directly on the path they needed their armored support to advance along would result in needless casualties or negate their armored support entirely. Artillery support was on standby but a direct fire mission against the bunker would alert the defenders and endanger the hostages.

  Walmsley Major raised his magnoculars again and studied the southern fence. They were over two hundred meters away from it, prone on a berm, waiting for the confirmation from their supporting aircraft. The barracks and garage were on this side of the depot. Both were large buildings with many storage containers around them. Only a single guard patrolled back and forth along the fence and the tall, industrial lights which bathed the camp were not directed at it.

  “Sir, that fence is a perfect blind spot,” Walmsley Major said.

  “I see it. What do you reckon; a small team?”

  “Aye. I’ll take a few men in, neutralize the patrol, take out the sentry tower, and then hit the bunker.”

  “It’ll be loud. We don’t want to trigger the assault too soon.”

  “If we time it right, the column can smash through the gate moments after we take out the bunker.”

  Marsh Silas was silent for a time. Walmsley Major looked over at his commanding officer and friend. Past him was the rest of Bloody Platoon. Every single one was prone on the crest of the berm, their helmets bearing Nighteye Goggles. Each one was studying the target area. A small team at the rear pulled security while skirmishers guarded their flanks.

  He knew the platoon leader was thinking of the hostages but also the risks to the platoon itself. This was not cowardice or anxiety. Walmsley Major had known Marsh Silas since they were Whiteshields—the man recognized the costs. The Cadian Knight truly learned that after enduring the Siege of Kasr Sonnen. But he was not going to risk or spend their lives frivolously. That was a part of his glorious vision of a better Imperium; commanders, from the highest generals to the newest platoon leaders, were going to hold the lives of their soldiers in greater respect. They had a responsibility to ensure their lives were not given up for an unjust cause or vanity, pride, and arrogance, or born from the idiotic, mindless traditional tactics employed by fossil generals. He trusted Marsh Silas with his life.

  “The timing must be right. Who do you want with you?” Marsh finally asked.

  “Tattersall, I can post him in the tower with his Hotshot Marksman Rifle. Clivvy, too; the Auspex will be useful in avoiding enemies. Crazy Stück for breaching.”

  “Not MacNile or Seaver?”

  “Stück will do, he’s good in a fight.”

  “You know they don’t call him Crazy Stück for nothing.”

  “The man’s half-mad, but he’s a solid Breacher—”

  “No, he’s just mad. Completely, utterly, fucking mad.”

  “—which is why I want him with me in case the situation goes poorly. And give me Tatum. The Heavy Flamer will clear the bunker quickly.”

  “Very well. Take my Ripper Pistol.

  “Sir, it’s my duty as the platoon sergeant to remind you that this is your trusted sidearm. It would be a serious mistake to allocate such an important weapon to your second,” Walmsley chided.

  “Take it,” Marsh snorted. “I still have the shotgun.” Although he did not always take it with him, Marsh still owned Barlocke’s Lathe-pattern custom shotgun. It was a very sturdy weapon, with an eight-round rotary magazine and black metalworking. Marsh Silas had further modified the weapon, replacing its rigid wooden stock with a metal system that could extend or retract. He also added rails on either side of the stock and along the top, outfitting it with a lamp-pack, infrared laser and illuminator device, and a reflex sight. To top it off, he adapted the barrel to carry a sound suppressor. The weapon was not as quiet as his Ripper Pistol, but it was still effective in outdoor environments such as this.

  Walmsley Major put down his magnoculars and slid further back. On the right side of Marsh’s chestplate of Carapace Armor was the leather holster. He carefully removed it and attached it to his own webbing, followed by the pouch of magazines.

  He returned to his scope and studied the patrolling sentry. The traitor, although slow, was alert. His head swiveled from side to side as he gazed through the fence. Walmsley Major knew they would have to approach swiftly and dispatch him before they breached the fence. After learning the guard’s pattern, he turned on his micro-bead and called for the team to assemble on his position.

  “Eyes on the sparkle,” Marsh said. Walmsley Major looked again; in the dull green of the Nighteye feature, a cone-shaped infrared light shone from high in the sky. The observation aircraft was circling overhead and its Auspex Array had pinpointed the prisoners. Now, using infrared illumination, they highlighted the office building. “That’s it. Time to move. Walmsley, I’m counting on you.”

  “Won’t let you down, sir.”

  “And brother, be careful,” Marsh followed up. Walmsley Major smirked and the duo locked hands.

  “I’ll try, sir,” the platoon sergeant said with a wink.

  Walmsley Major waited until the majority of Bloody Platoon slithered to the bottom of the berm and, moving at a half-crouch, headed west. Clivvy, Tatum, Tattersall, and Crazy Stück remained. He explained his plan quickly. “We will not be going loud unless it is absolutely necessary, am I understood Stück?” he ended with.

  “Why am I being singled out?” he pouted.

  “Listen to your war name and make a guess,” Clivvy hissed.

  “Noise discipline,” Walmsley Major ordered. He took one last look with his magnoculars. The guard passed the point he wanted to breach and moved down the line. “Follow me.”

  All five Kasrkin stood and ran towards the camp. Despite the weight of their Carapace Armor and weapons, they moved quietly. They weaved and leaped around bushes and scrub grass. Upon Walmsley’s signal, they each hid behind vegetation while he crawled up to the fence. The guard was marching back. From his undisturbed posture and gait, Walmsley knew he hadn’t seen them move. He didn’t have any night vision equipment either—another boon for the Kasrkin.

  He waited until the sentry was about two meters away. Walmsley aimed the Ripper Pistol and feathered the trigger three times. Two armor-piercing rounds penetrated his chestplate and a third went through the front of his helmet. The man crumpled over. Whirling around, Walmsley waved for the others to approach.

  Crazy Stück took out his breaching tool. The modified blowtorch produced a quieter but just as effective flame as a normal tool. Igniting it, he drew the flame horizontally along the lower part of the fence, then brought it up vertically on the right, and back across. Superheated metal glowed white-hot, leaving a burning, incomplete square in the chain links. Stück stowed the blowtorch then grabbed the cutting by the center. He peeled it back slowly, clearing the space so the others could slip through.

  Walmsley Major was the first in, carefully stepping over the severed chain links. He swept the pistol back and forth, checking both his flanks. The others followed one by one and each assumed a position among the crates behind the garage to cover the approaches. No sentires appeared. Clivvy hid the body in a dark corner where a container was pressed against the side of the building.

  Once Crazy Stück was through, Walmsley Major led them down the path to their right. He checked the corner of the garage and found it clear. From this vantage, he viewed the chain link gate was shut. Two guards were standing in the middle of the road, talking to one another over lho-sticks. One wore piecemeal Flak Armor while the other was equipped with a silver cuirass of an unknown pattern. Neither seemed as concerned as the sentry the team just eliminated. Beyond them, there were a few sentires standing guard around the office building.

  Up in the tower were two guards, one watching the road with magnoculars while the other was adjusting the sights on the twin-linked Heavy Stubber. Below the tower was another guard leaning on the fence which was covered with a large armored plate. Built into this wall was a heavy blast entrance which was locked.

  “Oh, they had a door the whole time,” Crazy Stück whispered. “It would have been more polite to knock.”

  “That guard would’ve…” Walmsley shook his head. “...just shut up and listen. Tatum, Clivvy, hold back and cover us. I’ll eliminate the sentry at the door, Tattersall, Stück, you two neutralize the tower. You need to do it without alerting those watchmen in the other tower or on the road. Do you want the pistol?”

  “Nah, I don’t need no gun, just my hands,” Crazy Stück replied.

  “Emperor, give me strength,” Walmsley said to himself. He checked his left one more time. No guards moved or looked in their direction. “Go.”

  He moved along the fence, keeping out of the lights. Walmsley kept his pistol trained on his target. The traitor was idly smoking and looking down at the ground. Once he was adjacent to him, Walmsley moved two steps at a time towards him, using the shadows along the fence as concealment. But the shadows ended a meter and a half away from the sentry.

  Walmsley squeezed the trigger. Thunk. A single round struck the heretic in the head. As he fell, Walmsley Major darted forward, grabbed the body, and dragged it back into darkness. Crouching next to a trio of promethium drums, he checked his surroundings again. Crazy Stück and Tattersall were out of sight. None of the guards took notice of the movement.

  Calmer, Walmsley activated his micro-bread. “Enemy down. What’s your status?” There was no reply. He felt sweat dribble down his neck and back. “Tattersall? Stück? Report.” Walmsley looked at the tower. His violet eyes widened. In the light of his Nighteye Goggles, Walmsley watched as one of the traitors stood at the railing of the tower and waved. The platoon sergeant raised the pistol to shoot, but then noticed a head pop out from behind the person.

  Stück was holding the corpse up by his neck and, clutching the arm, waving the hand back and forth himself. Walmsley immediately activated his micro-bead. “Stück, you fucking fool, put the corpse down and report in when I hail you,” he hissed. Tattersall appeared beside Stück, shoved him away, and let the body drop.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “We’re all clear, the guards in the other tower haven’t noticed, they’re too busy watching the road,” he said over the link.

  “Roger. I’ll search this body for keys to that door.”

  He patted the corpse down, examined the belt, and turned every pocket inside out. There was no key ring. Walmsley Major remained calm. It was just a snag—every mission had snags and Kasrkin always overcame them. “Negative on the keys.”

  “The C-CAS should be enough to penetrate that door’s latch” Clivvy said over the micro-bead.

  “Timing is everything. Let me talk to the Six.” He switched off from the team link and to the platoon network. “Red Six, this is Red Seven.”

  “Send traffic, Red Seven.”

  “We are in position to move on to the bunker. Need to go loud, over.”

  “Roger, Red Seven. I’ll notify the column to breach the camp. As soon as you have eyes on the convoy, go loud. They’ll be moving fast, over.”

  “Red Seven copies, over and out.” He keyed back over to the team net. “Clivvy, Tatum, on me. Tattersall, monitor the road and notify me when you have eyes on the convoy.”

  He advanced back to the door and stacked up behind Clivvy, who shouldered her Mk. 2 Hellgun for the Cadian-pattern Compact Assault Shotgun. It was a smaller, cut-down version of the standard pattern but still possessed the powerful four gauge round. Every Recon Trooper in the platoon carried it as a secondary weapon for close quarters combat and door breaching.

  Walmsley listened for the sound of approaching engines, but heard nothing. He checked Slate-monitron on his left armguard. It was almost zero hour. The night was especially quiet.

  “What do you have on the readout?” Walmsley whispered to Clivvy.

  “Six hostiles within the bunker; three for the gun, three for security and ammo-bearing.” She smirked over her shoulder. “Barely a fight.” Walmsley nodded in return. Clivvy had risen from Whiteshield to Shock Trooper to Kasrkin in just a few years; her confidence had grown with every promotion. He was grateful to the Emperor for having such a brave soldier with him.

  “Eyes on the convoy,” Tattersall reported. Walmsley tapped Clivvy on her shoulder plate. She stepped forward and put two shells through the latch, then kicked. Above them, Tattersall fired on the two alerted guards standing in the road with his Hotshot Marksman Rifle. Two sharp, red lasbolts cut cleaved their heads from their shoulders.

  Walmsley Major tore through the doorway, finding himself behind the bunker. The pit beside them was filled with the Bombast Cannon’s ammunition. One of the occupants came out with his autogun and fired several times. Clivvy fired the third round in her shotgun which tore a massive chunk in the traitor’s chestplate and sent him toppling back inside the bunker.

  “Frag out!” Walmsley yelled as he lobbed a grenade through the open entrance. A detonation thudded inside and they heard screams. “Now, Tatum!”

  The Lance Sergeant approached the entryway, leveled his Heavy Flamer, and squeezed. With a roar, a jet of fire flooded the interior. Screams from within quickly faded. Orange flames flooded out of the firing ports and even came flying through the vent on the rooftop. “With me! To the other tower!”

  Walmsley led the pair back into camp. Stück had repositioned the enemy’s twin-linked Heavy Stubber and was now raking the camp interior with automatic fire. Traitor Guardsmen who rushed out of the barracks were swept aside. Explosions blossomed at the western gate as rockets destroyed the two towers. During his run, Walmsley saw Arnold Yoxall brave enemy fire as he ran up to the gate, destroyed the lock with his Inferno Pistol, and pushed them open. Wreathed by flames, Bloody Platoon rushed in and split in two directions, one element going right and the other left. Streams of heavy red lasbolts tore through the depot. Dozens of the surprised traitors were caught in the open as they ran to their positions and were killed.

  Above him, the enemy gunner trained the Heavy Stubber down on him. Walmsley aimed his Hotshot Volleygun and unleashed a barrage of rapid-fire lasbolts. The concentrated beams pierced the thin, prefabricated armor plating and decimated the gunner, who dropped away. Clivvy lobbed a grenade into the tower. Before it detonated, the other occupant jumped out. When he landed and drew his pistol, he was engulfed in a fireball from Tatum’s Heavy Flamer.

  A horn caught Walmsley’s attention. He led his two comrades off the road as the Taurox Primes crashed through the gate. The pintle-mounted Storm Bolters suppressed Traitor Guardsmen occupying fighting pits and sandbag redoubts. One of those equipped with a Taurox Battle Cannon trained the cannon low and put a shell into a sandbag position at nearly point-blank range. The defenders were cast aside like leaves in the breeze.

  “Red Seven, Red Six!” Marsh yelled over the micro-bead. “Regroup at the Administratum office!”

  Walmsley sprinted with Clivvy and Tatum. A squad-size element of Traitor Guardsmen emerged from around the offices. Those armed with lasguns fired on them while two rocketeers aimed at the convoy. Skidding to a stop, he raised his Volley Gun once more and fired. The torrent of lasbolts cut through them, pulverizing legs, severing arms, opening stomachs. Those who watched their comrades die turned to run but were not fast enough. Naught was left but blackened meat.

  As the trio continued running, the twelve Taurox Primes parked right on the road. Turrets and pintle-mounted weapons swiveled, bombarding buildings and enemy positions alike. Kasrkin ran towards the objective building and formed up on the entrance. Walmsley caught up with Marsh and fell in behind him. “Walmsley, well done,” Marsh said over his shoulder.

  “Thanks me once we get those boys outta there,” Walmsley replied. Marsh just snorted. The platoon assembled on either side of the entrance. Walmsley and Marsh were leading on the right side.

  “Execute!” Marsh yelled. Across from him, Staff Sergeant Werner kicked the door open and stepped back. Marsh went first, and Walmsley was right behind him. Before he was even through the door, he was shocked to hear Marsh Silas’s order, “hold fire!”

  Walmsley checked his corner and drew forward on Marsh’s left side. In front of him were dozens of promethium barrels laced with explosive charges. Scattered among them, with similar explosives strapped to their bodies, were the prisoners. All were blindfolded and bound, some to chairs, others to the barrels. Standing in the center of the lobby was one of the Traitor Guardsmen. He wore studded Flak Armor with the Eight-Pointed Star painted on the front. He wore a balaclava but his bright yellow eyes were visible. His gaze was wide and deranged.

  “Yes, hold your fire!” he sneered, then held up the detonator. “Unless you wish to join the conflagration.”

  Walmsley Major turned around and stopped the tide of Kasrkin pouring through the doorway. When he looked back, the traitor was staring at Marsh Silas. The platoon leader gazed grimly back at him. He did not even look phased by the sight before him. Checking his surroundings briefly, the traitor pointed the detonator at him. “You. You are the one they call Marsh Silas?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Very good. He said you were coming.”

  “Who told you?” Marsh asked, lowering his Hellpistol. “Who is the rat who steals from us?”

  “Now, now, you know I cannot answer that,” the traitor said. “You and I must have a chat, though.”

  Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder.

  “Everyone, get out,” he said.

  “Sir, we cannot leave you or the prisoners,” Werner whispered behind him.

  “There will be a resolution to this matter, Staff Sergeant, one way or another.” Marsh looked over his shoulder and smiled kindly. “If this ends another way, I do not wish you to share in this death with me. Go now, please.”

  His voice was gentle and fatherly. Werner attempted to protest further, as did other men, but Marsh Silas resisted. The men finally acquiesced and filtered out. “You too, Walmsley.”

  “No.”

  “Go,” he whispered.

  “Fuck you.”

  Marsh just cocked his head slightly and turned his attention back to the traitor.

  “What do you want from us, heretic?”

  “I want your weapons placed at my feet, then your entire force to stand down and allow me to leave. You will not follow me. If you agree to these conditions, I will give you the hostages.”

  “But not the detonator?”

  “It is my guarantee that I may leave alive.”

  “You will just activate the explosives as soon as you leave. I won’t agree to those conditions.”

  The conversation continued. Walmsley Major’s eyes drifted throughout the room. The Astra Militarum and Adeptus Administratum personnel sitting among the explosions were trembling. Every breath was heated and heavy. He couldn’t tell if he was shaking, too.

  They had to do something. There were other entrances, the other troopers could infiltrate through another part of the building and shoot the traitor from behind. Did they have time? Throne, this was a simple prefabricated structure, a grown-man could throw his weight against the wall and bust through! Would the discussion go wrong in the next moment and he’d see nothing but a sheet of fire before his soul joined the Emperor’s Celestial Army?

  There was a blip on his Slate-monitron. He watched a green dot move around the left side of the building. It stopped along the wall perpendicular to Walmsley and Marsh’s position. Gazing at the wall, it appeared the Kasrkin who moved there was next to an open window.

  “Cobb here, I’m deploying Freya through the window,” the canid handler relayed over the links. “Get ready.”

  The canid suddenly shot through the window and bolted towards the traitor. He whirled around with his pistol to fire. Marsh and Walmsley both sprinted towards him while Cobb smashed through the thin walls. Freya’s jaws latched onto his arm and the man started screaming. Walmsley caught his wrist and pried the detonator out of his hands. Marsh and Cobb both held his shooting arm, keeping it up in the air so he didn’t hit one of the barrels.

  Walmsley backed off, followed by Marsh who pulled away with the gun. The traitor stumbled over. Freya let go of his arm, dove at his neck, and bit. Flesh tore and blood leaked on the floor. Moments later, the struggle form became a twitching corpse. Cobb dragged Freya away from the body; her muzzle was stained red from blood.

  “Cobb, well done. Same for that mutt, too,” Walmsley said kindly. He handed the detonator to Marsh Silas, who was staring at the body. “Sir?”

  “We should have taken him alive. Under interrogation, he may have revealed the spy.” His sharp, violet gaze settled on Cobb and Freya. He started to speak but Walmsley grabbed his arm.

  “Sir, the dog and the kid just saved twenty lives and us. It ain’t the right time.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” Marsh breathed. “Cobb?”

  “Yes, sir?” Cobb looked up expectantly with Freya.

  “Good work.” His gaze shifted to the dog. “Both of you.” Cobb beamed happily while Freya happily tilted her head to the side.

  Pounding footsteps behind them caused the three Kasrkin to turn. Drummer Boy appeared in the door and pointed towards the eastern gate.

  “Sir, enemy armor approaching!”

  Walmsley and Marsh were at the gate a moment later. Both raised their magnoculars. Coming down the road were captured Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks bearing their standard camouflage patterns but had eight-pointed stars painted on the sides of the turret. Goliath trucks and even a few Chimera APCs were behind the tanks.

  “By the Emperor, none of the reports indicated armor in the area!” Marsh exclaimed. He grabbed the handset from Drummer Boy’s Clarion Vox Array. “Sledge Three, Sledge Three, this is Red Six, adjust fire…what do you mean fire missions have been canceled for this AO? What do you mean? There are no friendly units outside the target area! Who told you otherwise? Sledge Three, I am looking at enemy armor coming right at me…”

  “Sir, we have another transmission coming from HQ,” Drummer Boy said. “It’s Major Haight.”

  Marsh keyed the handset over and listened.

  “Roger that, many thanks.” He looked over his shoulder. “Haight got us some fast-movers, they’re on their way.”

  Before Bloody Platoon even finished establishing a new perimeter, Thunderbolts tore through the night sky. Wing-mounted bombs and Hellstrike Missiles bombarded the enemy convoy. The aircraft strafed them again with Lascannons and Autocannons. In a matter of minutes, the enemy convoy was reduced to flaming scrap.

  “That would have been bad,” Walmsley Major breathed. “We weren’t ready for them at all. Throne, where did they come from?”

  “I care not,” Marsh seethed. “Right now, we need to disarm those explosives. Get our Breachers on it. Then, we need to figure out who canceled our artillery support. Get to it, Walmsley, if you please.”