jacket. He exhaled slowly, calming his breathing, preparing to shoot.
Everything faded from his perceptions. Everything except the shot.
The code was almost entered. His finger tightened on the trigger. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, following the path his bolt
would take.
HAWKE GRIMACED AS the door to the bunker slid jerkily open, draining away the little heat left in the listening post. Why the hell
didn't they put a two-door approach system on these places? Not just for the security, but to keep the warmth in.
He glanced at the external pict-display as the door slid further open and did a slow double-take as the wind dropped and the
swirling dust abated. Behind Charedo he saw a huge armoured figure with a raised pistol.
Without a second thought he leapt for the emergency door override and slammed it down.
The roaring of the wind drowned the first shot.
Hawke heard a second, followed by two dull thuds. He swore, seeing Hitch and Charedo slump to the ground, gaping craters
where their faces had been.
He grabbed the handle of the rear cannon and yanked the trigger hard. He swung the gun from side to side, not aiming, just
shooting. The roar of the cannon was deafening, the rattling of spent shells ringing from the grey walls.
The supersonic shells blew up a storm, churning the mud and earth outside to atoms as thousands of rounds turned the area before
him into a death-trap, shredding anything within its arc of fire.
He screamed as he fired. He didn't know whether he was hitting anything and didn't much care.
'You just messed with the wrong guy!' he yelled.
Dust blew in his face, filling his mouth and he angrily spat it clear. Then he–
Dust? He glanced quickly at the door.
Oh no…
Hitch's body was blocking it, preventing it from closing.
Indecision tore at him. Door or cannon?
'Damn you, Hitch!' he shouted and jumped down from the cannon's firing step. He grabbed Hitch's headless corpse and pulled,
hauling his former squadmate inside, out of the door's path.
A shape loomed up out of the dust. He fell back as a bullet tore across his shoulder.
Hawke screamed and snatched up Hitch's fallen rifle as a giant shape loomed in the doorway.
He fired the rifle, laughing as his shot punched into the figure's chest. The massive silhouette reeled, but didn't fall. Hawke
unloaded the remainder of the power cell through the door, shot after shot. He laughed as he finally managed to pull Hitch's body
inside the bunker and slammed himself against the door-closing handle.
'Ha! Get in now, you fraggers!' he shouted at the closing door, whooping with excitement.
Something clattered on the ground as the door finally shut and the laughter died in his throat as he saw the two gently spinning
grenades at his feet.
'Oh no…' he whispered.
Instinctively he kicked out, sending them skittering across the sloping floor to the grenade sump, a deep and narrow trench cut
into the floor at the wall of the listening post for just such an emergency. The first grenade dropped into the sump, but the second
bounced clear, rolling back towards him.
Dropping everything, he sprinted for cover behind the vox-panel.
The grenade exploded.
Fire and shrapnel, blinding light and ringing eardrums. Blood and noise as the bunker became a raging inferno.
Guardsman Hawke screamed as fire and whickering fragments lashed his body. The force of the explosion picked him up and
slammed him against the wall of the listening post.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Bright lights sunburst before his eyes and pain swallowed him whole. He had time to scream once before the pressure wave
snatched the breath from his lungs, slamming his head into the wall and taking the pain away.
As THE DUST settled, Honsou stepped across the shattered threshold and surveyed the devastated remains of the bunker. Blood
clotted on his chest where the Guardsman had shot him.
But that was the least of his concerns. The Imperial lackey had turned his carefully planned assault into a bloodbath.
Two of his men were dead, blown away in the first roar of the assault cannon.
A couple of grenades into the bunker had silenced the cannon, however. Frags weren't the most powerful grenades, but contained
within the cramped confines of this bunker they had been devastating.
He kicked the blackened, smouldering corpse of the Guardsman, venting his frustration on the dead body. He ducked below the
lintel of the bunker, black smoke pouring from its interior, and stood erect. Almost as tall as the bunker, Honsou was a giant of a
warrior. He was clad in power armour the colour of burnished iron, its surfaces pitted and scored by three months of living in the
hostile environment of Hydra Cordatus. He wiped the dust clogging his visor and engaged the illuminator on his shoulder. The
powerful glow cast a stark light across his armour, shadowing his moulded breastplate and the symbol of the Iron Warriors on his
right shoulder guard.
He crunched through the dust and trained his gaze further down the mountains towards the spaceport. He could barely make it out
through the dust clouds, and knew the storm was beginning to blow itself out. They must move quickly.
He had lost two men, but, in the end, he supposed it did not matter. With two listening posts down, they now had a narrow blindspot
running towards the spaceport and he had more than enough men to successfully complete his mission.
He voxed the remainder of his warriors.
'We are clear now. All teams close on me and move out.'
TWO
JERICHO FALLS SPACEPORT squatted at the foot of the mountains, a glowing beacon of light in the greyness of the dust storm. Such
storms were not uncommon on Hydra Cordatus, and were just one of the unpleasant phenomenon that simply had to be endured.
A typical Imperial military establishment, it boasted a collection of three dozen buildings, ranging from armoured hangars for
Marauder and Lightning aircraft, fuel stations and mess halls to barracks and maintenance sheds. The landing strips and hardened
runways covered over eighty per cent of the ground enclosed by the three metre high perimeter walls, enough to land or launch an
entire attack wing of aircraft in under five minutes. Vast supply shuttles, each capable of landing a Battle Titan, could be handled
by the base, though it had been many years since anything larger than a Thunderhawk gunship had availed itself of the facilities.
The command post of the spaceport was housed in what was known by the soldiers as ''The Hope'', due to an oft-repeated mantra
amongst the Guardsmen stationed on Hydra Cordatus that they hoped not to pull duty at Jericho Falls. A thick, armoured tower
with a flattened disc on top, set on the northern edge of the landing fields, the Hope was protected by reinforced rockcrete walls,
which in turn were plated in sheets of adamantium specially commissioned from the shipyards of Calth. Howling winds swept
across the open ground of the base, whipping the abrasive dust into every fold and crease of a soldier's uniform, getting into
mouths and behind goggles to choke and blind.
The only way in or out of the Hope was through an adamantium door that required four gigantic pistons to open.
Five companies of the Jouran Dragoons were stationed here, housed in reinforced barracks and a hardened hangar. Green and red
lights winked on the numerous landing platforms and runways, and powerful arc lights fought to penetrate the swirling dust and
illuminate the outer perimeter of the base. Patrol vehicles, their engines modified to resist the intake of dust, circled the base, their
headlights feebly piercing the gloom.
THE ATMOSPHERE WITHIN the Hope was subdued. This close to dawn was always slow, no different from any other time of the
day. An hour before the shift change, the staff were tired and restless. The soft ticking of logic engines and hushed conversations
with patrolling vehicles and soldiers were the only sounds.
Operator Three, Koval Peronus, rubbed his grainy eyes and took a hit of caffeine. It was cold, but did the job. Once again he
leaned towards the vox-panel.
'Listening post Sigma IV, come in please,' he said. A burst of static was his only answer. He checked the time. It had been two
hours and ten minutes since Hawke's last check-in. He was late. Again.
'Listening post Sigma IV, come in. Hawke, I know you're there, so pick up the damn vox!'
Disgusted, Koval dropped the vox-handset and took another gulp of caffeine. Trust bloody Hawke to put a spanner in the works.
He'd try once more and if he couldn't get an answer then he'd have to kick it higher and tough luck to Hawke.
He called again. Nothing.
'Okay, Hawke. It's your butt if you want to sleep on the job again,' he whispered and thumbed the vox-link connecting his panel to
the adept's station.
'Yes, Operator Three?' answered Adept Cycerin.
'Sorry to disturb you, adept, but we may have a problem. One of the surveyor stations has not checked in and I can't raise them.'
'Very well, I shall be there directly.'
'Yes, adept,' replied Koval, lounging back and waiting for his superior.
Hawke was for it this time. He'd already been busted onto report, ending up in the mountains and if this was another of his classic
screw-ups, then he was finished as a Guardsman.
Adept Cycerin appeared at his shoulder and leaned over the panel, the rasping static of his vox-amp in his throat hissing in
displeasure. He smelt of incense and oil.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
'Who is stationed at Sigma IV?' he asked.
'Hawke, Charedo and Hitch.'
The adept's vox-amp crackled in what Koval took to be a sigh of frustration; apparently Hawke's reputation had spread even to the
priests of the Machine God.
'I've tried them three times, adept. I can't even get the standby signal.'
'Very well. Keep trying, but if you still can't raise them after another ten minutes, send a flight of ornithopters to investigate. Keep
me informed.'
'Yes, adept.'
There would be no saving Hawke this time.
HONSOU COULD SEE the hazy glow of the spaceport just ahead. The bobbing lights of a vehicle wove their way through the gloom,
a pair of sweeping beams swinging in their direction. He dropped to his knees and raised his fist. Behind him, thirty armoured
figures dropped to their knees, bolters at the ready. It was unlikely that the vehicle's beams could penetrate the thick, dusty air as
far as their position, but there was no sense in being reckless.
The lights moved on and Honsou relaxed a fraction. Routine had made the Imperial troops careless. These last few months had
allowed him to study the circuits made by the patrol vehicles and plot their routes and timings. The warp alone knew how long
these particular soldiers had been stationed on this planet, but it must have been a long time. It was only natural that their alertness
would drop and patrol patterns would become predictable. It was an inevitable price for long tours of duty and it would soon see
them dead.
Satisfied the patrol vehicle had moved on, he extended his fist once again, opening and shutting it three times in rapid succession.
They were too close to the spaceport to risk any form of vox communication. Honsou heard muffled footfalls behind him and
turned as a figure in steeldust armour, chevroned with yellow and black, crept towards him. Goran Delau, his second-incommand,
knelt beside him and nodded. The newcomer's power armour was heavily modified and ornamented with skull-faced
rivets and brass mouldings of writhing faces cunningly worked into the edging of his shoulder guards. A whining servo limb, like
a clawed digger arm, lolled over Delau's right shoulder, the ribbed grip sighing open and closed as though with breath of its own.
Honsou pointed to the sky then clenched his gauntleted fist again, hammering it into his palm. Delau nodded and removed a crude
looking slate from the side of his bulky backpack, adjusting a brass dial on its front. A red light flashed on the otherwise
featureless front panel, flickering for a second before becoming a steady, blood-red glow.
Delau raised his hands to the sky, the servo arm mimicking his movements. Honsou could not hear his words, but knew that Delau
was offering his thanks that the Dark Gods had again given them a chance to strike back against the ancient enemy.
Honsou watched the red light on Goran's slate and marked this moment in his memory. The targeting beacons they had spent the
last three months planting around the spaceport on this barren rock were all now active, shrieking their locations into space.
This was the most dangerous part of their mission. The Imperials within the spaceport would now know that there were enemies
close.
If the favour of their Lords deserted them then they would all be dead soon. He shrugged, the servo muscles in his armour whining
as they tried to match the gesture. If it was the will of the gods that he should die here, then so be it. He had asked nothing of them
and expected nothing in return.
He just hoped that if he was to die on this barren world it would be by the will of the gods, and not because of that madman
Kroeger.
PIERCING SHRIEKS FILLED the command centre of the Hope as Honsou's signal locators screamed into the sky. Technicians
wrenched headsets from their ears at the din, and alarm sirens began wailing.
Adept Cycerin stared, ashen faced, at the runic display. Bright dots of light pulsed on the map projected before him. Each dot
indicated one of the orbital torpedo silos or air defence batteries, and operators hurriedly tried to contact the men stationed there to
ascertain what was happening.
Were they broadcasting? Were they under attack? What in the name of the Emperor was going on?
Cycerin returned to his monitoring station, placing his hands on the ridged, metal fixtures of the armrests. Thin, wiry tendrils of
silver metal slithered from beneath his fingernails like gleaming worms and clicked into brass sockets on the ridges. The adept
sighed, and his organic eye flickered behind a pale lid as information relayed from the multitude of surveyors and augurs
positioned around the spaceport flooded his senses through the technology of his mechadendrites.
