Post by Soap on Dec 16, 2019 11:27:34 GMT -5
The story of Sgt Vaards
Sgt Vaard took a long drag on his Yamp cigar. The sweet taste of the Yamp leaf hit the back of his throat, and he slowly let the smoke drift out of his mouth. The map screen glared at, reflected in his eyes. His hard and scared face remained unchanged, scowling as he took in the information. Memorizing the layout of the ground, he powered down the screen, and slotted it into his pocket. He sat for a moment more, enjoying his last cigar to the end. His last enjoyment he summarised.
The snow covered trees stood still. Vaard moved slowly. Not by choice, but due to the deep snow covering the frozen ground. The veteran held his modified Las Rifle close to his chest, trying to use his arms and gloved hands to retain heat. He paused and looked back, no wind, not even a breeze to help cover his tracks. Tactically he was exposed, easy to track. But he was determined to return to Imperium lines. He mentally guessed that he has been moving about five hours, but it could be another two or even three days before he will be at the Imperiums own lines.
Vaard was special forces. 102nd Snow Lions. Not the expendable kind of special forces, sent to fight battles that cant be won, but the special forces that train hard and are used for high priority missions that must succeed. The 102nd specialised in surgical strikes on defensive positions. The 102nd where attacking an enemy outpost that has been harassing Imperial Supply lines. It sat in a clearing for snow, surrounded by forest. Six Valkyries each carriying a squad from the 102nd attacked with a squadron of three Thunderbolts. The Thunderbolts hit first. Strafing the outpost with a hail of fire, then forming up to provide air cover for the Valkyries.
As the Valkyries approached the outpost they let off a hail of rockets. Smashing into the defensive walls and towers. Explosions echoed around the snow covered clearing. Then from the trees, the enemy replyed. Missiles, heavy caliber shells, and flak rounds littered the air. Thunderbolts and Valkyries fell from the sky almost as one, as the sky filled with smoke and fire.
Left foot, right foot. Keep moving, keep warm. Vaards tried not to think about the failed attack. The slaughter. He kept pushing forward. The realisation that he was the lone survivor stopped him dead in his tracks. He realised just how tired he was. It was getting dark, and his body was aching. Taking cover by a tree, Vaards checked the map screen. He had made good distance. He scooped up some of the bright white snow and fed himself, hoping the chewing and swollowing would trick his stomach into thinking he was taking actusl food. Digging into the deep snow, Vaards made a make shift shelter. Few hours sleep, then back to it.
The missile exploded on impact, tearing half the wing off the Valkyrie. The pilot increased downward thrust, trying to lessen the impact as shells peppered the hull of the Valkyrie. Spinning downwards, the soft snow did nothing to sofen the landing. It hit hard, and the chassis buckled under the impact. Vaards shouted for the squad to evacuate and form a defensive perimeter. But only he made for the side door. Bloody bodys littered the floor, some in unnatural positions, all dead.
The outpost had smoke trail into the air form damage sustained from the attack. In the open ground between the fires of the walls and the forest, wrecked Valkyries and Thunderbolts burned. Cooked ammunition fired off, fuel burnt. The Thunderbolt squadron had one aircraft left in the air. Retreating, smoke trailing from its tail. A streak of smoke flew from the tree line, and with a blink of the eye, the Thunderbolt exploded.
Vaards woke. Freezing. The night sky thick with darkness. He could hear voices. He checked his Las Rifle, tucked it into his shoulder, and moved from tree to tree towards the voices. A squad of guardsmen followed his path by torch light. He caught a glimps of a shoulder pad through his rifle scope, bearing the number 656. Traitors.
For hundreds of years this giant ice planet had been a mining planet under Imperium control. Rich in oil and minerals. Ten years ago the Governor turned against the God-Emporor, along with the rest of the system. The Imperium responded, but too late. The system had sought allies from Xenos, trade in fuel, materials, for arms and alliances. When the Imperium arrived almost one year ago, multiple fronts where opened in a bid to retake the system. Three planets where active in the system, with the other two being hive planets. Once providing soldiers and man power accross the Imperium. Battle fleets clashed, eventually with mankind being victorious, the siege of planets could began. The two hive planets where ordered to be utterly destroyed from orbital bombardments. The failed invation attempts to retake the planets was deemed to be too high of a cost. The ice world however, was too valuable to simply wipe out.
Vaards said a silent curse seeing the squad follow his trail. Twelve, no, thirteen men, all bar one armed with Las guns. The odd one out hefted a heavy stubber, his massive frame making it look easy. Reaching for his belt, Vaards produced two frag grenades. Pulling the pins, the first he threw up high, the other he threw directly at the squad. The first exploded just above head height, fire and shrapnel raining down. The second exploded in the middle of confusion. The squad suprised and unprepared started taking shots form Vaards modified Las Gun. The weapons butt tucked into his shoulder, taking aimed shots, starting at the monster of a man with the heavy stubber.
Bodies littered the floor. Clothing burnt with a gentle smoke drifting into the air. Blood stained the snow. Vaards scanned each body, sending a kill shot whether needed or not. After the final shot, he lowered the weapon and coughed. His face felt wet, and he struggled to suck in air. He dropped his weapon and fell backwards into the snow. His hands ran accross his body, his fingers finding damage to his armour. He panicked, still unable to suck in air through his mouth, and realising why. He had been hit. Not a direct hit, a glancing hit, a fatal hit. His body fought for air, but the damage from a Las gun hit accross his throat wouldnt allow it. The heat of the hit rendered his wind pipe useless. His adrenalin started to subside, replaced by fear and panic, then ultimately darkness.
Sgt Vaard took a long drag on his Yamp cigar. The sweet taste of the Yamp leaf hit the back of his throat, and he slowly let the smoke drift out of his mouth. The map screen glared at, reflected in his eyes. His hard and scared face remained unchanged, scowling as he took in the information. Memorizing the layout of the ground, he powered down the screen, and slotted it into his pocket. He sat for a moment more, enjoying his last cigar to the end. His last enjoyment he summarised.
The snow covered trees stood still. Vaard moved slowly. Not by choice, but due to the deep snow covering the frozen ground. The veteran held his modified Las Rifle close to his chest, trying to use his arms and gloved hands to retain heat. He paused and looked back, no wind, not even a breeze to help cover his tracks. Tactically he was exposed, easy to track. But he was determined to return to Imperium lines. He mentally guessed that he has been moving about five hours, but it could be another two or even three days before he will be at the Imperiums own lines.
Vaard was special forces. 102nd Snow Lions. Not the expendable kind of special forces, sent to fight battles that cant be won, but the special forces that train hard and are used for high priority missions that must succeed. The 102nd specialised in surgical strikes on defensive positions. The 102nd where attacking an enemy outpost that has been harassing Imperial Supply lines. It sat in a clearing for snow, surrounded by forest. Six Valkyries each carriying a squad from the 102nd attacked with a squadron of three Thunderbolts. The Thunderbolts hit first. Strafing the outpost with a hail of fire, then forming up to provide air cover for the Valkyries.
As the Valkyries approached the outpost they let off a hail of rockets. Smashing into the defensive walls and towers. Explosions echoed around the snow covered clearing. Then from the trees, the enemy replyed. Missiles, heavy caliber shells, and flak rounds littered the air. Thunderbolts and Valkyries fell from the sky almost as one, as the sky filled with smoke and fire.
Left foot, right foot. Keep moving, keep warm. Vaards tried not to think about the failed attack. The slaughter. He kept pushing forward. The realisation that he was the lone survivor stopped him dead in his tracks. He realised just how tired he was. It was getting dark, and his body was aching. Taking cover by a tree, Vaards checked the map screen. He had made good distance. He scooped up some of the bright white snow and fed himself, hoping the chewing and swollowing would trick his stomach into thinking he was taking actusl food. Digging into the deep snow, Vaards made a make shift shelter. Few hours sleep, then back to it.
The missile exploded on impact, tearing half the wing off the Valkyrie. The pilot increased downward thrust, trying to lessen the impact as shells peppered the hull of the Valkyrie. Spinning downwards, the soft snow did nothing to sofen the landing. It hit hard, and the chassis buckled under the impact. Vaards shouted for the squad to evacuate and form a defensive perimeter. But only he made for the side door. Bloody bodys littered the floor, some in unnatural positions, all dead.
The outpost had smoke trail into the air form damage sustained from the attack. In the open ground between the fires of the walls and the forest, wrecked Valkyries and Thunderbolts burned. Cooked ammunition fired off, fuel burnt. The Thunderbolt squadron had one aircraft left in the air. Retreating, smoke trailing from its tail. A streak of smoke flew from the tree line, and with a blink of the eye, the Thunderbolt exploded.
Vaards woke. Freezing. The night sky thick with darkness. He could hear voices. He checked his Las Rifle, tucked it into his shoulder, and moved from tree to tree towards the voices. A squad of guardsmen followed his path by torch light. He caught a glimps of a shoulder pad through his rifle scope, bearing the number 656. Traitors.
For hundreds of years this giant ice planet had been a mining planet under Imperium control. Rich in oil and minerals. Ten years ago the Governor turned against the God-Emporor, along with the rest of the system. The Imperium responded, but too late. The system had sought allies from Xenos, trade in fuel, materials, for arms and alliances. When the Imperium arrived almost one year ago, multiple fronts where opened in a bid to retake the system. Three planets where active in the system, with the other two being hive planets. Once providing soldiers and man power accross the Imperium. Battle fleets clashed, eventually with mankind being victorious, the siege of planets could began. The two hive planets where ordered to be utterly destroyed from orbital bombardments. The failed invation attempts to retake the planets was deemed to be too high of a cost. The ice world however, was too valuable to simply wipe out.
Vaards said a silent curse seeing the squad follow his trail. Twelve, no, thirteen men, all bar one armed with Las guns. The odd one out hefted a heavy stubber, his massive frame making it look easy. Reaching for his belt, Vaards produced two frag grenades. Pulling the pins, the first he threw up high, the other he threw directly at the squad. The first exploded just above head height, fire and shrapnel raining down. The second exploded in the middle of confusion. The squad suprised and unprepared started taking shots form Vaards modified Las Gun. The weapons butt tucked into his shoulder, taking aimed shots, starting at the monster of a man with the heavy stubber.
Bodies littered the floor. Clothing burnt with a gentle smoke drifting into the air. Blood stained the snow. Vaards scanned each body, sending a kill shot whether needed or not. After the final shot, he lowered the weapon and coughed. His face felt wet, and he struggled to suck in air. He dropped his weapon and fell backwards into the snow. His hands ran accross his body, his fingers finding damage to his armour. He panicked, still unable to suck in air through his mouth, and realising why. He had been hit. Not a direct hit, a glancing hit, a fatal hit. His body fought for air, but the damage from a Las gun hit accross his throat wouldnt allow it. The heat of the hit rendered his wind pipe useless. His adrenalin started to subside, replaced by fear and panic, then ultimately darkness.
