crusade

The Second Battle of Aerodrome X-32

Andy, , Leave a comment

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.

The Nachmund Crusade: The Battle of Aerodrome X-32

Andy, , Leave a comment


D-Day, 10:05 Local

Battlegroup Vanguard – 88th Aurean Dragoons

Lieutenant-Commissar Glyndwyr’s pathfinders executed a textbook breach of the Aerodrome’s command bunker. 

With explosive satchels they blew open a weakened exterior wall, avoiding the fatal funnel of the front door. While the dust was still settling from the explosion two flame-troopers filled the inside with blazing promethium. And as the traitors inside displaced from the flames they were met with a dozen hand grenades, which blew puffs of the still-ablaze promethium gel out like bubbles from a volcano. 

This would have been enough to kill a platoon of men. Unfortunately they were not facing men. They were facing the apostates of the Emperor’s Children. So Glyndwyr gave the order he knew his men dreaded:

“Fix bayonets,” he roared as he drew his master-crafted Carthaen powerblade Dawnbreaker.

His pathfinders slashed out their Aurean sword-bayonets and locked them to the muzzles of their L39 las rifles. He admired their courage; charging into a flaming building to engage Heretic Astartes in close combat was seemingly suicidal. But the Aureans had centuries of experience fighting the Traitor Legions. They knew the cost of letting the Ruinous Powers take Sangua Terra. 

And as a few looked to Glyndwyr’s sidearm, he imagined they also knew the cost of not following his orders. 

Glyndwyr nodded to his squad. He grabbed two by the webbing, shaking their gear tight and looking deep into the black glass of each’s combat helm before regarding the rest of the squad.

“Your names are already on the Hallowed Wall,” he shouted in Aurean out of respect. “Let’s earn that honor. Let’s write our stories. Let’s give those bastards steel.” 

Glyndwyr switched back to Gothic. “Fireteam Alpha forms a palisade push. Bravo, fan out and secure.” He pulled his plasma pistol and turned to the burning entrance. “I’ll see you on the other side!” 

He leapt through billowing black smoke into hell itself. The inside of the bunker was a raging inferno. Shards of frag had embedded into the flaming walls, melting into black teeth that grinned maliciously in the light of the lit promethium. 

He was met by three Emperor’s Children: all in power armor scarred and torn by their assault. They drew their chainswords and combat knives, and charged him in profane screams of excitement and rage. Glyndwyr shot the closest in the face with his plasma pistol: a bright red flash in the flickering light of the flames that faded to find a charged mass of pink and black fall in a clumsy collapse of suddenly-lifeless limbs.

Glyndwyr knew he’d only get one shot off. The second legionnaire bore down on him, swinging a chainsword nearly the size of the commissar down onto his head. 


In response, Glyndwyr raised his blade into Vaugh-gahl: the Eagle’s stance. A lifetime of painful training in the Carthaen sword arts meant that he had seen almost everything one could see in a duel. This was no exception, and as a young and underfed orphan at the Schola Progenium he often duelled stronger boys with edged weapons. He knew how to turn a bigger opponent’s strength against him.

He met the chainsword in a parry, feeling the force of what felt like a speeding car slam into his blade. Gwendlyn let the force guide Dawnbreaker, coaxing his foe’s strength and bidding its path into a swirling riposte that circled back down onto the Chaos Space marine. Gwendlyr’s blade slashed through the Marine’s thick arms – literally disarming him in a flash of crackling light and sparks. 

The armless Traitor Marine looked at him confused. Glyndwyr planted his feet and charged his foe, returning the expression by thrusting Dawnbreaker through the Traitor’s two hearts. He leapt onto its body as it fell, standing triumphant on top of his gigantic foe and drawing his blade out in a fountain of gore. 

The last Astartes charged Glyndwhyr with his hooked combat knife. But his charge was cut short by six pathfinders who speared him from the side and thrust him into a nearby wall. As they unloaded their mags at point-blank range, the remaining fireteam joined them – screaming obscenities and mag-dumping their las rifles in a mad hurricane of las bolts and rage. 

Glyndwyr gave himself a moment to proudly regard his squad’s kill before he completed their mission. Moving to the large cogitator at the end of the room, he slapped a series of quick commands and deactivated a large red warning rune that rose in response. 

“Hunter 1-1 to all stations,” Glyndwyr announced into his helmet’s voxbead after keying the command channel. “I pass Clear Skies.”

“Excellent work, Hunter 1-1,” responded the vox. “Fortress this is Vanguard Actual. The last enemy anti-air is down.”

“The skies are ours. Bring the rain.”