The Valkyrie shuddered momentarily and banked slightly. Warrant Sergeant Honeycutt and the other occupants shifted in their seats. One of the door gunners shouted something and fired his Heavy Bolter in long bursts. Seconds later, the other gunner started shooting. Despite the roar of the engines, the rapid ringing of bullets against the aircraft’s hull was still audible. Soon, there were dull thuds reverberating against the armor plates as flak guns targeted the formaton.
Yet, the Kasrkin inside did not appear perturbed. Everyone remained calm and still. All the usual physical ticks the men displayed as they clandestinely approached their objective—bouncing legs, drumming fingers, nodding heads—were absent as the enemy made their presence known. The waiting period these veterans despised was no longer a factor; the fighting had already begun and their minds were focused on upcoming tasks. This was the true steel of the Kasrkin.
Even Freya the canid, fixed to the deck at Cobb’s feet, was undeterred by incoming rounds thundering against the hull or the flak exploding in the air. Cornelius sat up straight with his hands crossed on his chest, making the Sign of the Aquila as he prayed. Walmsley Major rested his head against the hull and appeared so relaxed it seemed as though he were asleep. Babcock had an arm wrapped around the unfurled flag of Bloody Platoon. He whispered to it, then raised the end and kissed it. Etched upon the white spaces between the green cross’s arms, in small golden fields were the names of every battle, operation, and campaign the platoon served in since the formation of the 1333rd Regiment. Another name will be added after today, Honeycutt thought.
3rd Platoon had run into heavy resistance en route to the next compound of the Traitor Guardsmen bearing the blue mark. Worse yet, another element of the same traitors arrived and were attacking them on another side. Pinned down since last night on a hilltop below an even higher peak, they were suffering a heavy mortar barrage and withering fire from the elevated position. Their Taurox Primes, which could negotiate some of the harshest gradients, had been cut off and suffered their own ambush in the valley below. The vehicles simply could not cover the ground fast enough to reach Gabler and her Kasrkin.
Marsh Silas’s prediction that a QRF was necessary for the mission proved to be a wise decision. Bloody Platoon was rapidly approaching the target area and planned to drop right into the thick of the fighting to relieve their comrades.
“Sir, it’s Major Rosenfeld on the link,” Drummer Boy said to Marsh Silas, who was sitting between Honeycutt and the Voxman. The platoon leader took the handset and slid it up into his helmet. Bloody Platoon’s inter and extra-platoon communications were already open. Any transmission could be overheard by their helmets internal, encrypted micro-bead.
“Red Six,” Marsh said.
“Avalanche Six to Red Six; advise that you abort. We don’t want to risk unnecessary casualties when one platoon is sufficient for this kind of engagement, over.”
Honeycutt saw Marsh’s expression darken. The platoon leader’s fingers tightened around the handset.
“Avalanche Six, we are less than ten minutes out from joining the platoon. I cannot and will not cancel this mission. They need our help, over.”
“Red Six, we do not want to risk losing a flight of Valkyries for one platoon, over.”
Marsh Silas glanced at Honeycutt. He smiled confidently, rolled his eyes, and shook his head.
“Avalanche Six, you won’t lose any birds nor will you lose a platoon. Bloody Platoon won’t let that happen, over.”
The conversation paused. Both Heavy Bolters continued to rattle away like rapidly slipping metal chains. Bullets rang against the hull as the VTOL banked again. A burst of high caliber rounds shot through the bottom of the compartment by Walmsley Major’s feet. Nonchalantly, the platoon sergeant raised his head, peered at the five holes next to his boots, and then leaned his head back. Another burst busted the deck by Babcock while a third smashed through the hull by his shoulder. Ricocheting rounds and bits of metal flew and settled across the flooring. Streams of light flooded through the new holes.
“Wow, these fellows sure can shoot!” the color sergeant laughed.
“Red Six, this is Haight,” came the next transmission. “Recommend you abort. The traitors are drawing more AA assets to the AO and a third force is about to hit Avalanche Three. You’ll be fighting on three sides, two of which are elevated positions. Repeat: abort now, over.”
“Thanks for the tip, Haight,” Marsh said calmly, “Bloody Platoon always appreciates a target rich environment, over.”
“You’re all mad, over and out.”
“I figured that’d shut them up,” Marsh said after quickly securing the channel between his and Honeycutt’s helmet links. “If they didn’t want us to go out, they should have relayed the order before dust off.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped us, anyway,” Honeycutt said.
“True, but it would have been far more polite,” Marsh said before flipping back to the extra-Vox connection. Honeycutt believed in Marsh’s confidence but he knew his commander’s strength was moderated by preparation. Marsh Silas only took his Mk. 2 Hellgun if he believed they would enter a tough battle.
The Valkyrie shook violently as a bursting shell of flak caught it behind the cockpit. Honeycutt and the others were jostled around in their harnesses. One of the gunners screamed as he fell back. Before Marsh Silas issued a command, Honeycutt was already out of his seat. He slid up to the wounded gunner; his hand was hanging off by a few tendons. Fingers were missing and the palm was flensed so severely the broken bones were visible. Dangling from the arm, it appeared more like an empty glove than a human appendage. Blood seeped from the partially amputated wrist.
Honeycutt only glanced at the other gunner. He was slumped over his Heavy Bolter, a massive hole in the side of his flight helmet. Blood, brain, and bits of skull were plastered to the fuselage. Marsh Silas ran up, carefully removed the body, racked the weapon, and resumed firing.
The medic took a case off his belt marked, ‘Martyr’s Gift Field Service Medi-Kit.’ First, he applied a tourniquet to the gunner’s upper arm and clamped it down. His patient groaned as it tightened. Then, he injected him with pain nullifiers from a prepared syringe. Such medication was far more effective than the basic chemicals afford to line regiments. Within moments, the gunner sighed in relief and tilted his head back. Next, Honeycutt drew a pair of surgical scissors. There was no saving the hand even if it was still connected by some sinews; the wrist and the bones inside his palm were naught but powder. He cut the remaining tendons and the gunner groaned through gritted teeth despite the medication.
The hand dropped onto the deck. Honeycutt reached back into his kit and pulled out the thermic gel canister. He applied it to the wrist and with much searing, the application cauterized the open wound. When it finished, the gunner released a deep, exasperated breath. The medic quickly dressed the grisly stump. He knew he had spare, single-use bionics he could quickly apply, but he did not want to spend such valuable assets on a door gunner who wouldn’t be participating in the action below.
Once the dressing was secure, he cut away the sleeve with a different pair of scissors. There were four superficial shrapnel wounds to the muscle of his forearm. A fifth was too close to the artery for his liking. By the Emperor’s blessing, these were not too deep. Drawing his forceps, he clamped them around the metal and yanked. After extracting the five larger pieces, he took out his tweezers and pinched out the smaller bits which pricked the patient’s flesh. None of the wounds were large enough for sutures, so he applied a dressing and wrapped it.
“You’re good now!” Honeycutt shouted as he tapped the gunner on the side of his head.
“My thanks, Kasrkin,” the gunner wheezed. More flak exploded in the air, bracketing the aircraft. He pointed at the Heavy Bolter. Honeycutt packed up his kit before going to the gunner’s position. Below the formation of Valkyries and Vulture gunships were a series of ridges and hilltops. Clumps of trees, gnarly formations of rocks, and many hedges and shrubs characterized the slopes. Lines of white, yellow, red, and green tracers whizzed up from countless positions. Colorful clouds that looked like puffs of dust appeared, sending out deep shocks. These were the different flak shells used by the gun crews to mark their fire—Cadian equipment!
All the gunships rose in elevation and unleashed barrages of rockets against identified positions. Columns of tan sand and brown earth rose into the air. Meanwhile, the Valkyries dropped their altitude to get under the enemy’s guns. They were nearly contour flying through the gorges and passes. But the various heights were so varied in elevation that no matter where the transports turned they were constantly under fire.
Honeycutt racked the Heavy Bolter and took aim. He saw little figures moving along the crest of a ridge. Leading the targets, he squeezed the trigger and let off a long burst. The bolts detonated along the trail, casting up waves of sand. As it settled, there were no more enemies.
He scanned for more targets. A pair of Vultures worked their way up the same ridge. Rockets slammed into crags where muzzle flashes appeared. Red Multi-laser streaks lanced the hilltops, scattering enemies from their prepared positions. The pilots bravely fought through the anti-air gauntlets, enduring heavy fire to knock out enemy positions. These were no ordinary crews; these were the men and women of the 292nd Special Operations Aviation Wing, an elite unit of the Aeronautica Imperialis. With a diverse fleet of aircraft from gunships to stealth transports, they directly supported the 10th Kasrkin Regiment’s operations and often conveyed its three air mobile companies to battle. The handling of their aircraft was deft, precise, and gallant in any engagement. To have such an intimate view of them in this moment, hectic as it was, Honeycutt felt great awe.
Honeycutt spotted a pair of traitors near some trees preparing to fire a missile launcher. He squeezed the triggers but he aimed too high. The heavy burst struck one of the trees halfway up. As he realigned the sights, he saw the treetop tremble, then snap. The bolts had pummeled it enough to break through the trunk! Amid a burst of branches, the treetop fell on top of the traitors before they could escape. Honeycutt grinned.
Suddenly, the ground pulled away. The Valkyrie rose over a high, high ridge and banked hard once again. Honeycutt leaned out and realized they were approaching the drop zone. It was like looking at one of the dioramas back at Fort Carmine. Gabler and 3rd Platoon’s hilltop sat at the base of a much higher hill to their north with a steep ridge to their east. The western gradient was so severe it was nearly a sheer drop. To the south were smaller, softer hills but they were densely packed with trees, bushes, and rocks.
Gabler had arranged 3rd platoon in a semicircle from the north perimeter all the way to the west. From the north, the traitors launched mortar strikes and raked the position with automatic fire. With each fusillade they covered the approach of small, fast moving teams of attackers who bounced from cover to cover. These assaulters covered their advance with smoke grenades and sharp bursts of laser fire. On the western ridge, Hydra Flak Batteries filled the air with shells while snipers, rocketeers, and machine gunners pummeled 3rd Platoon. Not yet engaged, more Traitor Guardsmen filtered through the terrain of the southern hills towards the Imperial position.
“By the God-Emperor upon Holy Terra, I wish you boys in the back could see this great big pile o’ shit!” the pilot exclaimed through the platoon’s micro-beads.
“And you’re taking us right over that pile of shit, pilot. You have a problem with that?” Marsh Silas growled over the comms. But the pilot just laughed madly.
“What Valkyrie jockey hasn’t dreamed of flying through a storm like this!? Hold onto your sacks, Kasrkin, we’re going to fucking war!”
The Valkyrie increased in speed and began a wide banking maneuver parallel to the eastern ridge. Honeycutt squeezed the trigger and held it down. One, long stream of Heavy Bolter shells tore across the enemy positions. Traitors fled their fighting holes, others dove for cover. He hit one of the Hydra Flak turrets so heavily the armor plating crumpled and the piece collapsed on itself. But rounds continued to hammer the side of the Valkyrie. Clouds of flak burst right in front of Honeycutt’s side and shrapnel thudded into the armor.
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Soon, the ridge slipped out of sight and Honeycutt fired down on the mortar positions. The bow-mounted Multi-laser and rockets had already damaged the enemy position moderately. Honeycutt further barraged it. Mortar crews vacated to other positions for cover. But they were firmly embedded among the rocks, brush, and fighting holes they had dug. They would not give it up. The turn was ending soon and Honeycutt focused fire on one of the mortar pits. Just as they pulled away, the ammunition stores detonated. Secondary explosions rocked several of the enemy positions, casting soil and stone in all directions.
The pilot turned their aircraft so Honeycutt was facing the west. There were no targets but he heard Marsh Silas open fire on the eastern ridge. In the valley below, the Taurox Primes defended themselves from the ambush. Honeycutt watched, once more finding it akin to a diorama. Huge waves of enemy infantry threw themselves at the vehicles. But the APCs still had some room to maneuver. Forming lines of battle, the Taurox Primes combined their pintle-mounted firepower with their hull-mounted lasers and autocannons. Lines of traitors dropped at once. Vulture gunships buzzed overhead, shielding the convoy with walls of rockets.
A large explosion on the eastern ridge caught Honeycutt’s attention. He turned and looked past Marsh’s shoulder.. One detonation led to another as the gathered ammunition for the Hydra Flak Batteries blew up. Clouds of dust and fire blossomed all along the ridge and the dust cloud buffeted the Valkyrie.
“That’ll show those fuckers who owns the sky!” the pilot chimed. But Marsh Silas turned around determinedly. Some of his blonde locks escaped his helmet and flowed with the wind coming through the open gunner’s hatch. With his weapon up in one hand, his hand on the side of his helm, and his expression stoic, he walked to the center of the compartment.
“Enough is enough; let us join our Cadian brothers below and defeat these vile traitors,” he said. “We will fight on the ground, as men are meant to fight.”
“Affirmative! Hope you fellas don’t mind a little jump!”
Honeycutt saw Marsh Silas smirk.
“Bloody Platoon, we will not be touching down. Prepare to jump.”
All the occupants in the compartment stood up. Before Honeycutt left the gunner’s position, he watched the other Valkyries bearing the rest of the platoon line up behind their VTOL. The descent was rapid and he checked his Mk. 2 one last time. “Follow me!” Marsh yelled as the ramp dropped.
Honeycutt and the others jumped from about two meters off the ground. The sound of so many Valkyrie engines right over his head momentarily drowned out the noise. As soon as they drew away, the cacophony of laser weapons, Heavy Stubbers, and autoguns resumed.
Honeycutt followed his platoon leader as they navigated through the position. 3rd Platoon had blasted all the trees to allow the Valkyries to land and create cover for themselves. Many had dug fighting holes behind the fallen trunks for added cover. Others were taking cover in rock formations either crouching behind them or lying prone between the boulders. Falling mortars left shallow craters everywhere while heavier shells left deeper impacts; so many had fallen it looked more like a barren, lunar landscape.
Marsh yelled directions as they ran. Walmsley Major calmly walked across the battlefield, directing Kasrkin to weak points in the stretched out line. Hellguns thundered, creating sheets of rapid-fire lasbolts. Eventually, the command squad reached Gabler’s CP: a natural depression in the center of the hill hemmed in by rocks and fallen trees.
Gabler walked right up to Marsh Silas and grabbed his hand.
“Welcome to Hill 277!” She greeted him.
“Shall we dispense with the tour?” Marsh joked back.
“I’m concentrating my people on the north, that’s where the majority of their infantry is coming from, but I placed my assault gunners on the right to suppress the snipers.
“You’ve got more enemy infantry coming from the south!”
“Alright then!” she cheered, slamming her fist into her palm. “If you please, Knight-Lieutenant, displace your men to the west but concentrate in the south. We will absorb their attacks while we call for more air support.”
“You don’t want to evacuate?”
“Throne, I’m not giving this hill up for anybody! I figure if we can’t hit their compound, we can draw as many as we can into the open and kill them here. The more we kill now, the less manpower they’ll have in wider missions.”
“I’m with you Gabler!” Marsh Silas assured her, and the two locked hands once again.
“Where’s your wounded!?” Honeycutt asked her, stepping closer. Gabler pointed to the bottom of the depression.
As Marsh dispatched his orders, Honeycutt slid to the bottom. There were no dead bodies but seven men were hurt. Their senior medic was already treating their wounds along with one of the squad medics. Wordlessly, Honeycutt opened his kit and got to work, seamlessly supporting his comrades.
One of the Kaskrin’s feet was amputated and his calf was shredded. Honeycutt inspected it briefly, then tapped the trooper on his helmet. “You want to get back in the fight?” he asked.
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“I’ve got a bionic ready to go, but I need to get your calf off. Think you can handle that?”
“With some nullifiers, I can.”
Honeycutt gathered the other medics. They injected him, removed his leg armor, cut away the pant leg, applied a tourniquet, and held him down. The medic procured his saw and started cutting. Despite the medication, the Kasrkin screamed loudly as flesh, bone, arteries, and nerves were all severed. Once the calf was off, thermic gel was applied and it cauterized the wound. Then, they attached the single-use bionic.
The design was rudimentary compared to true limb replacements Kasrkin and other Imperial soldiers were afforded. A bracket was wrapped around the thigh and fastened to the leg with straps, clamps, and a few screws drilled into the flesh, much to the wearer’s discomfort. The actual bionic was then attached to the bracket, fastened to the leg through belts and screws, and then a series of wires were connected to the knee. Each puncture was painful but the rudimentary cords were enough for the body’s nerves to correspond to the bionic. Once it was completely fastened, they evaluated it for stability, mobility, and action. The single-use bionic proved effective and the Kasrkin stood up. His weapon was handed back to him and he climbed out of the ditch to rejoin the firing line.
Honeycutt assisted two more patients. One had his arm blown off and the team attached a similar bionic to allow him to fight again. The other was a fresh casualty who had just taken a bullet to his eye. Honeycutt performed field surgery, removed the damaged optic, retrieved the bullet, and then applied a bionic eyepiece. This Kasrkin took up arms again as well.
The sound of the battle was shifting. What was originally a frenetic orchestra of gunfire seemed to subside in favor of Imperial Hellguns. Enemy fire was abating somewhat and the strength of the force on Hill 277 became more secure. Honeycutt crawled up the depression next to Marsh Silas, who was training his fire to the west.
“Sir, we’re exhausting our kits rather quickly! Arrange a supply drop!”
“No-go,” Marsh said, holding his fire but remaining at the top of the depression. “The enemy is trying to drag their larger guns away. They’re disappearing all over. Looks like they caught wind of our strategy here. The Vultures are prioritizing those targets and the Valkyries can’t come in without an escort. Are any of those men critical?”
“Not yet, but if we’re gonna fight it out all fucking day, I’d rather have more supplies than not enough!”
“I hear you, Jameson, I hear you, we just need to hold on for a little long. I’ll put in a call for the Valkyries to drop supplies when the airspace is more secure and evacuate our casualties, then…” Marsh trailed off as a series of whistles filled the air. “...incoming, incoming! Get down, find cover!”
Honeycutt’s instinct was to dash back to the bottom of the ditch to cover the wounded men, but it was too late. Heavy mortar shells bombarded the hilltop. The world shook, soil flew, and hot shrapnel thudded into the ground. Honeycutt balled up as bits of rock and metal tinkled off his helmet.
The barrage was short but sharp. As it ended, firing resumed up and down the line. Honeycutt lifted his head and looked down at the bottom. The senior medic below him lifted his thumb; all the casualties survived.
“Is anyone wounded!?” Honeycutt yelled. “Who’s wounded!?”
“We’re all green!” Gabler shouted.
“All good!” Walmsley Major shouted from the opposite end of the depression.
“Jameson,” Marsh said calmly, “I’m hit.”
Honeycutt turned to his right. Marsh Silas had his back turned to the medic. The platoon leader turned and sat up in the same motion. As his back rested on the soil, he exposed his left side. His forearm was partially detached at the elbow. It clung on by some flesh, tendons, and sinews. It was such a clean cut it might have been surgical. Blood leaked out of both the forearm and the open upper arm.
Past wounds came flooding back; Marsh’s burned and opened neck on Army’s Meadow, his broken legs at Kasr Fortis, all the little wounds in between. It felt as though minutes were passing. Honeycutt jumped into action, scrambling to Marsh’s left side. The platoon leader was already trying to get his tourniquet out of his own, personal medical kit.
Gabler appeared and Honeycutt shoved the tourniquet into her hand. He tapped Marsh’s upper arm.
“Place it here and ratchet it down, quickly!”
“Shit, there’s more coming!” Walmsley Major yelled, running over to their side. Honeycutt glanced up. A wave of Traitor Guardsmen appeared at the top of the higher peak. Before the Imperials opened up, the enemy divided into smaller conclaves and quickly ran down the slope. Others provided cover before advancing; classic fire and maneuver.
“Bernetta, you better deal with that,” Marsh said calmly to Gabler. She checked the tourniquet one last time, touched Marsh on the cheek, then picked up her Hellgun and moved out of the position. Marsh then pushed Walmsley Major with his right arm. “Go with her.”
A shrill scream on the right caught their attention. An incensed Jacinto appeared, his fists wreathed in flame. He stood over the depression, pumping his fists in the air as though he were punching some unseen foe. With each strike, he cast fire bolts through the air which landed all over the opposite traverse. Bushes and trees caught fire immediately. Traitor Guardsmen were forced from their positions, some afire, others coughing from the roiling smoke.
“No! No! No!” Commissar Fremantle yelled. He appeared behind the psyker and wrapped his arms around his waist. Just as a burst of automatic fire struck the ground, he dragged Jacinto into the ditch. Both tumbled halfway down the depression before they stopped. The Commissar grabbed the psyker by his Carapace chestplate and throttled him. “Calm down and remain focused! Do not giveinto those emotions lest you imperil us all!”
Jacinto quivered and Fremantle stopped shaking him. “Breathe, man, just breathe! You want to help Marsh Silas, yes?” Jacinto nodded eagerly. “Then sit by him right now.” The pair slid in next to Marsh. Jacinto, wide-eyed, examined the wound and then looked at Honeycutt.
“He won’t die will he?” he asked.
“I won’t let that happen,” Honeycutt assured him. He looked at Marsh. “I don’t have any more field bionics, Silas. But I need to get your arm off so when we get that drop, I can put it on. Damn, I’m low on thermal gel.”
“Jacinto, can you cauterize the wound with your power?” Fremantle asked after squeezing several shots off with his plasma pistol.
“But I don’t want to hurt the Lieutenant!”
“You might have to if you want to save him!”
Honeycutt was about to weigh in when Marsh grabbed him by his collar. His violet eyes were incensed.
“You’re not cutting anything off. I’m not losing my arm. You keep that tourniquet fastened and finish this fight. You are the Bloody Platoon, so quit quibbling and get to fighting!”
“You want to bleed out, you blasted, moronic, imbecilic son of a bitch!?” Honeycutt snapped.
“I’ll get on one of the birds and get back to base, will that make you happy!?” Marsh yelled back.
“Here they come!”
“For the Architect of Fate!” came a demented battle cry. Honeycutt and the others looked over to see Traitor Guardsmen coming over the crest of the hill. Everyone raised their weapons and fired. Even Marsh Silas drew his Ripper Pistol, leveled the weapon, and dispatched several enemy soldiers with a few shots.
The traitors overran the Kasrkin perimeter but were immediately stopped. Bayonets failed to penetrate their sturdy Carapace Armor and point-blank autogun rounds were deflected. Ironsides stood firm with his assault stubber and clamped the trigger down, cutting down an entire squad. Fleming fired a shell from his grenade launcher at close range; the shell thudded into the nearest man’s chest and sent him flying back. Clivvy dropped her weapon, grabbed an enemy as he ran, redirected him over her shoulder, slammed into the soil, then finished him with her knife. The line of Kasrkin held firm without a single loss, and the attackers were forced off the crest.
Marsh Silas lowered his pistol, took off his helmet, and grinned at Honeycutt.
“See? I can still fight. You put this broken thing in a sling and be off. When that first bird comes, I’ll get in, I promise. But for now, I will fight and so will you!”
What could Honeycutt do but obey?
