D-Day + 2, 14:22 Local

Battlegroup Vanguard – 88th Aurean Dragoons

“GUNNER: HE, SAME TARGET!”

“IDENT!”

“UP!”

“ON THE WAY!”

A woosh of a 130mm recoiling battle cannon next to his head confirmed the end of Sergeant Vraden’s command sequence. The twenty-two seasons old tank commander kept huddled over his Leman Russ’ commander’s sight. He repeatedly and nervously hammered his right foot into the ground to channel his mixture of fear and adrenaline rather than vomiting out a scream of panic to his crew.

Through his cracked telescopic lens he watched as most of the cultist horde disappeared in a burst of earth and shell. The few stragglers that remained were picked off by his sponson gunners: cut in half by a lascannon bolt, incinerated in a burst of melta-fire, or simply felled in a far less cinematic but more effective spray of hard rounds from the tank’s co-axial heavy stubber.

“Target destroyed,” he announced to his crew. A mixture of relief and praises/curses to the Emperor washed over them as the adrenaline and immediate fear seemed to subside. 

Vraden remained silent. He knew he needed to remain a stoic rock to inspire confidence in his command. He also knew that if he opened his mouth too quickly he might throw up – the last vestiges of the swinging hormones coming from a solid hour of near death experiences. 

Once composed, he ordered his crew to take position in the center square. Vraden checked his aft cameras and saw a squad of cavalry scouts in cameloline cloaks pace behind hill; it was probably Captain Sharpe and his cadre. Comms had been spotty at best throughout the engagement, but with no response from the other sectors in the last ten minutes there was a decent chance Vraden’s tank and Sharpe were the last defenders alive. 

A loud ring in his headset broke him out of these miserable thoughts. Vraden switched his vox set to his local channel. “5-actual,” alerted Sharpe over the telephone set in the back of his vehicle, “sitrep on higher’s response? Your vox is definitely better than mine.”

Vraden switched channels and called back to the telephone set: “Yes sir, sending traffic again.” With a few snaps he switched over to the command net and tried again to raise their command. 

“Break. Break. Fortress this is Vanguard 5. How copy?”

Surprisingly something other than static broke through a response. “Fortress copies, Vanguard 5. We’ve been receiving your comms piecemeal but confirming your request. Wait one.”  

Vraden pumped his fist in glee and switched back to Sharpe. “Sir I’ve been able to raise higher on my vox. Feel free to take the mic if you’d like.” He threw a sequence of levers and the hatch above him opened up, sending a woosh of smoke-filled air into the cabin of the tank. 

Sharpe appeared above him, removed his helmet, and took Vraden’s headset. “Fortress this is Assassin Actual via Vanguard 5. We’re holding Sector Gamma but we need immediate assistance. Scramble 5 Commando QRF to this position. How copy?”

A burst of static filled the tank’s loudspeakers, then was cut as their command responded.

“Fortress copies, Assassin. Denied. 5 Commando QRF unavailable due to tasking.”

A light bell resounded through the tank as Captain Sharpe slammed his bolt pistol on the side armor in rage. “DAMN IT FORTRESS. THE FETH DO YOU MEAN THE QUICK REACTION FORCE IS ALREADY TASKED? I TASKED THEM PRECISELY FOR THIS-”

The radio interrupted him. “-I’m sorry, Captain. But your orders were overridden. QRF was priority tasked by Vermillion.”

Sharpe and Vraden exchanged looks of anger and betrayal. The fething Inquisition. Shaking with rage, Sharpe ran his gloved hands through his hair before he responded. 

“Okay Fortress. If Vermillion wants to take our QRF how are we supposed to hold off this counter-attack? I’ve just got a tank and my command squad left, and by last report we’ve still got Heretic Astartes in our zone. Where are our reinforcements?”

“Fortress copies, Actual. Reinforcements are 30 mikes. Rerouting grid QRF and fast air to your position. ETA: 5 mikes.”

Well that’s at least something. Their grid square had a tasking of Valks and a squad of grenadiers ready to support troops in contact. It wasn’t the QRF Sharpe wanted, but it was far better than nothing. Sharpe responded back, “Assassin copies, Fortress. We’ll take position around the square and mark friendlies with green-”

“-Break, break. Fortress to Assassin: ISR reports enemy activity in your sector. Heretic Astartes enroute to your position in-”

Vraden and Sharpe didn’t need to hear the rest. 

The unholy scream of daemon-touched jetpacks and infernal laughter filled the soot-filled air. A thick curtain of smoke at the edge of the square parted, and a squad of raptors landed in a burst of flames and bolter fire. As rounds detonated around them, Sharpe threw the handset back in the tank and Vraden quickly slammed shut his top hatch.

“CONTACT FRONT,” Vraden screamed into the tank as the adrenaline surged back and he rushed to put on his headset. “GUNNER: HEAT, INFANTRY”

The tank crew began affirming his firing order. In the chaos, Vraden noted to himself that if they survived this he was going to have a lot of questions in the debrief.