The pilot of the rigid infiltration craft decreased speed. Although still a nautical mile away from the target, it was a quiet night on the Torium Sea. Without strong prevailing winds, the water was very calm. No breakers disturbed the flotilla of watercraft on their smooth journey. Another boon was the overcast sky—no moon to reflect off the water. But, without wind or choppy seas, there was little to mask the sound of the engines or disguise their white wakes.

  Navis Maritimum special operations personnel were wiley fellows, however. Combatant-craft operators utilized a muffled engine that minimized noise output. It was a perfect tool for nighttime actions. Although their mission-set often involved stealth, their boats were not very small. Despite their size, they possessed a low and stable freeboard, allowing them to ride lower in the water. Wide amidships, less stocky aft, but thin in the bow, it sliced carefully through the water. At minimal speeds, such craft hardly left a wake. Camouflaged hulls made them all but invisible in darkness and by day they were a gray smear on the water. These nimble boats did not lack firepower either; a pintle-mounted Storm Bolter was mounted on the bow with a Saber Turret fixed in the stern.

  Staff Sergeant Metcalfe trusted the Cadian NMCC operators. It was not the first time Bloody Platoon pulled operations alongside them. In some areas across the planet, terrain often dictated their method of infiltration. There simply were some places the rugged Taurox Prime could not go nor could a Valkyrie deploy safely. But, there was often a winding river or a cozy inlet near the target and thus the Kasrkin were spirited to their destination by the reliable NMCC.

  He stood beside the pilot’s hutch amidships. In the green vision of his Night Eye goggles, the sea was a sheet of black. Other boats maintained the formation as they glided quietly across the water. Lights glittered and twinkled on the coast. Far off, the running lights of other ships sailed along.

  Metcalfe’s eyes fell on Marsh Silas, standing alongside the bow gunner. The back of his helmet turned slowly from left to right and back again. It had nearly been thirty-six hours since anyone in Bloody Platoon had slept yet the commander appeared as alert as ever. Everyone’s veins were swimming with energy stimms but it appeared the Cadian hero did not need any.

  Beside him in white and blue armor was a Sergeant-at-Arms of the Navis Imperialis. In thanks for their assistance, Captain Rhodes had dispatched a Breacher team from his Exorcist-class Grand Cruiser Gatekeeper to assist in the rescue operation. Unlike the NMCC operators, he had not worked with them before. Their shotguns were ferocious and their void armor was impressive but he did not like the look of their leader, Sergeant Tanzer. She was too prim and proper looking, with a narrow triangular face, pouty pink lips, and her neat towheaded hair pulled back into a small knot.

  “That woman belongs in a court, not a Militarum operation,” Metcalfe said over 4th Squad’s net. “A surface infiltration against a battleship? How could she recommend such a thing when fast roping from a Valkyrie would be more applicable?”

  “Valkyries draw too much attention at this altitude. Besides, those manual anti-air batteries would shred them,” Lance Sergeant Effelman said. The volley-gunner of the squad, he was one of the Bloody Platoon old hands who served in the 1333rd, unlike men such Metcalfe and Crazy Stück. The experienced NCO had been crouched in prayer by the starboard gunwale and now rose to speak to the squad leader.

  “Perhaps, but why does Marsh Silas let this lowborn sergeant dictate to us? Does she mean to steal our glory? These Breachers belong in orbit, not on a planet’s surface.”

  “Careful, Staff Sergeant; you sure our comms are secure.”

  “I can handle my communications just fine.”

  “Well, it ain’t about glory. There are lives endangered upon this sea.”

  “Yes, more lost lambs for us to bring back to the pasture,” Metcalfe grumbled. “Endlessly saving imperiled personnel—what does Marsh Silas think this will do? Hear me, for I do not wish any harm to come to our brothers and sisters no matter the uniform. But there comes a time when warriors must give up their lives. Tis natural for the Emperor’s warriors.”

  “If you’ve listened to the man talk, you’d realize it’s about showing folks that their lives actually mean something.” This came from Derryhouse, another Bloody Platoon veteran. Once a weapons specialist, he now carried the squad’s heavy plasma gun. “Soldiers don’t fight unless they know their sacrifice means anything. But a man can lose sight of that when he is browbeaten by his officers and cast mercilessly into mortal frays which appear to have no meaning.”

  “We are all human, created by the Emperor’s hand,” Effelman added. “If He on Terra has toiled to mold us, then we all have some worth to Him and, thus, to one another. Marsh Silas teaches these lessons by making a man’s life a priority. When that man who was once hopeless learns there are others willing to fight for their soul, then he will rise to the occasion one day for another’s spirit. By such acts, we will foster a greater unity between our people.”

  Derryhouse nodded towards the bow and pointed at Tanzer’s back.

  “See what our efforts bring? By rescuing Captain Rhodes and the delegation, we have received further assistance.”

  “You all preach as if you were priests,” Metcalfe complained. “Marsh Silas’s ideals might be earnest but I question their validity in the field. What if there is a higher purpose to be served that will benefit us all further on? Will he sacrifice that opportunity to save a handful of lives for his precious trickle-down idealism?”

  “Knowing him, he’d find a way to achieve both,” Derryhouse said.

  “Such a thought defies reality, Lance—”

  “With respect, Staff Sergeant,” Effelman cut in. He walked in front of Metcalfe and turned to face him. The veteran clutched the railing along the pilot’s hutch to stabilize himself and leaned closer. “You have no idea what you speak of. This platoon has gone through much that you were not a part of. We once had friends in another regiment who fought beside us through the Siege of Kasr Sonnen. Although not of Cadian stock, they acquitted themselves well and success would not have been achievable without their aid. But when they were made the sufferers of their commander’s vainglory and embarrassment, they were slaughtered despite all attempts to save them.”

  Effelman leaned back. “Like the Inquisitor’s whose name we veil with respect, and Carstensen the Cadian whom we forever hold in honor, we have made Marsh’s ideals our own, for they are righteous. But we also seek to save lives because we never wish to know again the impotence of being unable to do so.”

  The volley gunner backed off. Metcalfe watched the veteran go back to the gunwale to gaze out at the sea. His hunched shoulders and lowered gaze made him seem heaped and put-upon. After a few minutes of silence, Metcalfe activated the micro-bead again.

  “You still feel guilty over something that happened nigh-on two years ago?”

  “Guilt is a tricky thing,” Derryhouse said. “I served as a spotter for a marksman named Bullard. Damned fine shot and a good fellow. Died screaming at Army’s Meadow. There was naught I could do for him but it still stays with me. So aye, Staff Sergeant, we do.”

  “Besides, this is the Navis Maritimum,” Effelman said. “It was their guns that saved us during the final charge on Army’s Meadow. We owe them.”

  “You all need to shut your fucking gobs and get your heads on straight,” Major Bristol suddenly cut in. 4th Squad’s heads snapped towards the liaison officer on the port side of the boat. The Jakal’s red visor indicators locked on Metcalfe. “If I were your platoon leader, I’d have put you in your place already. There is a time to philosophize and this ain’t it. Even Marsh Silas knows that.”

  “How did you enter our comms, sir?” Metcalfe asked, surprised.

  “Kasrkin have excellent equipment,” Bristol sneered. “But mine’s better.”

  Metcalfe chose not to respond. The journey carried on in silence until a dark shape loomed ahead. Its sleek, low profile gave way to a long, steadily rising mass. Four enormous turrets, two aft of the superstructure amidships and two forward, were turned towards the shore. Three, sixteen inch guns protruded from each one. Countless smaller, five inch gun batteries and numerous anti-aircraft blocks occupied platforms and cupolas amidships. Two smokestacks succeeded the high bridge tower. Written on the hull of her bow was the name CNM-158 Lance of the Torium.

  “By the Throne, she’s enormous,” Staff Sergeant Monty Peck murmured over the platoon network.

  “The Gatekeeper could carry several of those,” Tanzer said in her aristocratic tone.

  “All call signs, this is Red Six, listen up,” Marsh Silas followed. “Prince Constantine is exercising the extent of his influence within High Command, and the envoys sent by the delegation are doing their best, but we have less than an hour to secure the ship before aircraft are dispatched to sink it. Romilly indicated the crew who evaded capture had sabotaged the ship’s power plant and sealed the engine room. Lance of the Torium is dead in the water and drifting. Break.”

  Marsh Silas walked down the boat, checking the men’s equipment as he did. When he came up to Metcalfe, he adjusted some of his webbing and then tapped him on the side of his helmet. “Enemy numbers are estimated to be between sixty and seventy. Avalanche Five, Sandstorm Five, and Green platoon will board via the aft port side, clear the lower decks, and then take the engine room. Our job is to seize the forward turrets, secure the bridge, rescue the hostages, and clear the upper decks.”

  Weapon safeties were disengaged. Shoulder to shoulder with one another, the Kasrkin held their weapons with one hand so the barrels pointed skywards. Metcalfe’s plasma pistol hummed with eager energy. The boat pilots deactivated the engines as they approached the ship, allowing the current to take them closer. Lance of the Torium towered over the tiny watercraft as they approached amidships.

  The combatant-crewmen manning the small boat procured a section of magnetized ladder. This was fastened to the hull and the boat was tied off to it. One by one, the crewmen carried another section, mounted it on the preceding ladder, and fastened it to the ship until it was high enough to reach the starboard railing.

  Marsh Silas went first, followed by Tanzer, and then Metcalfe. As the squad leader climbed, he watched other Kasrkin crawl up the magnetized ladders from the boats on either side. Just as he ambled over the top rail, a shocked sentry happened upon Marsh and Tanzer in the darkness. Before he could raise the alert, the sergeant-at-arms buried her deactivated power ax into the Marked Man’s throat. She then kicked him over the side—moments later, there was a splash.

  The strike force formed up and advanced across the deck. Metcalfe’s Kasrkin followed Marsh, the command squad, and the Breachers to the first stairwell. A Navy axejack operator, toting a deactivated, two-handed power ax, led the way. At the landing, he swung wide and knocked a sentry’s head off. Blood splattered onto the gray bulkhead.

  “Staff Sergeant, I would like one of those, please,” Crazy Stück whispered over the comms.

  “You are frightening enough with my chainsword, I care not to find out what terrors you will unleash when armed with a power weapon,” Metcalfe whispered back.

  Bloody Platoon and their Navy comrades went on to seize the conning tower and the compass platform, killing fifteen Marked Men. The alert had not been raised yet. Hyram and his division reported similar success and proceeded to clear the aft superstructure. They eliminated another ten enemies. With the deck clear, it was time to take the bridge.

  It possessed two levels; one was the bridge proper and the other was the combat information center. Metcalfe waited as the void-jammer operative of Tanzer’s squad navigated something they called a Gheistskull up the tower to observe both platforms. At first glance, it appeared as a typical Servo-skull. But it had lengthier mechanical tendrils winding from its skull and a bulbous bronze orb mounted on a collar beneath the skull.

  Metcalfe sniffed dismissively as the skull floated by him and drifted upwards.

  “It is the skull of an old comrade of ours,” Tanzer said over the closed channel. “Even after death, she still serves alongside us. If necessary, we can trigger the explosive charge rigged to it. In her final act, she will take any nearby enemies with her.”

  “Crude, but effective,” Metcalfe admitted. “I suppose you must utilize all you can in the void.”

  “Aye, Staff Sergeant,” Tanzer said. A moment passed. “You think me lowborn, eh? Are you of a high stock?”

  “What—”

  “You should mind your comms more cautiously, Staff Sergeant,” she said mockingly. Metcalfe’s cheeks burned.

  “Marsh Silas is a Knight of Cadia. You oughtn’t dictate plans to his noble self,” he said indignantly.

  “I am the daughter of General Terrerford Tanzer, head of House Tanzer.” Metcalfe squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He knew the name was familiar; Tanzers were honorable Cadians who served both in the Astra Militarum and the Navis Imperialis for millennia. General Terrerford Tanzer was a famed officer who had fought with distinction in a hundred battles fought by the Interior Guard on Cadia Primus.

  Sergeant Tanzer smirked a little. “I have heard of your platoon leader. He was reduced from his noble status but has since regained it. While my dignity has never been so unjustly stripped, I chose a different path. One of challenge and danger, not privilege. Like your Marsh Silas, I have sought to earn my credits, not receive them by birth. Unlike you, he cares not for rank nor blood; if someone is to offer dependable advice, he shall listen.”

  Metcalfe squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Thankfully, the Gheistskull returned and the void-jammer outlined the two environments they had to breach. Traitor Guardsmen were posted by the hatches, stood sentry over the hostages, or fiddled with the equipment in vain attempts to utilize the ship’s systems. In both areas, the imprisoned seamen were on their knees and huddled in the center so they could not hide from their captors.

  “We have to assault the platforms simultaneously,” Marsh Silas said. He held up four fingers. “Four entrances, four teams.”

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  “My Breachers are adept at assaulting narrow confines, sir. Allow me to detach my axejack and grenadier to your other teams. I will join Metcalfe’s squad with our hatch-cutter.”

  “Crazy Stück, you’re with the Lieutenant,” Metcalfe ordered. His own demolition expert agreed gleefully.

  The squads fanned out while the other teams pulled security on the lower platforms and gangways. Metcalfe, Tanzer, and their men assembled next to the starboard hatch which led to the bridge. The hatch-cutter pushed his way forward. Armed with a chainfist, the blade was more than capable of incising the heavy metal of the entrance. A hulking fellow moved into position behind him. He was an endurant, armed with a heavy shotgun and a boarding shield. It was a massive tool which stood as tall as him and possessed a mount for his weapon.

  All waited and reported their status as, ‘green,’ to Marsh’s vox-hail. Tanzer activated her power ax and held up her autopistol. Metcalfe held only his pistol and placed his other hand upon the sergeant-at-arms’ shoulder plate.

  “Execute!”

  The hatch-cutter’s blade roared and he sliced through the top hinge of the hatch and then the lower one. Activating his gauntlet, wreathing it in pulsating blue energy, he punched the door and blasted it from its frame. Across the bridge, Crazy Stück’s breaching charge went off and the opposite door ripped open. As Kasrkin fired lasbolts, the hatch-cutter backed away while the endurant pressed forward. Bullets thudded against the shield but hardly moved it. Several shotgun blasts knocked down the closest assailants.

  Tanzer and Metcalfe flowed to the endurant’s right side to cover his flank. Metcalfe lined up his sights on a Traitor Guardsmen bringing his bayonet down on a captured crewman. The plasma bolt seared the fellow’s arms off. The autorifle clattered harmlessly to the deck. Tanzer finished off the traitor with a well-placed shot before cutting down two more.

  With a few more lasbolts and shotgun shells, the enemy guards were dispatched. A dozen lay bleeding on the deck.

  “Clear!”

  “Secure the prisoners!”

  “Cover the corridor.”

  Metcalfe knelt over the man who had been nearly bayoneted. His hands traveled from his arms all the way down to his legs. He suffered no punctures or ricochets. When he finished the inspection, the squad leader thumped the man on his shoulder.

  “You’re safe, the Kasrkin are here.”

  “Thank you, dear sir, thank you.”

  Beside him, Tanzer checked another seaman. The sailor appeared exhausted.

  “Ma’am, do you have any water?” he croaked. Metcalfe’s hand snapped to his belt and he prodded Tanzer’s elbow with his canteen. Tanzer nodded and quickly unscrewed the cap to give the grateful crewman a drink.

  Metcalfe went from hostage to hostage, removing their binds and administering aid when it was necessary. Among them was the captain, an impressive looking old salt in a golden-trimmed blue tunic studded with medals. Upon being freed, he immediately approached Marsh Silas.

  “Captain Kelemen is my name. Knight-Lieutenant Cross, I thank you for coming for us. We had accepted our fates and awaited to join the God-Emperor’s Celestial Army. But your efforts mean we may continue to serve Him. You will always have our gratitude.”

  “Twas not us alone; the Navis Imperialis has dispatched forces also to take part in this endeavor,” Marsh motioned towards Sergeant Tanzer. He then shook the captain’s hand. “We would not give up our brothers and sisters of the Navis Maritimum so quickly.”

  “My crew still in the engine room—”

  “One of our sister platoons is proceeding to it as we speak. The deck and superstructure are secure, so we will begin transferring your wounded off the ship.” Marsh turned around. “Drummer Boy, issue a communique: the target is nearly secure and we request an medevac for wounded prisoners. Staff Sergeant Metcalfe, convey our comrades down to the deck.”

  Metcalfe obeyed, rallied his squad around the crew members, and led them back down the exterior stairwells. Marsh Silas established his command post on the bridge while other Kasrkin and Sergeant Tanzer’s team proceeded deeper into the ship.

  As they filtered across the deck, their boots thudding on the adamantium, Metcalfe felt the wind pick up. Placid waves lapped the hull. Bulkheads groaned. Above, the clouds grew darker and the beginnings of a fine mist fell. All appeared ordinary. Yet, there was a far away, and intermittent, ghostly noise.

  Metcalfe detached from the other Imperials to look over the rail. Below, the combatant-craft crewmen in the small boats remained abreast of the ship. They signaled that all was well. The squad leader hurried over to the opposite side of the ship and looked down as well. Aside from the other division’s boats, still aft, the water was clear. All the way to the horizon, there was nothing. Turning his gaze skyward, Metcalfe did not spot any aircraft lights.

  As Metcalfe turned to the men, he found Major Bristol walking with them. His head swiveled as well. The Kasrkin of his squad closed ranks around their charges and kept their weapons at a low-ready posture. Gazes turned, turned, and turned. Even the seamen checked over their shoulders as the ship gently bobbed in the weak waves. Wind moaned, the moist mist hissed, and the water trickled below. But that strange sound persisted. It mingled and disappeared with the other oceanic noises. It was an ethereal, steady hum which was overtaken by a gust or drowned by a rougher wave.

  The pit in his stomach dropped suddenly when Metcalfe heard the Valkyries approaching. Half a dozen dropped out of the sky and approached the bow carefully. They made a circuit around the ship and maintained their altitude. Metcalfe procured an infrared strobe and activated it on the deck. Even as Foxley indicated that his squadron had a lock on the strobe, Metcalfe examined the sky warily.

  The first Valkyrie descended. Its loud, powerful engines rendered every other sound inaudible. Metcalfe crouched and lowered his head. It felt good not to hear that unusual tone. He waited for the transport to touch down so he could oversee the embarkation of the wounded men.

  The otherworldly hum suddenly returned and morphed into a piercing scream. Metcalfe’s eardrums felt as if they were splitting. Out of the clouds came an aircraft shaped as a great bird. Its blue fixed wings, tight against the fuselage, shone brightly while three great engines issued a bright white-purple flame. Its yellow bow protruded like a great beak.

  A blast of pink flames exploded from a cannon and struck the hovering Valkyrie. The shock sent it spiraling over the bow and scorched away its fuselage. It tumbled into the sea on the port side of the Lance of the Torium. Before it landed, the strange aircraft tore overhead. It was so fast the blur was hardly visible. Two more followed, attacking the Valkyries. Another was struck and dove into the sea from the impact.

  “Foxley, get your pilots out of here!” Metcalfe yelled over the comms. Foxley’s reply was angry and ridden with colorful curses. Metcalfe then ran to the railing and waved his arm to the combatant-craft crewmen below. “Clear away! Clear away the boats!”

  Their engines roared to life and they sped away. Metcalfe turned around just in time to see a hatch cover on the bow burst open. Two stun grenades flung outwards. “Get down! Protect the crew!”

  The flash blinded him. Tinnitus rang in his ears. All his senses were null. It was as if he had been struck over the head. Metcalfe tore off his Night Eye goggles and waited for his vision to return. As it did, he saw dark figures emerging from the hatch. They brandished cutlasses and sabers. Metcalfe dove between the hostages as he raised his plasma pistol. But Major Bristol emerged and charged the attackers! His chainsword barked as he sidestepped a thrust and buried the teeth in the attacker’s gut. At the same moment, he shoved the barrel of his Bolt Pistol into a Marked Man’s face and fired a single shell, reducing the head to pulp.

  Holding his pistol by his side, he rapidly squeezed the trigger, reducing several attackers to bloody slag. One swiped his sword but the Major just ducked and without looking, shoved the barrel right into the attacker’s stomach. The blast knocked him back onto his back and split his spine. Bristol ejected the magazine, reloaded, and cut a man across his throat with the chainsword just before he brought a club down on the Scion’s head. Shoving the sword into the chest of a Marked Man, he let go and went back to the wounded heretic still clutching his neck. He spun him around and used him to catch bullets of five gunmen who had just emerged from the hatch. Major Bristol blasted a hole through the back of the human shield, jammed the barrel into it, and fired through the man at the targets. All the gunners perished while the shield’s lower body slipped away from the upper abdomen.

  More attempted to emerge but the Major suppressed them with the remainder of his ammunition. He dropped the torso, placed a grenade from his own belt in the corpse’s mouth, pulled the pin, and kicked the remains into the hatch. An explosive thud was followed by screams. Bristol whirled around and pointed at Metcalfe.

  “Get the crew back to the conning tower, they’re safest there!” he ordered. “Those Doom Wings will be back!”

  As the Kasrkin and able seamen ran by, Metcalfe grabbed the officer and ran with him.

  “How long until those aircraft return?”

  “A few minutes. Doom Wings are fast but their turning radius is poor, they’ll have to travel a long way before they come back.”

  “Throne, we must—where are you all bloody going!?”

  Instead of running, the Navis Maritimum seamen ran towards the anti-aircraft blocks. Even the wounded men with their arms in slings ambled alongside their comrades. Captain Kelemen whirled around and pointed at the sky.

  “Those bastards will be coming around again and I shan’t let them reign fire upon us without a fight! Without power, we cannot use the remotely operated anti-aircraft systems, so we will man what guns we can!”

  Metcalfe did not have time to argue. He turned around and hailed his squad.

  “You heard him, Kasrkin: get on those bloody guns!”

  As the stalwart Imperials manned their positions, Marsh Silas and Sergeant Tanzer emerged with their respective squads. The platoon leader held a handset underneath his helmet as he hastily searched the skies. Drummer Boy monitored the network with his own mouthpiece.

  “Avalanche Five, this is Red Six, what’s the status on the engine room?”

  “We’re mopping up—by the Emperor, what is happening up there?”

  “Hostile aircraft. I’m radioing for air support.” Drummer Boy tapped Marsh Silas’s helmet. “Wait one. Go ahead, Felix.”

  “Sir, Captain Rhodes has issued a report: a Devastation-class cruiser broke through the planet’s ring of orbital defense platforms and monitors. He intercepted it and inflicted heavy damage, but not before it deployed four aircraft and warp-jumped out of the system.”

  “Four? We only had the count of three.”

  “It’s a classic aerial formation,” Bristol said. “Prince Constantine has faced them and so have I. Those Doom Wings operate in flights of three and escort something far larger which is known as a Fire Lord. An enormous monster of an aircraft, Knight-Lieutenant, with a greater armament and a bomb load. These Marked Men know they cannot keep the ship, they seek to burn it out from under our feet! We can be certain that the damnable thing is on its way.”

  “Blast, we need that power back up now! Drummer Boy, get those fast movers!”

  “Here they come again!”

  Metcalfe ran to the nearest anti-aircraft block. It was a line of twenty millimeter belt-fed autocannons. Tanzer was loading the closest one. Metcalfe grabbed the belt from her.

  “I’ll load!”

  “Aye. Staff Sergeant!” she said and took up the firing controls.

  “They’re too fast to lead!” Bristol shouted, walking down the line. “Spotters, call out your targets! Gunners, aim in the predicted path! These bastards cannot maneuver once they are on their attack run.”

  There it was, that distant hum. It grew louder and louder until it became a terrifying scream. Spotters’ voices were nearly lost in its magnitude. Tanzer adjusted the elevation of the gun. Metcalfe could just make out the glittering shapes as they approached. “Fire!”

  All the manned weapons opened up at once. Their fusillade was so ferocious and unified it were as if the entire starboard side of the Lance of the Torium had erupted into flames. Multi-colored tracers streamed into the night sky. Metcalfe palmed the ammunition belt into the gun while Tanzer rocked away on the trigger. The Doom Wings had to adjust their elevation to avoid the blanket of anti-aircraft defenses and were forced to break off their attack. But one of the blue monsters reacted too slowly and its undercarriage was riddled by Tanzer’s and other gunners’ concentrated fire.

  “You hit him!” Metcalfe roared, jostling Tanzer by her shoulder plate. “Well done!” The Sergeant-at-Arms grinned proudly.

  “Reload! Knock those sons o’ bitches out of the sky before the Fire Lord arrives!” Marsh Silas yelled.

  Suddenly, all the ship’s running lights turned back on. Everyone was illuminated in a dazzling white glow. Remotely operated Hydra Flak Batteries swiveled and trained their barrels skyward. Everyone along the starboard side of the ship cheered. “Stand fast, you sons and daughters of Cadia!” Marsh Silas yelled. “We will win this night assuredly!”

  The Doom Wings returned. The flak guns and cannons filled the sky in front of the hostile aircraft with shells. But only two came straight at them. One of the attack craft flew down the length of the ship and unleashed its Flame Cannon. Warp-infused fire melted the tops of the funnels and covered the adamantium decking aft of D turret. Captain Keleman detached some of his crew to serve as damage control. Kasrkin coming up from below, including Hyram, Gabler, and Prince Constantine, took their places. Some men, unable to take hold of a gun, fired their personal weapons into the air.

  Another of the Doom Wings rose above the fire again and soared by. But the third, coming directly towards Metcalfe and Tanzer, was struck by the hail. Flames ripped through the fuselage and the speed abated. It plummeted downwards. Metcalfe felt Tanzer dive into him and the two hid behind the armored gunwale of the cupola. But the burning Doom Wing flew over the ship and they heard a cacophonous blast as it struck the water on the port side.

  “The Fire Lord comes!”

  Metcalfe and Tanzer stood. The distant clouds parted as a behemoth of an aircraft dropped in altitude. Two massive fixed wings sprawled from its fuselage. Its cockpit was shaped as an elongated bird’s head with a golden beak and face. A spiked spine rose from the fuselage and led into a powerful tail. Its engines flared—although not as fast as the Doom Wings, its speed far surpassed anything Metcalfe had seen.

  The pair resumed their position and he loaded a new belt of ammunition. Tanzer racked the weapon and squeezed the trigger. Again, a blanket of fire rose in front of the enemy aircraft. Cloudbursts of flak blossomed between the lanes of twenty and forty millimeter cannons. Men and women fired and reloaded quickly. Kasrkin calmly cycled the weapons. The two surviving Doom Wings adopted a trail formation in front of the larger craft, planning to absorb some of the fire.

  Metcalfe glanced at Tanzer. The Sergeant-at-Arms showed no fear. Her violet eyes were narrowed and focused on the target. Two rows of pearly teeth gritted against one another as her lips drew back into a hateful snarl. Those voidsmen and able seamen all engaged in the effort, their faces upturned and antagonistic towards their foe, standing so steadfastly, their hands moving so deftly, all became the pinnacle of Cadian bravery. Metcalfe mouthed a prayer of thanks to the Emperor for giving him the honor of dying among such devoted souls.

  Just as the Doom Wings ran the gauntlet of fire from the ship, a storm of golden tracers streamed from above the Fire Lord and struck it. Hellstrike missiles followed and bombarded the super-heavy aircraft. The impact was so great that the port wing was sheared off and the engines combusted. The Fire Lord immediately plunged towards the ocean, leaving a wake of purplish flames and black smoke.

  As it descended, one of the Doom Wings suffered an explosion in the sheet of flak and spiraled into the ocean. The surviving aircraft attempted to escape but a formation of Lightning Fighters followed by Thunderbolts dropped from the clouds. Like birds of prey, they descended on the last enemy aircraft. Missiles reduced it to flames and dust that descended beautifully in the nighttime sky.

  As the Kasrkin, Navy Breachers, and Navis Maritimum crewmen all cheered, Metcalfe looked back at Tanzer. The Sergeant-at-Arms nodded firmly as the pair shook hands. Side by side, they gazed at their comrades as they celebrated.

  “It appears those lambs were not as lost as you thought,” Tanzer said, placing her hand upon the back of his chestplate.

  “Aye, it appears that they have already taken great steps to preserve the lives of their fellow man.” Metcalfe’s gaze softened and a smile spread across his scarred face. With Tanzer, he watched the huge hulk steadily sink beneath the dark waves. “It has never felt so rewarding to be wrong.”