Post by -=Commissar Wibble=- on Nov 10, 2010 3:48:18 GMT -5
"It’s got a bead on us! Take cover!” Sergeant Darman Carmine of Delta Squad shouted the warning at the top of his lungs, the volume of his own voice and the thick smoke that seemed to choke the very life from the ruined city causing a sharp ache in his throat. It felt as if the warning was sandpaper, grinding against his vocal cords as it rose from his burning lungs and from dry, cracked lips.
He didn’t stop to see if anyone heeded his own warning. Through the haze the crimson armour plating of the Vindicator Siege Tank glinted in the weak sunlight, before disappearing as the heavy Demolisher Cannon that dominated the front of the metal construct’s hull fired, temporarily concealing the tank behind a small explosion. He was running before he knew it, all rational thought and courage lost in the genetic imperative to survive. He couldn’t hear the sound of his own footsteps over the whine of the incoming shell, or the Heavy Bolter fire from the west of his position.
The sky itself seemed to fall, the piercing whine of the incoming shell drowning out everything as Darman leapt for a small pile of rubble, ignoring the pain as a sharp fragment of transparisteel cut a bloody furrow through his right arm. The pain didn’t matter. Surviving did. He tried to make himself as small as he could, moulding his body to the contours of the rubble, knowing full well that his drab-green flak armour would not protect him against a shell designed to break fortress walls and thick tank armour.
The ground itself shook under the force of the impact, and if it were not for the sound dampers built into his specially made drop-trooper ballistic helmet, he knew that he would have been rendered permanently deaf. Even with them, the sound blotted out his entire world, his cry of anxiety lost as rubble and debris fell around him, burying him under bits of road and masonry. For a few seconds, all was black, a void that threatened to engulf him, body and soul. Then, blinking despite the gold-tinted ballistic visor he wore over his eyes, he coughed and spluttered and slowly dragged himself to his feet.
The ringing in his ears was deafening, blotting out all other sound. He instinctively checked himself for wounds. There were a few bruises and scrapes, but the worst injury he had received was a jagged cut in his right arm that wept blood. It didn’t hurt. That was probably a bad sign. Then again, Tarrans were a hardy breed, products of the ultimate survival-of-the-fittest test. Still, he was fit to fight. Thanking the Emperor for preserving him, Darman Carmine knelt down amongst the rubble and picked up his trusty shotgun. A favourite weapon amongst Tarran Veterans, it was valued for its deadly power at close range.
Thankfully, the Machine Spirit inside the weapon was strong, tempered by years faithfully serving Darman. It hadn’t failed him yet. He checked it for damage, but like him it was mostly unharmed. As the smoke cleared, the first thing he noticed was the massive crater where the road had been. About two feet deep and three meters in diameter, it was impressive. Darman took a step forward, and felt something soft give way under his boot. Lifting his boot from the offending object, he glanced down to see what it was. A hand, severed at the wrist and pooling blood around Darman’s feet. He noticed an odd tattoo, some kind of three-headed snake, now mutilated by the series of cuts and scrapes on the arm.
Ethan. The poor bastard obviously hadn’t made it. Darman didn’t let himself dwell on the loss, already stepping over the hand, his shout to regroup lost in the shrill ringing in his ears, though it tore at his throat like a Genestealer on adrenaline stimms. Looking around to gather his bearings, his gaze fixed on a Guardsman. His right shoulder plate was covered in blood, but he could tell from the last number visible and the ‘D’ painted under it that the soldier was from his own squad. The man was kneeling beside the corpse of a fellow Guardsman, weeping.
Darman didn’t need to look to tell that the corpse was Ethan. The Heavy Weapons Specialist had served him faithfully during the Tarran War, and had continued to do so through this one. He vowed then and there to kill a few of the crimson bastards for him. He saw the as yet unknown Guardsman pick up the Missile Launcher that Ethan had been crewing, and aim it steadily at the Vindicator that was even now preparing its next shot. The soldier shouted something, and although Darman still couldn’t hear, his could lip-read well enough to get the gist of what the soldier was saying. He was sure if the tank crew had heard, they’d have blushed.
He shouted again, the void stealing away his words, snatching them from his throat with another bout of pain, though he could tell his hearing was coming back. The dull thudding in his ears, he recognised as Heavy Bolter fire. He then heard the Guardsman with the launcher shout ‘EASE!’ and repeated the word himself. A ritual designed to make sure your jaw was open so your eardrums didn’t pop like a spore mine in a blender, he watched as the Krak missile streaked from the launcher on a straight trajectory towards the tank. The explosion was tiny compared to the one that had smashed into his squad, and he knew in his heart it hadn’t hurt the beast.
“SOUND OFF! By the Emperor, if you’re still alive make yourself known!” He shouted, finally able to hear his voice as he looked around. He saw his second in command, Corporal Anita Cafall, firing off Lasgun shots at the tank and shouting a curse that was as ingenious as it was anatomically horrific. It was a courageous display, but he knew it was ineffective. Her shoulder-length blonde hair matted with soot and debris, her helmet obviously lost in the explosion. She was pale and had a muscled build that would have made a Cadian go green with envy. Her Tarra III accent clear over the sounds of battle, she described all the genetic failings of the tank crew in full graphic detail and full volume, punctuating each insult with a blast from the Lasgun. He sprinted over towards her and placed a gloved hand on her dented right shoulder guard, physically shaking her from the her berserk rage and pointing with gloved fingers at a group of crimson shapes that were moving through the Cathedral in front of them, barely visible through shattered windows.
She nodded and redirected her aim and rage, the taunts continuing unabated as she poured fire onto the foes. That was the kind of attitude that many were convinced would get her killed, but Darman knew her well enough to know that it was the very attitude that kept her alive and sane. Rage was her greatest weapon, and he didn’t envy the poor bastard she vented her frustrations and anger at. Anger of which she had a seemingly inexhaustible store, and Darman couldn’t even begin to fathom what had caused her that kind of pain.
He shook his head clear of those thoughts and looked back towards the Guardsman crewing the launcher, now sure of his identity. Jean Simmons, Ethan’s fellow heavy weapons specialist, and inseparable friend, was aiming another shot at the Vindicator whom had taken his comrade. His scarred face was screwed up in concentration; his jet-black hair was visible because he was the only soldier in Delta Squad to not wear a helmet. Darman sprinted over to him and grabbed a missile from the rubble. Spinning around, he slammed it into the missile’s breech and closed the hatch, pounding twice on the guardsman’s shoulder to let him know that the weapon was loaded. As Jean shouted ‘Ease’ the squad repeated his words.
Darman saw the tears running freely down Jean’s cheeks, drawing vertical lines through the soot and dirt staining his face as he aimed the shot and after a moment’s hesitation, fired the launcher. Jean was always the quiet one, a soulful man whom didn’t really talk, but listened and paid attention. Darman knew Jean was being recommended for the Infiltration Corps. If he survived this encounter, Darman would make damn sure he did. There was nothing quiet about the blast as the Krak rocket speared from the launcher and headed right for the tank.
Another hit, and another spectacular but ineffective pyrotechnic display. He looked around again to see who was left, and noticed that Anita’s fire had been joined by another set of deadly accurate, slow-paced group of shots. He didn’t need to see the signature gasmask or the SledgeHammer strapped to the Guardsman’s back to know that John Murray had yet again proved himself impossible to kill. His helmet obviously lost in the explosion, his bald cranium gleamed in the weak light. Darman remembered to remind his soldiers to make sure the straps on their helmets were tight next time. He was the only bloke who’d managed to keep his firmly on his head.
Johnno Murray. A hero of the conflict in the Tarra III mines, the only known survivor of the Battle for Peruses and a man whom used his knives as much as he used his Lasgun. John was a bit disturbing, his appearance was that of a Salvar chem dog, but Darman knew he was one of the good guys. He didn’t use his celebrity to swell his ego, but to make sure that he was able to help those around him. He was the Tarran concept of mateship personified, always willing to help out a mate. And that was what he was doing, firing to bolster the power of Anita’ shots, not trying to score any kills of his own. Still, with the bastards Power Armour and the cover the Cathedral gave the, their chances of scoring a kill were low. They were not meant to kill ‘em anyway.
He shouted for Murray to assist Jean, and tapped the vox-bead on the side of his helmet.
“This is Carmine. Enemy infantry sighted moving through the Cathedral. We’ve got ‘em hooked, it’s time to spring the trap.” He said tersely, not bothering to mention that six out of his original ten-man squad were now dead. He knew that Vevlaa could see perfectly well from his vantage point up on the Sanctum, where he directed the fire of 601 Platoon. Darman knew there was going to be heavy casualties on this mission. He just hoped that next time, 601 could play the part of bait instead of 603 Platoon, the number painted on the shoulder guards of his squad. He slid his shotgun into the holster on his back, knowing it would be useless at this range. Instead, he drew his Laspistol and added his shots to those of the rest of his battered squad, picking out a soldier with no helmet and blonde hair to be the victim of his retribution.
“Copy that Delta. You’ve done your part, get clear and we’ll do ours.” Was the reply over the speakers in his helmet’s vox set. Vevlaa’s Tarra III accent was, like Anita’s, unmistakable, and Darman nodded to himself. He’d lured the marines into the kill zone that Major Dunn had pointed out during the briefing. Now, looking back towards the three-story Sanctum Imperialis to the East of his squad, he saw the camouflaged shapes of 601 Platoon make themselves known just as two squads of crimson-armoured super soldiers barrelled out of the Cathedral. His soot-covered face was split by a grim smile as Vevlaa’s Command Squad let loose a volley of Krak grenades into the nearest enemy squad, taking down three of the super-soldiers in a barrage of violent detonations that turned them into chunks of gore. He let a ragged cheer scour his throat as a brilliant shot rang from the roof and smashed into the face of another Space Marine, splattering his brains on the armour of the last surviving member of the squad.
His cheer was joined by a loud shout of approval from the Sanctum as the gore-covered Marine, obviously unnerved by what he had seen, broke rank and sprinted back the way he had come, his fanatical faith not enough to keep him from succumbing to cowardice. He added his own shots to the withering fire that 601 Platoon was pouring from the Sanctum onto the remaining squad. Space Marines were genetically engineered super soldiers, clad in the finest armour and equipped with the best weapons the Imperium had to offer. Against the massed volley fire the Tarran 1st was pouring onto them, it didn’t save them.
He felt a small impact on his shoulder and turned to see Sergeant ‘Nomad’ Delta from Epsilon Squad crouched beside him, and behind the fellow Squad Commander he saw Lieutenant Brian Harper shout for the combined squads to form up into a firing line. All too happy to obey, he poured shots into a blonde-haired marine that was obviously in command of the now surrounded squad as Epsilon and 603 Platoon’s Command Squad fell into position beside him. Now caught in a crossfire from the combined firepower of two Tarran Platoons, three more marines fell to the ground, cut down by the cruel incoming fire. He saw a shot from the blonde Marine clip Anita’s arm, but it only served to fuel her anger.
Brian Harper was actually an ex-tank commander, and it showed in his bombastic attitude and the determined manner in which he made sure his squad commanders were able to operate completely independently of him. His signature Bolt Pistols in hand, he added his own shots to those of his platoon. Darman grinned again as he looked back towards the surviving Marine squad, expecting to see a squad of corpses in the open ground between Cathedral and Sanctum.
He was quite disappointed when, with only two marines left, they reached the doors of the Sanctum. One barged down the door with a shoulder charge, whilst Blondie threw a grenade into the building. Suddenly, things weren’t going so well any more. Darman winced as he heard the screams from inside the building. The trap had worked beautifully, but Blondie and his companion had weathered the fire and made it to the Sanctum. Now, in the cramped quarters of the building, they were using their power swords and unnatural strength to slaughter the brave guardsmen within.
“Dunn, this is Darman. The bastards have a Commander with some kind of special armour. He’s in the Sanctum slaughtering 601. Want us to lure ‘im into range of your Heavies?” He said calmly over the Vox, having seen too much death and slaughter to be paralysed by it. Like all members of the Tarran 1st, he had fought against the Tyranids, and had seen enough death to steel him against the horrors of war. Against those monsters, you either adapted or you died. Since he was fighting here, he had obviously adapted.
“Carmine, this is Dunn. Good thinking, my men are in position. Set him up and we’ll knock him down.”
Major Sam Dunn was in charge of the Company fighting in these city ruins, and had deployed himself and his heavy weapons on the west flank to deal with the troop transports that had formed up there. Having already neutralised his targets, the Major was obviously more than ready to use his impressive firepower to take down the enemy’s commander. Darman Carmine’s squad was known as the best there was at baiting the enemy into making mistakes. With Cafall’s skill at taunting and Darman’s almost supernatural ability to see things from the perspective of the enemy and find out their plan, they could manipulate most enemies as easily as his own squad.
Already, Epsilon Squad and Harper were pulling back into the cover of the Cathedral, wary that the Vindicator may well strike again. He gave Nomad a one fingered salute, which was dutifully returned. Tradition observed, Darman turned to look at the Sanctum. The screams had stopped, and even now he saw Blondie exit the building, his comrade nowhere to be seen. He could tell from the blood on the enemy commander’s armour that the bloke had done the most of the killing, and from the look in the Marine’s eye that he was well and truly pissed off at having been suckered.
Good. Now that 601 were down, he thought the sucker punch was countered. He wouldn’t see the counter-counter-punch coming. Darman chuckled to himself at the thought, before coughing as too much soot and crap entered his lungs. Already, Anita and Murray were pouring Lasfire into the Marine’s face, though some force-field protected him from the shots. Jean was still continuing his valiant but ultimately useless resistance against the Vindicator, though it seemed that so far he had succeeded in keeping the tank from firing. Darman didn’t want to think of how long they had before the crew in there recovered their wits and sent another Demolisher shell his way.
So, he just concentrated on pumping Lasfire into the enraged marine, and grinned as Blondie started to run towards his squad.
“OY! BLONDIE! I THINK YOU GOT nuts ON YOUR...NO, WAIT, THAT /IS/ YOUR FACE, INNIT? NAH WORRIES, I’LL TAKE CARE OF IT FOR YA!” Came the shout as Anita hurled insults and Lasfire with wild abandon, grinning as she did so. With their martial pride and sense of honour, Marines were all too easy to rile up.
Then the other marine barrelled out of the Cathedral and raced towards them, easily overtaking Blondie in his berserk fury. Darman noted with a smile it was the coward from before. He noticed Jean about to fire another missile at the Vindicator Tank, and shook his head.
“Don’t bother, mate, we can’t scratch that fornicateer. Try Captain Courage, instead.” He said, and Jean immediately understood, and pivoted neatly on his foot, dropping back to his knee once he was facing the right way and firing a Krak missile. As his shot streaked over the battlefield, it was joined by another three from Dunn’s Platoon. Carmine watched in awe as the four missiles streaked towards the two marines, and grinned as Jean’s shot impacted with the marine that had retreated previously. A Krak Missile is far more powerful than a Krak Grenade, and the violence of the explosion was proof of this. Captain Courage, as Darman had called him, was no more.
Then, he saw Lasfire sparking against the back of Blondie’s armour. Perhaps not seeing the missiles, he turned towards the source of the annoyance...and caught two missiles right in his back. Darman whooped with laughter as the jetpack ignited , sending Blondie whizzing through the air without a destination, before his flight was ended by a third missile, turning him into what could only be described as shrapnel and a fine red mist. He looked towards the Sanctum and saw Vevlaa standing at the window, a battered Lasgun in his hands, nodding in grim satisfaction.
Then he noticed that the Vindicator had moved.
Throne of Terra, it was drawing a bead on Vevlaa.
He didn’t have time to shout a warning before the siege tank fired, and turned the Sanctum into firewood. The enemy infantry had been destroyed, he saw that there wasn’t any more fire coming from the Manufactorium and Dunn’s guns had long since gone silent. All the enemy had left was a great big siege tank. The cost of victory was damn high, however. 601 Platoon had been wiped out. Vevlaa, Hardman, Jacko. All good men. Now, all gone.
Then, a voice that was out of place sounded in his ears. Tinny and female in cadence, devoid of emotion or accent, it calmly stated,
“Impalers have been wiped out. Tarran Victory.” It said this as Dunn felt a stab of pain, and his world went black...
...A minute later, he was disconnected from the simulator. He looked over his shoulder to see who was standing in the ‘dead’ area, and noticed with chagrin that Harper and most of Nomad’s squad were there, too. The berserk marine must have gone straight through them on his was to get at him. Damn, it’d been closer than they’d thought. He looked over towards Anita and Jean, standing beside him, and nodded. “Good work you two. Find the rest of the boys, we’ll do an After-Action Report while we wait for the Dunny’s boys to get unplugged.”
He didn’t stop to see if anyone heeded his own warning. Through the haze the crimson armour plating of the Vindicator Siege Tank glinted in the weak sunlight, before disappearing as the heavy Demolisher Cannon that dominated the front of the metal construct’s hull fired, temporarily concealing the tank behind a small explosion. He was running before he knew it, all rational thought and courage lost in the genetic imperative to survive. He couldn’t hear the sound of his own footsteps over the whine of the incoming shell, or the Heavy Bolter fire from the west of his position.
The sky itself seemed to fall, the piercing whine of the incoming shell drowning out everything as Darman leapt for a small pile of rubble, ignoring the pain as a sharp fragment of transparisteel cut a bloody furrow through his right arm. The pain didn’t matter. Surviving did. He tried to make himself as small as he could, moulding his body to the contours of the rubble, knowing full well that his drab-green flak armour would not protect him against a shell designed to break fortress walls and thick tank armour.
The ground itself shook under the force of the impact, and if it were not for the sound dampers built into his specially made drop-trooper ballistic helmet, he knew that he would have been rendered permanently deaf. Even with them, the sound blotted out his entire world, his cry of anxiety lost as rubble and debris fell around him, burying him under bits of road and masonry. For a few seconds, all was black, a void that threatened to engulf him, body and soul. Then, blinking despite the gold-tinted ballistic visor he wore over his eyes, he coughed and spluttered and slowly dragged himself to his feet.
The ringing in his ears was deafening, blotting out all other sound. He instinctively checked himself for wounds. There were a few bruises and scrapes, but the worst injury he had received was a jagged cut in his right arm that wept blood. It didn’t hurt. That was probably a bad sign. Then again, Tarrans were a hardy breed, products of the ultimate survival-of-the-fittest test. Still, he was fit to fight. Thanking the Emperor for preserving him, Darman Carmine knelt down amongst the rubble and picked up his trusty shotgun. A favourite weapon amongst Tarran Veterans, it was valued for its deadly power at close range.
Thankfully, the Machine Spirit inside the weapon was strong, tempered by years faithfully serving Darman. It hadn’t failed him yet. He checked it for damage, but like him it was mostly unharmed. As the smoke cleared, the first thing he noticed was the massive crater where the road had been. About two feet deep and three meters in diameter, it was impressive. Darman took a step forward, and felt something soft give way under his boot. Lifting his boot from the offending object, he glanced down to see what it was. A hand, severed at the wrist and pooling blood around Darman’s feet. He noticed an odd tattoo, some kind of three-headed snake, now mutilated by the series of cuts and scrapes on the arm.
Ethan. The poor bastard obviously hadn’t made it. Darman didn’t let himself dwell on the loss, already stepping over the hand, his shout to regroup lost in the shrill ringing in his ears, though it tore at his throat like a Genestealer on adrenaline stimms. Looking around to gather his bearings, his gaze fixed on a Guardsman. His right shoulder plate was covered in blood, but he could tell from the last number visible and the ‘D’ painted under it that the soldier was from his own squad. The man was kneeling beside the corpse of a fellow Guardsman, weeping.
Darman didn’t need to look to tell that the corpse was Ethan. The Heavy Weapons Specialist had served him faithfully during the Tarran War, and had continued to do so through this one. He vowed then and there to kill a few of the crimson bastards for him. He saw the as yet unknown Guardsman pick up the Missile Launcher that Ethan had been crewing, and aim it steadily at the Vindicator that was even now preparing its next shot. The soldier shouted something, and although Darman still couldn’t hear, his could lip-read well enough to get the gist of what the soldier was saying. He was sure if the tank crew had heard, they’d have blushed.
He shouted again, the void stealing away his words, snatching them from his throat with another bout of pain, though he could tell his hearing was coming back. The dull thudding in his ears, he recognised as Heavy Bolter fire. He then heard the Guardsman with the launcher shout ‘EASE!’ and repeated the word himself. A ritual designed to make sure your jaw was open so your eardrums didn’t pop like a spore mine in a blender, he watched as the Krak missile streaked from the launcher on a straight trajectory towards the tank. The explosion was tiny compared to the one that had smashed into his squad, and he knew in his heart it hadn’t hurt the beast.
“SOUND OFF! By the Emperor, if you’re still alive make yourself known!” He shouted, finally able to hear his voice as he looked around. He saw his second in command, Corporal Anita Cafall, firing off Lasgun shots at the tank and shouting a curse that was as ingenious as it was anatomically horrific. It was a courageous display, but he knew it was ineffective. Her shoulder-length blonde hair matted with soot and debris, her helmet obviously lost in the explosion. She was pale and had a muscled build that would have made a Cadian go green with envy. Her Tarra III accent clear over the sounds of battle, she described all the genetic failings of the tank crew in full graphic detail and full volume, punctuating each insult with a blast from the Lasgun. He sprinted over towards her and placed a gloved hand on her dented right shoulder guard, physically shaking her from the her berserk rage and pointing with gloved fingers at a group of crimson shapes that were moving through the Cathedral in front of them, barely visible through shattered windows.
She nodded and redirected her aim and rage, the taunts continuing unabated as she poured fire onto the foes. That was the kind of attitude that many were convinced would get her killed, but Darman knew her well enough to know that it was the very attitude that kept her alive and sane. Rage was her greatest weapon, and he didn’t envy the poor bastard she vented her frustrations and anger at. Anger of which she had a seemingly inexhaustible store, and Darman couldn’t even begin to fathom what had caused her that kind of pain.
He shook his head clear of those thoughts and looked back towards the Guardsman crewing the launcher, now sure of his identity. Jean Simmons, Ethan’s fellow heavy weapons specialist, and inseparable friend, was aiming another shot at the Vindicator whom had taken his comrade. His scarred face was screwed up in concentration; his jet-black hair was visible because he was the only soldier in Delta Squad to not wear a helmet. Darman sprinted over to him and grabbed a missile from the rubble. Spinning around, he slammed it into the missile’s breech and closed the hatch, pounding twice on the guardsman’s shoulder to let him know that the weapon was loaded. As Jean shouted ‘Ease’ the squad repeated his words.
Darman saw the tears running freely down Jean’s cheeks, drawing vertical lines through the soot and dirt staining his face as he aimed the shot and after a moment’s hesitation, fired the launcher. Jean was always the quiet one, a soulful man whom didn’t really talk, but listened and paid attention. Darman knew Jean was being recommended for the Infiltration Corps. If he survived this encounter, Darman would make damn sure he did. There was nothing quiet about the blast as the Krak rocket speared from the launcher and headed right for the tank.
Another hit, and another spectacular but ineffective pyrotechnic display. He looked around again to see who was left, and noticed that Anita’s fire had been joined by another set of deadly accurate, slow-paced group of shots. He didn’t need to see the signature gasmask or the SledgeHammer strapped to the Guardsman’s back to know that John Murray had yet again proved himself impossible to kill. His helmet obviously lost in the explosion, his bald cranium gleamed in the weak light. Darman remembered to remind his soldiers to make sure the straps on their helmets were tight next time. He was the only bloke who’d managed to keep his firmly on his head.
Johnno Murray. A hero of the conflict in the Tarra III mines, the only known survivor of the Battle for Peruses and a man whom used his knives as much as he used his Lasgun. John was a bit disturbing, his appearance was that of a Salvar chem dog, but Darman knew he was one of the good guys. He didn’t use his celebrity to swell his ego, but to make sure that he was able to help those around him. He was the Tarran concept of mateship personified, always willing to help out a mate. And that was what he was doing, firing to bolster the power of Anita’ shots, not trying to score any kills of his own. Still, with the bastards Power Armour and the cover the Cathedral gave the, their chances of scoring a kill were low. They were not meant to kill ‘em anyway.
He shouted for Murray to assist Jean, and tapped the vox-bead on the side of his helmet.
“This is Carmine. Enemy infantry sighted moving through the Cathedral. We’ve got ‘em hooked, it’s time to spring the trap.” He said tersely, not bothering to mention that six out of his original ten-man squad were now dead. He knew that Vevlaa could see perfectly well from his vantage point up on the Sanctum, where he directed the fire of 601 Platoon. Darman knew there was going to be heavy casualties on this mission. He just hoped that next time, 601 could play the part of bait instead of 603 Platoon, the number painted on the shoulder guards of his squad. He slid his shotgun into the holster on his back, knowing it would be useless at this range. Instead, he drew his Laspistol and added his shots to those of the rest of his battered squad, picking out a soldier with no helmet and blonde hair to be the victim of his retribution.
“Copy that Delta. You’ve done your part, get clear and we’ll do ours.” Was the reply over the speakers in his helmet’s vox set. Vevlaa’s Tarra III accent was, like Anita’s, unmistakable, and Darman nodded to himself. He’d lured the marines into the kill zone that Major Dunn had pointed out during the briefing. Now, looking back towards the three-story Sanctum Imperialis to the East of his squad, he saw the camouflaged shapes of 601 Platoon make themselves known just as two squads of crimson-armoured super soldiers barrelled out of the Cathedral. His soot-covered face was split by a grim smile as Vevlaa’s Command Squad let loose a volley of Krak grenades into the nearest enemy squad, taking down three of the super-soldiers in a barrage of violent detonations that turned them into chunks of gore. He let a ragged cheer scour his throat as a brilliant shot rang from the roof and smashed into the face of another Space Marine, splattering his brains on the armour of the last surviving member of the squad.
His cheer was joined by a loud shout of approval from the Sanctum as the gore-covered Marine, obviously unnerved by what he had seen, broke rank and sprinted back the way he had come, his fanatical faith not enough to keep him from succumbing to cowardice. He added his own shots to the withering fire that 601 Platoon was pouring from the Sanctum onto the remaining squad. Space Marines were genetically engineered super soldiers, clad in the finest armour and equipped with the best weapons the Imperium had to offer. Against the massed volley fire the Tarran 1st was pouring onto them, it didn’t save them.
He felt a small impact on his shoulder and turned to see Sergeant ‘Nomad’ Delta from Epsilon Squad crouched beside him, and behind the fellow Squad Commander he saw Lieutenant Brian Harper shout for the combined squads to form up into a firing line. All too happy to obey, he poured shots into a blonde-haired marine that was obviously in command of the now surrounded squad as Epsilon and 603 Platoon’s Command Squad fell into position beside him. Now caught in a crossfire from the combined firepower of two Tarran Platoons, three more marines fell to the ground, cut down by the cruel incoming fire. He saw a shot from the blonde Marine clip Anita’s arm, but it only served to fuel her anger.
Brian Harper was actually an ex-tank commander, and it showed in his bombastic attitude and the determined manner in which he made sure his squad commanders were able to operate completely independently of him. His signature Bolt Pistols in hand, he added his own shots to those of his platoon. Darman grinned again as he looked back towards the surviving Marine squad, expecting to see a squad of corpses in the open ground between Cathedral and Sanctum.
He was quite disappointed when, with only two marines left, they reached the doors of the Sanctum. One barged down the door with a shoulder charge, whilst Blondie threw a grenade into the building. Suddenly, things weren’t going so well any more. Darman winced as he heard the screams from inside the building. The trap had worked beautifully, but Blondie and his companion had weathered the fire and made it to the Sanctum. Now, in the cramped quarters of the building, they were using their power swords and unnatural strength to slaughter the brave guardsmen within.
“Dunn, this is Darman. The bastards have a Commander with some kind of special armour. He’s in the Sanctum slaughtering 601. Want us to lure ‘im into range of your Heavies?” He said calmly over the Vox, having seen too much death and slaughter to be paralysed by it. Like all members of the Tarran 1st, he had fought against the Tyranids, and had seen enough death to steel him against the horrors of war. Against those monsters, you either adapted or you died. Since he was fighting here, he had obviously adapted.
“Carmine, this is Dunn. Good thinking, my men are in position. Set him up and we’ll knock him down.”
Major Sam Dunn was in charge of the Company fighting in these city ruins, and had deployed himself and his heavy weapons on the west flank to deal with the troop transports that had formed up there. Having already neutralised his targets, the Major was obviously more than ready to use his impressive firepower to take down the enemy’s commander. Darman Carmine’s squad was known as the best there was at baiting the enemy into making mistakes. With Cafall’s skill at taunting and Darman’s almost supernatural ability to see things from the perspective of the enemy and find out their plan, they could manipulate most enemies as easily as his own squad.
Already, Epsilon Squad and Harper were pulling back into the cover of the Cathedral, wary that the Vindicator may well strike again. He gave Nomad a one fingered salute, which was dutifully returned. Tradition observed, Darman turned to look at the Sanctum. The screams had stopped, and even now he saw Blondie exit the building, his comrade nowhere to be seen. He could tell from the blood on the enemy commander’s armour that the bloke had done the most of the killing, and from the look in the Marine’s eye that he was well and truly pissed off at having been suckered.
Good. Now that 601 were down, he thought the sucker punch was countered. He wouldn’t see the counter-counter-punch coming. Darman chuckled to himself at the thought, before coughing as too much soot and crap entered his lungs. Already, Anita and Murray were pouring Lasfire into the Marine’s face, though some force-field protected him from the shots. Jean was still continuing his valiant but ultimately useless resistance against the Vindicator, though it seemed that so far he had succeeded in keeping the tank from firing. Darman didn’t want to think of how long they had before the crew in there recovered their wits and sent another Demolisher shell his way.
So, he just concentrated on pumping Lasfire into the enraged marine, and grinned as Blondie started to run towards his squad.
“OY! BLONDIE! I THINK YOU GOT nuts ON YOUR...NO, WAIT, THAT /IS/ YOUR FACE, INNIT? NAH WORRIES, I’LL TAKE CARE OF IT FOR YA!” Came the shout as Anita hurled insults and Lasfire with wild abandon, grinning as she did so. With their martial pride and sense of honour, Marines were all too easy to rile up.
Then the other marine barrelled out of the Cathedral and raced towards them, easily overtaking Blondie in his berserk fury. Darman noted with a smile it was the coward from before. He noticed Jean about to fire another missile at the Vindicator Tank, and shook his head.
“Don’t bother, mate, we can’t scratch that fornicateer. Try Captain Courage, instead.” He said, and Jean immediately understood, and pivoted neatly on his foot, dropping back to his knee once he was facing the right way and firing a Krak missile. As his shot streaked over the battlefield, it was joined by another three from Dunn’s Platoon. Carmine watched in awe as the four missiles streaked towards the two marines, and grinned as Jean’s shot impacted with the marine that had retreated previously. A Krak Missile is far more powerful than a Krak Grenade, and the violence of the explosion was proof of this. Captain Courage, as Darman had called him, was no more.
Then, he saw Lasfire sparking against the back of Blondie’s armour. Perhaps not seeing the missiles, he turned towards the source of the annoyance...and caught two missiles right in his back. Darman whooped with laughter as the jetpack ignited , sending Blondie whizzing through the air without a destination, before his flight was ended by a third missile, turning him into what could only be described as shrapnel and a fine red mist. He looked towards the Sanctum and saw Vevlaa standing at the window, a battered Lasgun in his hands, nodding in grim satisfaction.
Then he noticed that the Vindicator had moved.
Throne of Terra, it was drawing a bead on Vevlaa.
He didn’t have time to shout a warning before the siege tank fired, and turned the Sanctum into firewood. The enemy infantry had been destroyed, he saw that there wasn’t any more fire coming from the Manufactorium and Dunn’s guns had long since gone silent. All the enemy had left was a great big siege tank. The cost of victory was damn high, however. 601 Platoon had been wiped out. Vevlaa, Hardman, Jacko. All good men. Now, all gone.
Then, a voice that was out of place sounded in his ears. Tinny and female in cadence, devoid of emotion or accent, it calmly stated,
“Impalers have been wiped out. Tarran Victory.” It said this as Dunn felt a stab of pain, and his world went black...
...A minute later, he was disconnected from the simulator. He looked over his shoulder to see who was standing in the ‘dead’ area, and noticed with chagrin that Harper and most of Nomad’s squad were there, too. The berserk marine must have gone straight through them on his was to get at him. Damn, it’d been closer than they’d thought. He looked over towards Anita and Jean, standing beside him, and nodded. “Good work you two. Find the rest of the boys, we’ll do an After-Action Report while we wait for the Dunny’s boys to get unplugged.”
This is a narrative form of a Battle Report between my Tarran Infantry (before they became Mechanized) and my mate's Space Marines. It was about 750 points if I remember correctly. I won the narrowest victory of all time - my heaviest weapon was four Missile Launchers, so I just couldn't kill his bloody Vindicator, no matter how much I tried.
This was about a year ago - thought I'd post it up and see what you blokes thought.
