Legends of the dark ange.., p.44
Legends Of The Dark Angels, page 44
Naaman sprinted back though the door to rejoin the squad. Looking through a window, he saw the Deathwing forming an armoured cordon around Belial as the company commander pulled himself up a ladder below one of the ramshackle ork relay discs. Broken cables hurled sparks around the Terminators as they launched a steady barrage of fire at the incoming greenskins. Belial reached a gantry above them and crossed over to one of the generator housings. Bullets skipped up from the rockcrete casing under his feet, cut ragged holes in his bone-coloured robe and scored grey welts across the dark green of his armour.
‘Enemy to the south!’ warned Damas, shifting his position at one of the windows.
Naaman turned his attention to the approaching orks for a moment, but they were still out of range of his pistol. He pulled free his chainsword and tested the motor. Razor-sharp teeth whirred with a satisfying growl.
Out of the corner of his eye, Naaman saw the ork portal expanding into life again, revealing the tide of waiting greenskins. After only a moment, the opening shuddered and the black disc returned, shrinking to half its size. Belial stood triumphantly atop the power plant, a piece of ork equipment in one hand, ripped from its makeshift housing. Without the relay, the generators no longer buzzed with electricity and the flare of energy along the cables had died to a trickle.
‘Squad Damas, honour your commander!’ Damas barked over the comm. The Scouts turned and raised their weapons in honour of Belial. The master returned the salute, lifting his glittering power sword towards the Scouts.
More blue energy swirled through the power plant, engulfing the master and his Terminators with its glow. They were swallowed up by the roiling ball of the teleporter field and faded from view. The light dimmed leaving only empty air where the Deathwing and Belial had been.
The Scouts were alone. As it always was, Naaman thought, and as it should be.
‘Mission accomplished,’ he quietly announced.
Enraged by the damage done to their teleporter, the orks converged on the Scouts. The walls of the ruined building exploded with bullet impacts and the detonations of rockets. Forced back from the western wall by the weight of fire, the Scouts followed Damas into the next room while Naaman once more sprinted up the crumbling stairway to gauge the enemy positions.
A swarm of gretchin were running down the ridge, driven on by the lash of their ork overseer. Behind them came several squads of infantry wielding a variety of guns, pistols, brutal clubs and jagged blades. From the direction of the portal, another mob of orks had taken up a firing position in a cluster of shallow rocks. They opened fire with their strange heavy weapons, rattling off blasts of green energy and fist-sized shells that ripped holes through the thin walls protecting the Scouts.
With a cry of pain, one of the Scouts was hurled back as a green bolt of energy screamed into a window, through the internal door and struck him in the shoulder. Bloodied and burnt, the Scout dragged himself to the doorway, fumbling with his bolter as more bullets whined into the building. He fired once in reply before a ricocheting bullet took him in the cheek and killed him.
Naaman leapt down the steps and snatched up the fallen Scout’s bolter. As more blasts of energy exploded against the window frame, the veteran sergeant vaulted through another opening, determined not to be caught.
He stormed through the ork fusillade, large-calibre rounds whipping past, ignoring the ravening balls of energy flying by, and reached the cover of another ruined outhouse. Ducking inside, he found himself in what seemed to be an old store, the walls lined with broken shelves, the floor littered with crates broken open by the orks. Naaman hauled himself up a metal rack to a slit window near the ceiling. Smashing out the pane of glass with the butt of the bolter, he brought up the weapon and fired at the orks close to the portal, his salvo ripping up a hail of rock shards from the orks’ cover and punching into green flesh.
The blossom of a detonation behind Naaman’s right attracted his attention. Glancing over his shoulder he saw through another window an ork Dreadnought clanking towards the Scouts’ defensive position. It was twice as tall as the Space Marines, a massive armoured can on stunted legs with four mechanical arms; two ended in crackling power claws, one a rocket launcher fed by a hanging belt-feed, the fourth a broad-muzzled flamethrower that dribbled burning fuel into the grass at the Dreadnought’s metal feet. Naaman could see the ripple of bolt detonations across the walker’s armour but it advanced into the teeth of the Scouts’ fire, impervious to their weapons. Another rocket corkscrewed from its launcher and exploded inside the Scouts’ position.
‘Status report!’ Naaman barked into the comm.
A few moments passed before Damas replied.
‘Just me and Luthor, brother. Withdrawing from this position.’
The Dreadnought was almost at the building. Naaman could see nothing of the Scouts inside. Barely a heartbeat after Damas finished speaking, the Dreadnought’s flamethrower roared into life, a billow of black and yellow filling the ruins where the Scouts were sheltering.
‘Damas?’
The comm stayed silent, while the pop of exploding bolt-rounds and the crackle of flames echoed around Naaman.
‘Damas? Luthor?’
There was no reply. Naaman was the only Dark Angel alive on the East Barrens.
He had no time to mourn the loss of his battle-brothers or ponder the fortunes of war. The sergeant heard the crunch of a booted foot and the crash of a door falling from its hinges. Dropping to the floor, Naaman slung the bolter and drew out his chainsword and pistol again.
The first ork to enter the storeroom was met by the teeth of the sergeant’s chainsword, chopping into its face to slice through eyes and brain. Naaman fired his pistol into the chest of the next, the explosive bolts throwing it back into the ork behind. Naaman hacked the arm from a third before driving the point of the chainsword into its throat. As he parried a cleaver swinging at his gut, Naaman could feel a heavy thud shaking the ground. He spared it no mind and swung his chainsword low, hacking through the knee of the next ork to appear. As the creature tumbled, the Scout-sergeant fired two rounds into the back of its head, obliterating its skull.
In a cloud of dust and bricks, the ork Dreadnought crashed through the wall to Naaman’s right. In an instant the sergeant saw the flicker of the flamethrower’s igniter growing brighter. He leapt towards the war machine and rolled against the remains of the wall as a sheet of fire engulfed the store room, setting fire to wooden shelves and bathing the orks with its burning fury.
Looking up, Naaman saw a fanged face had been bolted to the front of the Dreadnought, made from jagged pieces of metal. The eyes were open slits, through which he could see the red of the pilot’s own eyes. Naaman raised his pistol to find a shot but the Dreadnought swung at him with a clawed arm, pneumatics hissing, pistons buzzing. The claw missed but the arm caught the sergeant on the shoulder, hurling him into the wall. By instinct he blazed with his pistol, the bolts ricocheting from the Dreadnought’s armour, the small detonations leaving scorch marks across the yellow and red paintwork.
The Dreadnought lifted a claw as Naaman’s bolt pistol clicked empty. Without thought, Naaman raised his chainsword to ward away the blow. The claw cleaved down, smashing the sergeant’s weapon to pieces and severing his hand. Blood spurted from the ruin of Naaman’s wrist. With his right hand, he snatched something from his belt and held it in his palm.
Staring at the Dreadnought, knowing what he had to do, there was no room for regret or fear in the sergeant’s thoughts. He had sworn an oath to protect the Emperor and his servants, and if that meant giving his life, so be it. There were others that would continue the fight.
‘Remember me, Tauno,’ Naaman whispered, activating the melta-bomb’s magnetic clamp.
He slammed the anti-tank grenade into the fake face of the Dreadnought and pushed himself away. Through the pilot’s eye slits, Naaman saw the ork within stare in amazement at the blinking red rune of the melta-bomb. A second later the grenade detonated, punching through the armour of the Dreadnought with a focussed fusion blast. The driver’s head was incinerated in an instant. A moment later, the Dreadnought’s engine exploded, tearing Naaman to pieces with white-hot fire and serrated fragments of metal.
Veteran Sergeant Naaman of the Dark Angels died without fear or regret. His last thoughts were of an unremarkable man he had sworn to protect with his life.
THE TALE OF BOREAS
BATTLE AT BARRAK GORGE
The roar of the Thunderhawk’s engines and the drone of the wind forced Chaplain Boreas to cut the external sound feed to his helmet as he listened to the company-wide broadcast from Master Belial.
‘Through the diligence of Sergeant Naaman of the 10th Company and the industry and bravery of the Scouts and Ravenwing, we are now more aware of the threat to Piscina posed by the orks. The actions of our courageous battle-brothers have not only furnished us with this information, they have struck a blow against the greenskin menace that grants us the time to respond.
‘It is my intention that Sergeant Naaman be lauded as a Hero of the Dark Angels when we rejoin with the rest of the Chapter. Even now Sergeant Naaman once more dares the ork lines to bring the bright light of truth upon the enemy’s dark machinations. Until Brother Naaman reports fully, we must assume that the orks will attempt another attack on Koth Ridge with fresh forces. Be vigilant and unstinting in your destruction of the enemy.’
Boreas muttered his own praise to the heroic Naaman, head bowed. Around him the Space Marines of Squad Zaltys did likewise. A tone signalled a change of comm frequency in Boreas’s ear. He adjusted the Thunderhawk’s unit for the incoming transmission.
‘Master Belial to Brother Boreas: stand ready to receive orders. A portion of the orks’ strategy has been revealed to us. It is plain that they possess part of the Kadillus power network and we must assume it is with some as-yet-unknown reason. To what end, Sergeant Naaman is still investigating. However, if the orks desire to hold the East Barrens geothermal station we can be sure it is for some purpose that we should disrupt. It is clear to me now that it is no coincidence that Ghazghkull still controls the Kadillus Harbour power station, but there is a means by which we can neutralise its power output.
‘Your pilot is being sent coordinates of a relay station linking Kadillus Harbour to the East Barrens grid. Take possession of the relay and sever the link. Intelligence at this moment suggests the enemy have a weak guard at its location. After completion of this mission, transfer to Barrak Gorge to protect the power plant at the abandoned mine head. Other forces are being despatched to provide protection at several more locations.’
‘Understood, brother-captain,’ replied Boreas. ‘What are your assessments of the available forces and enemy threat in the area?’
‘Two companies of Piscina defence troops are already en route to Barrak Gorge overland. Take command on your arrival and ensure the station does not fall into the orks’ hands. A Ravenwing land speeder will be despatched to provide reconnaissance and Sergeant Zaltys will accompany you with his squad.’
There was a pause in the transmission. Boreas glanced across the command deck to the pilot, Brother Demensuis.
‘Have you received the mission target coordinates, brother?’
‘Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Demensuis. ‘Objective is twenty-three kilometres from our current position.’
‘Belial to Boreas. It is my conclusion that following the success of the first phase of your mission, the orks will again attempt a breakthrough of Koth Ridge to link up with Ghazghkull’s forces in the city. Estimate of threat to Barrak Gorge is minimal.’
‘Understood, brother-captain. Have you received any notification from the rest of the Chapter?’
‘Affirmative. Grand Master Azrael has informed me that the fleet is redirecting back from the jump point. We have been fortunate: the rest of our battle-brothers were only six hours from warp jump. They are heading in-system again at this time. It is my intention to curtail the ork threat until their arrival and then wipe them from Kadillus with the aid of the other companies. It is imperative the ork forces remain divided and that they are denied the energy supply they seem to be seeking.’
‘I understand, brother. We will cage these beasts and exterminate them. Praise the Lion and honour the Emperor.’
‘For the glory of lost Caliban,’ said Belial before the link went dead.
Boreas hung the handset on the console and turned to the ten Space Marines sitting along the benches lining the Thunderhawk’s main compartment.
‘We have a seize-and-secure mission, brothers,’ the Chaplain told them. ‘Expect light resistance. Suggestions for a plan of attack, brother-sergeant?’
Zaltys pulled down a hinged digital display from overhead and studied the schematic of the objective for a moment. He smiled at Boreas.
‘Gunship attack run followed by direct aerial insertion by jump pack, Brother-Chaplain.’
‘Very well, sergeant,’ Boreas said with a nod. ‘Prepare your squad. I will provide observation and coordination from the command deck.’
‘Two minutes until we are on-site at the objective, brothers,’ Demensuis announced. ‘Approach at fifty metres for attack run and aerial deployment. Weapon systems set to machine-spirit control. Praise the unthinking mind that brings the ruin of our enemies.’
While Boreas returned to his position on the command deck, Zaltys and his warriors readied themselves for the assault. The squad geared themselves with bolt pistols, plasma pistols, chainswords, power swords and grenades from the weapons lockers; the sergeant replaced his regular armoured gauntlet with a bulky power fist and took a hand flamer from the underfoot storage bay. Armed, they helped each other into their assault harnesses, attaching the large turbo-fan jump packs to the spinal interfaces of their armour. The hull reverberated with the whine of the fans as each Space Marine tested his pack.
‘Thirty seconds until attack run commences,’ warned Demensuis. ‘Swift shall be our anger, deadly shall be our strike.’
The lights inside the Thunderhawk dimmed to a dull red. In front of Boreas, the armoured canopy darkened to grey. In the distance he could see the squat structure of the energy relay post. Automatic surveyors were sweeping the ground ahead of the diving Thunderhawk. Red reticules sprang up in the cockpit display, hovering over detected foes. Boreas counted twenty-eight.
Flashes of gunfire sparkled from the relay post’s roof as the orks opened fire on the incoming gunship. Bullets whizzed past and bounced harmlessly from the armourplas windshield.
‘Machine-spirits awakened. Targets set. Commencing attack run.’
‘Faith is our shield, righteousness our sword!’ declared Boreas as the Thunderhawk echoed with the whine of powering weapon systems.
The gunship shuddered as the dorsal battle cannon opened fire, sending a shell directly into the roof of the relay building. The explosion sent bodies and rockcrete shards flying a hundred metres into the air.
At another command, two hellstrike missiles roared away from the gunship’s wings on burning trails. The missiles jinked and swerved, their artificial brains tracking the orks as they fled in all directions seeking cover. The first detonated a few dozen metres short of the compound, turning a buggy into flaming debris. The second banked left, following a group of orks heading for an irrigation ditch. It exploded as they reached cover, tossing their bodies across the grassland.
The battle cannon fired again as heavy bolters added their fury to the onslaught, stitching lines of detonations across the rockcrete ground of the compound. The battle cannon shell smashed into a small metal-roofed guardhouse, blowing it apart from the inside.
Heavy bolters swivelling to keep track of the dispersing orks, the Thunderhawk roared over the relay station.
‘Prepare for disembarkation,’ said Demensuis. ‘Brace for deployment manoeuvre.’
The pilot cut the main plasma engines and hit the retro-jets. Inertia dragged Boreas sideways as the Thunderhawk rapidly slowed and banked heavily to the left, heavy bolters still firing at targets on the ground. Daylight flooded the main compartment as the prow assault ramp dropped down.
‘Launch assault!’ cried Zaltys. ‘Show no mercy!’
The Assault Marines bounded down the ramp, jump packs flaring. In pairs they threw themselves from the gunship’s open prow. Boreas tracked their descent on the external pict-feeds, watching the ten Space Marines plunge to the ground, their jump packs slowing their descent. With impacts that would have shattered the bones of lesser warriors, Zaltys’s squad landed in the compound, ferrocrete cracking beneath their booted feet. The Assault Marines opened fire immediately, gunning down survivors from the gunship’s attack.
‘Taking up support circuit,’ Demensuis said as the assault ramp whined shut and the plasma engines roared back into life.
The whole attack run and deployment had taken thirty-five seconds.
‘Switch battle cannon control to my station, brother,’ Boreas told the pilot.
The screens in front of the Chaplain changed, showing him the view from the Thunderhawk’s main weapon system. A smaller display to the right contained a thermal scan of the area, the hot bodies of the orks showing up bright white against the fuzzy grey of the ground; to the left another screen contained a wireframe topographical display of the compound and the contours of the surrounding grassland.
‘Combat squad split, brother-sergeant,’ Boreas told Zaltys, analysing the data on the screens. ‘Priority objectives: enemy field gun emplaced three hundred metres south of the compound gate; twenty-plus infantry using the cover of a pipeline one hundred and fifty metres south-east.’
‘Confirm, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied Zaltys. ‘Suppression fire required to cover advance.’
