-Salazar
Aktan, in reference to the First Purges.
Moore
sat alone in the empty bunker, staring vacantly at the cold, gray
wall. His skin was drawn and pale, his black hair overlong and disheveled. His eyes were glazed over and dead, and his hand twitched
uncontrollably, as if knowing the terrible deed which now tainted it.
The remaining men under his command had hardly spoken to him. None
blamed him for what had happened, but it was a subject that only
carried pain, and a reminder of what fate awaited them all if a
relief force wasn't forthcoming. He could feel the darkness clawing
at his mind, a living thing, hovering over him, imperceptible but
there, calling for him to end it all, to end the suffering.
They
had been abandoned. Left out here to die. Perhaps it had always been
meant to be so. After all, they had been gauged expendable enough to
be spared from second platoon, a full year ago, when first platoon
had been all but annihilated and needed to be rebuilt.
"Still
here, sergeant?"
The
officer snapped back to reality, his dead gaze looking in the
direction of the sound. It was Natasha, a surprise visit for sure, as
most of the medical staff were kept permanently tied down with the
piles of dead and wounded. She had ditched the exo-suit two days ago,
there was no more power for recharging the suits. Moore had already
noticed many of the soldiers, especially those who operated in rear
area and "low priority" roles, forced to abandon theirs in
an effort to minimize the power consumption. The dark circles under
her eyes and wisps of hair sticking out at odd angles bore testament
to too many long, sleepless nights. She plopped down next to him,
removing her mud and blood coated boots one by one, stretching out
and blinking to try and stay awake.
"Don't
you have your own unit quarters?"
Moore
asked, his tone a fair bit more acrid than he intended.
"Not
any more, my dugout was hit by artillery, it's gone. I'm homeless,
yes? Plus, you, not much of a unit for me, right? I think most of the
other staff will probably be moved here. Will be fun. Killers and
doctors, perfect match."
She
chuckled at her own wit and rubbed her eyes. He merely grunted an unintelligible response and looked down at his feet. The medic remained silent for a
few minutes, pulling off her soaked socks and looking at them in
dismay, the water and mud had done their work. They provided
another unpleasant smell in the already stale air. Moore crinkled his
nose in response, and noticed Natasha doing the same, coughing
slightly and throwing them back in her boots, which she hastily moved
away, stretching her toes, two of which appeared broken and hastily
bandaged. Similarly, much of her webbing seemed torn and damaged. Even such simple articles of equipment were no longer replacable at "Kursk". For once, he appreciated the full body suit he wore, it was
completely waterproof, and generally didn't suffer the same effects
of wear and tear as normal uniforms. It also consumed far less power
than an exo, and could be recharged slowly without the help of a
generator.
"What
do you think our chances are?"
"Huh?"
The
medic had disturbed him almost as fast as he had gone back to his
thoughts.
"Our
chances of rescue. You are professional soldier, are you not? You
should have a guess."
Moore
smiled at that, not even sure how to respond, he knew she wasn't
naive or stupid, like some fresh faced recruit or civilian, but he
also didn't want to admit the truth. It was a frightening prospect,
and he realized he was more afraid of demoralizing himself even
further than anything else.
"So
good you are speechless, yes?"
She
smiled and laughed again. It sounded exactly like something Boris
would say, except not to Moore, as he was usually the one doing most
of the talking.
"I'd
say our chances are pretty piss poor, that's for sure."
The
sergeant responded, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless.
Somewhere in the distance, the orbital defense cannon opened fire,
the whip-crack of its supersonic rounds incredibly loud, even from
inside a bunker. It was the first time he had smiled in over a week.
Ever since Kurt's death. He could still see his face, the bloody
froth coming from his mouth, the desperate fear, and then, that final
resignation. Moore's hand began to shake more violently and he
hastily tucked his thumb into his belt to steady it. Natasha watched
him, seemingly reading his thoughts perfectly when she finally spoke.
"You
did the right thing you know."
Her
tone was calm, even and controlled. Moore drew his hand across his
face, seeking to wipe the specter from his mind.
"He
trusted me. He trusted my judgement. And where has it led?! To death
and damnation!"
The
sergeants response was fraught with impotent rage as he vented his
anger in a sudden outburst. The medic didn't flinch at the sudden
explosion of violent outrage. Perhaps she was too tired. But her eyes
didn't move from Moore, merely watching him with concern.
"Your
men look up to you, and so does everyone else trapped here. You have
more respect than every officer here."
Moore
looked up from the floor, unsure what to think of what she had said.
"Have
you not heard the whispers? Are you that detached down here, crying
about what cannot be changed? I've heard some speak of 'The Rat' that
even the shvir are afraid of. Some of the wounded told me you're the
'black angel'. To them, you are a hero."
The
sergeant sat still, even his hand seemed to slow to a gentle
shuddering. He chuckled coldly as he thought of the ridiculousness of
their situation. A hero! When all of them were as good as dead.
"And
what do you think?"
The
question took her by surprise, and her eyebrows contracted in
thought.
"I
think- I think you are in the wrong line of work."
She
said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards a little. It was
poor humor at best, but brought a slight smile back to the sergeants
face.
"Can't
argue with that assessment."
The
silence stretched for a few minutes as the Moore stared at the wall.
Both were unsure of what to say, and Natasha rummaged in her pack for
something.
"Well,
at least we can have a drink."
She
announced suddenly, the insides of her bag clattered as she pulled a
silver flask out into the open.
"A
drink? Now? That's har'ly professional."
"Professional?
You are concerned with professional?" she stared at him in
mocking surprise, "I think you should go talk to your men then.
I think some of them are getting- The term is wasted, correct?"
At
first Moore scowled and shook his head, struggling to keep a straight
face at the question.
"Well,
they are getting wasted with one of the gun crews. Turns out your
people are better at making friends than you are."
"Doesn't
the gun crew have a job?"
"Gun
is out of ammo, has been for three days now. What job then?"
"Well,
that's great. Fucking Valeri, can't let him manage anything.
Shouldn' have left him in charge."
"Oh,
he's drinking with them, I think."
The
sergeant drew his hand across his face one more time.
"You're
right. I'm in the wrong line of work. Shoulda stuck with the marines."
Natasha shook her head and took a few gulps of whatever liquor she had in the flask.
Natasha shook her head and took a few gulps of whatever liquor she had in the flask.
"Do
you want some, sergeant?"
She asked him, lifting an eyebrow at the commando officer. With a resigned shrug, Moore reached over and took the container.
She asked him, lifting an eyebrow at the commando officer. With a resigned shrug, Moore reached over and took the container.
"Yeah,
sure, why not."
The liquor burned his throat as he took a long draught. The distinct aftertaste reminded Moore of the "torpedo-juice" he had once drunk aboard a navy frigate. Of course, that particular concoction had landed the sergeant in the hospital for a week. He could feel the warmth racing through to his tired limbs, making him feel relaxed and at ease.
"Better?"
The liquor burned his throat as he took a long draught. The distinct aftertaste reminded Moore of the "torpedo-juice" he had once drunk aboard a navy frigate. Of course, that particular concoction had landed the sergeant in the hospital for a week. He could feel the warmth racing through to his tired limbs, making him feel relaxed and at ease.
"Better?"
Natasha asked.
"Is there a problem booze doesn't fix?"
Moore asked rhetorically, feeling some of his confidence returning as he took another swig from the silver flask.
"Hey, you're going to drink it all!"
The medic suddenly shouted angrily as she watched him. Moore smiled and leaned over, handing her back the flask and kissing her gently on the cheek.
"Durak!"
She shouted, but as Moore pulled away he saw the smile hidden beneath the exasperated grimace.
"Good thing you are 'professional' sergeant. Such a steely self control."
He put on a serious face, which ill concealed his flushed cheeks and the amused twinkle in his eye.
"Always was my strong suit."
The talk with Natasha, and the liquor, had lightened his mood significantly, the oppressive blackness a faint whimper in the back of his mind. For the first time in weeks, Moore felt hope.
"Is there a problem booze doesn't fix?"
Moore asked rhetorically, feeling some of his confidence returning as he took another swig from the silver flask.
"Hey, you're going to drink it all!"
The medic suddenly shouted angrily as she watched him. Moore smiled and leaned over, handing her back the flask and kissing her gently on the cheek.
"Durak!"
She shouted, but as Moore pulled away he saw the smile hidden beneath the exasperated grimace.
"Good thing you are 'professional' sergeant. Such a steely self control."
He put on a serious face, which ill concealed his flushed cheeks and the amused twinkle in his eye.
"Always was my strong suit."
The talk with Natasha, and the liquor, had lightened his mood significantly, the oppressive blackness a faint whimper in the back of his mind. For the first time in weeks, Moore felt hope.
It
had been two weeks since they had been stationed here, on "Sentry
Hill", and still there had been no sign of the enemy. Down below
lay the small outpost of Bjorgensfjord, and most of the installation
lay inside the deep bunkers hidden underneath the planets surface.
Only the sensor towers and spires rising towards the sky gave it away
for what it was. The center for intelligence in the entire sector,
gathering and storing data from hundreds of its smaller brethren.
What PFC Valence didn't know of was the archives, bearing damning
evidence of the Imperiums less commendable achievements. All he knew
was that his regiment, and now the entire division, had been assigned
to guard the installation until relieved or ordered to withdraw. Up
here, all he could see was the hurried preparations of his unit, the
78th Storm Division, as well as the Intelligence Services own private
security details. Bjorgensfjord was a quiet sector of the front, but
an offensive was expected. The remainder of the 78th had only arrived
a few days prior, hurriedly requisitioned by the highest authority to
defend the installation. Their heavy weapons and manpower was sorely
depleted from months of combat, but they would have to make do
without further reinforcement.
"Do
you hear something?"
It
was Mors, one of his squad mates and the machine gun operator,
together, they manned one of the foxholes on the edge of the "Sentry
Hill" fortifications.
"Hear
what?"
Valence
responded without thinking, but he could hear it too now, a thrumming
howl, soft but steadily increasing in volume. Their sensors had
picked nothing up, otherwise they would have been given warning.
"Sir,
we got something incoming, north ridge, sounds like aircraft
engines!"
Mors
was already reporting to the central outpost. Valence knew they
hadn't been given any promise of air support and he clutched
nervously at his rifle. The engines sounded too loud to be shviri,
but one could never be too careful.
"Stand
down, it's out own."
Came
the calm response from the other end. Valence cursed silently under
his breath, angry that they had been given no prior warning of the
friendly aircraft's approach. Seconds later, the roar of engines
increased to a terrible crescendo as three black shapes tore from
behind one of the only hills that marred the area. They had plotted
their approach perfectly to avoid detection, and the three craft
nearly touched the ground as they made their presence known. As they
approached, he could make them out as Drakken gunships, their clean
lines distorted by the heavy ordnance each carried underwing. They
bore no visible identification markers, no squadron symbols or even
Imperial livery, not even optical camouflage, the craft were painted
in a uniform, matte black. In perfect concert, two of the aircraft
tore away, aiming straight for Bjorgensfjord. The remaining gunship
roared over Valence's position, forcing him to dive for cover in the
depths of his foxhole. Reverse thrusters whined as it slowed to hover
idling over the clearing between the main outpost and the foxhole.
Peering
out over the edge, Valence could see the gunship in profile. Much of
the camouflage was gone, and the steel underneath shone brightly in the
mid day light. The ornate lettering beneath the cockpit glass spelled
"Fey Phan-". The remainder of what Valence guessed was
"Phantom" was marred by a scorch mark from a shviri laser.
The source of the name was easily visible. A beautiful, scantily clad
woman with wings adorned most of the aircrafts nose, smiling widely
and clutching a boxy rifle. The vivid, lovingly crafted image contrasted
sharply with the plain white number 340-1 stenciled on the gunships
side alongside a dulled Imperial insignia. Valence scratched his chin
as he noticed the sword that bisected the blue and red bars of
the flag. He had never seen the markings and the informal appearance
of the ship heightened his sense of nervousness. Slowly, he stepped
out of the foxhole, pulling his goggles over his eyes to shield
against the swirling dust before approaching the gunship, which had
now settled on the empty field. The rear ramp dropped and the private
shuddered as he saw the men who exited. He only saw three as they
stalked out silently in their black uniforms, their camouflage cloaks distorting their forms. They were specters in
broad daylight, motioning to whoever had remained inside. Each wore
the same skeletal face-mask, the cold, pitiless eye lenses and bulky
air filter only furthering the terrifying appearance. Valence felt
the weight of their combined gaze, but they seemed not to care about
his presence. With a keening wail, the engines of the Drakken tore it
from the ground, sending it racing after its fellows down to
Bjorgensfjord. Commando's, three gunships of them. The young soldier
gulped in trepidation as he wondered why they had come here, and why
they had come in such force. Almost immediately, the trio split. Two
raced off towards the main outpost. The other merely unslung a bulky
sniper rifle, the weapon appearing comically large in his hands as he
moved off towards the abandoned meteorological outpost, a position
that provided the perfect vantage point to overwatch the entirety of
the installation that lay below.
"Sir,
you got commandos incoming."
Mors
stated flatly, though Valence could see that his pale face had become
a shade paler already. Whatever was coming in the commandos wake, he
wanted to be away from it. Not for the first time, PFC Valence wished
he was at home, far away from the conflict.
Down
below, on one of the steel decked landing pads, Lieutenant Hess
nodded to his pilot and activated the Drakkens commlink. On the other
end was an operator at the MIRS relay site at Tyr, 750 kilometers
away. He heard a woman's tinny voice complaining and griping as he
overrode all other dispatches with his priority clearance. It was a
simple message, conveying all that needed to be said.
"First
platoon has arrived at Bjorgensfjord. Evacuation commencing."
As usual, any comments/criticisms are appreciated. Feel free to follow.
As usual, any comments/criticisms are appreciated. Feel free to follow.
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