Storm of Iron (A Warhammer 40k Fan Fiction)

BEFORE YOU BEGIN:

This is the first part of many in my Warhammer 40k fan fiction series. It follows the epic story of Colonel-Commander Andrus Reeve and his Cadian "Iron" Fifth and their battles across the empire of man. This story contains many Warhammer 40k references. If there is a term you don't know, chances are that it will be on the Warhammer 40k Wikia. Furthermore, this story contains graphic content that may not be suitable for all readers. To each, their own. With that, I present Storm of Iron.

-Jay

***

"Mark coordinates, Seven-Four-One Tango Alpha Echo. Target three klicks North-northeast. ETA, twenty-five minutes," Ereh whispered as he checked their position on the map.

Colonel-Commander Andrus Reeve nodded and Ereh returned to his place in formation. Reeve had respect for the young navigator-vox operator. He had navigated over fifty kilometers during this mission, solely by dead reckoning. Despite this being only his fourth time on the battlefield, the boy was showing unmatched competency.

Reeve waved his hand and the twelve-man team advanced once again. They made no noise, gliding over the wooded terrain. The Emperor had blessed them with rainfall the night before, turning the fallen leaves into a soft, brown mush. Few stars shone in the sky, their light obscured by the overcast above. Crickets sang in the the tall grasses of the forest. From somewhere close, a stream gurgled.

Reeve checked his watch. They would be upon the enemy anytime now.

Ahead, he could see a break in the forest and he raised his fist to order a halt. Reeve fell prone and crawled up to the edge of the tree line. With his magnoculars, he surveyed the scene below.

The defensive system was stocky and compact. Zigzagging trenches formed an inner and outer square. The trenches were complete with parapets, firing loopholes and sandbag reinforcements. Autocannons were mounted on each corner of the defense, capable of laying down murderous enfilade fire. Men wearing black and green robes stood at watch while others slept on the trench's duckboards. Others circled around burning hand stoves. Despite the sheer density of the outpost, the outer square was rather small and couldn't have been more than fifty meters across.

Reeve crawled back to his men. All he could see were pairs of white pupils. His troop had blackened the rest of their features with dirt. Quickly, he summarised the situation.

"Runlax, Viola, give me sniper fire. Keep your barrels hidden. Loren, if you hear shots, let loose."

The two snipers gave nods of acknowledgement and checked their longlas rifles.

Loren grinned and set down his massive lascannon. He flexed his bionic arms and then cracked his neck.

"All the rest of you, on me. Keep your safeties on. Cold steel only. Remember, take out this post and one week leave for all of you. Hold fast."

***

The shock troops descended the gentle ridge, their shadowy figures rushing down the grassy bank. The tall foliage hid them well. Reeves sighed. Any half-witted soldier would have cut the plants down, keeping the firing plane devoid of cover. Alas, an easier job for his own.

At ten meters away, the attackers fell to their stomachs and waited. Reeve studied the autocannon operators. They wore black hoods that cloaked their faces in complete darkness. It was menacing, Reeve admitted, not being able to see the enemy's face. He couldn't tell if they were smiling, ready to ambush, or frowning, bored at having the late night watch. Reeve prayed it was the latter.

Two soft clicks sounded behind him. Before Reeve could turn around, he saw the hoods of the enemy explode with wet slapping noises. Quickly, he motioned his fighters forward into the trenches.

The soldiers split up into two groups, one with four including himself, and the other with five. First-Lieutenant Aeon lead the team with four. Each group took a different direction and began the grim work of systematically clearing the trenches.

Reeve crept behind an unwary enemy and drew his straight warknife. The man reeked of stale sweat and dried blood. He wore a bronze gorget over his robe, the surface of the metal etched with various chaotic symbols. In one swift motion, Reeve pulled the man's neck piece taught, the gorget's string preventing the enemy from making any noise. With his other hand, Reeve plunged the warknife deep into the enemies throat. He twisted the blade and withdrew, letting the enemy's life-blood flow out. The man tensed in shock and twitched twice before falling limp. Satisfied his work was done, Reeve let the mortally wounded man slump to the botton of the trench. He spit on the man's heretic neckpiece.

Similar scenes surrounded Reeve as his comrades silently exterminated the enemy. It would be only a matter of time before the post would be there. And only then could the real battle begin.