++ When death claims you, the Emperor will be by your side ++

By oh four hundred hours the next morning the preparations were finished. Straws had been drawn and those that had taken the short straw were saying their final prayers, as they were to mount a counter-attack to the south, whilst the luckier ones were to break out in the east. Some of the counter-attack had actually volunteered, taking straws from the shaking hands of their friends. Ten Commissars had forsaken choosing straws altogether and declared that they were proud to stand by 'The Emperor's Chosen', declaring that this was now a new Regiment, one of the finest in the system. They were tasked with charging headlong into the enemy.

Commissar Jensen Foxx had held the briefing for them.

'Ladies and Gentlemen. Do not think that it was random chance that meant you drew the short straw. Do not think that it was your own decision to take the short straws from your friends and loved ones. The Emperor himself has chosen you to join him at his side. The Emperor himself has chosen you to die gloriously and honourably, saving the lives of His people, sparing them that they might live to kill yet more of the ork xeno scum. Your souls will leave your body to join him, adding their light to His Light that travellers may be guided true through the perils of the warp. St Mikel, and St Jorge the martyr, will guide your souls. They will guide your aim. They will steel your heart. They will steel your nerve. They will make you strong when your feel the weakest and their will help you slay the fugging green slits!

Finally, he asked the Emperor's chosen to bow their heads and to 'Join me brothers and sisters in the Litany of Duty.'

He paused whilst they collected their thoughts and asked them to repeat the words saying, 'Give me the strength to carry my duty through, and smite those who seek to thwart me.'

Speeches and prayers over, the Emperor's Chosen silently picked up their gear, shrugged on their load-bearing equipment, loaded their las rifles and slowly walked off to their staging point. No-one spoke above a low mutter and there were none of the good wishes and banter that soldiers normally bandied back and forth. Everything that could be said had already been said and no-one wanted to distract them from their thoughts, to break their focus.

Those not chosen to stay behind were just as scared as their comrades. Every person in the breakout faced potential death, even if the breakout was successful. Some would be trying to blend in with the civilians that had already been enslaved and put into forced labour. They faced beatings, low rations, hard, back-breaking labour, disease and hazardous conditions. Unfortunately that was the optimistic outlook. They also faced the possibility of being killed on the spot just 'because'. Because they walked too tall, because they had a certain colour of hair, because they were human, because the orks were bored and - even worse - because they might even be hungry. Finally, if they survived all of that, they would be expected to try to sabotage what they could, praying to the Emperor that they weren't betrayed for extra rations by their fellow humans. Praying to the Emperor that they wouldn't be killed in reprisals once they had finished their mission. Theirs was not a happy lot.

The others that were taking part in the breakout were ordered to head for less-populated areas. They would be trying to hide out in the moors, the forests, the lowlands, the highlands and the mountains, even the ruined towns and their sewers. They would then operate in squad-sized units. Each unit would act solely on its own, limiting the chance that they would betray their colleagues if they were caught. Targets were designated as supply lines, armoured vehicles, communications, manufactories, ammunition dumps and high profile targets such as Wierdboyz, Meks, Painboyz, Nobz and bosses. They were not to waste their time or ammunition on anything else. Kill normal orks and they're replaced quicker than you can reload. Kill a high-profile target and the footsloggers would be without direction. Their units would breakdown until a new leader came forth to take the reins of power.

Raglon had divided the supplies for his squad as evenly as possible. They all needed to move quickly and swiftly. Wounded were to be left behind if they were unable to keep up and many of the breakout teams had a grenade that they would used if they were left, trying to take as many orks with them as they could. He moved amongst his people, talking to them all, checking that their equipment was properly taped down and padded. He made every single one of them jump up and down and jog on the spot. If there was the slightest sound he made them repack their equipment until they were as silent as possible.

Once their equipment was sorted he made sure that every trooper had applied their camo paint properly. He was determined to ensure that as many of them go out as possible. To be successful in this they would have to be 'sneakier than the sneakiest sneak thief wearing a cloak of silence whilst walking on carpet in a room of deaf and blind people.' He lost count of the number of times he said that and the smiles that it raised every time. For those professing no fear he reminded them of their duty to keep their colleagues alive and to continue the fight for as long as possible. For those who were covered in the rank smell of fear he had words of encouragement, reminding them that their colleagues counted on them to get the job done.

Finally, all he could do was join them in waiting. Some would continue to check and re-check their equipment, others tried to sleep - some more successfully than others. The majority however prayed to the Emperor, wrote letters to their loved ones or talked silently to their friends, going over the plans time and time again.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up to see Commissar Foxx standing over him. Despite everything that they had been through, Foxx still looked as though he was ready for a regimental parade. How the hell did he manage to polish his boots? Even his cap has been buffed! He watched the man’s lips carefully as he spoke.

‘It’s time. The Emperor’s Chosen will be launching our attack in ten minutes. Remember to watch for the red flare and then get your people moving. Good luck Raglon, you have lead your people bravely and with honour. The Emperor would be proud of you. Accept this field promotion in his name.’ Slowly he held out his hand.

‘I’m sorry Commissar. I’m still suffering from a case of grenade-induced deafness. Did you say promotion?’ He kept his hands by his side, refusing to look at Foxx’s outstretched hand.

Foxx smiled and held up his hand, moving it in front of Raglon’s eyes to ensure he saw what he held. The silver cross of St Jorge merged with the golden cross of St Mikel. They were overlaid with a shield transfixed by a vertical sword. A Major’s pip.

‘A company commander should always be a major at the very least in my mind Raglon, not a corporal. You might have a bit of a problem getting the back pay, but just think of the first pay packet!’ They both shared a dry laugh.

‘Make sure you collect your pay Major. You’ll need it to pay for the commemoration drinks. May the Emperor’s Light guide you.’ He leant forward and pinned the pip to Raglon’s collar. He carefully straightened it and then strode off into the distance, a stunned Raglon watching as he walked towards his new regiment.

Orks did not like the dark and if forced to fight during the night, they used as much light as possible. It was a paradox that Raglon had little time to consider. What were the chances that creatures born of nightmare should be afraid of the dark? The universe seemed to have a perverse sense of humour. Because of this, it was decided that the diversion would be launched at oh two hundred hours, with the breakout making their move thirty minutes after, or on seeing the red flares.

‘Remember people, don’t hesitate and don’t bloody start shooting unless you absolutely have to! We’re not wasting the chance we’ve been given.’ Raglon and his scratch company were lying in the undergrowth and ruins, clustered together in the units they would operate in. None of them had been chosen to blend in with the civilians and Raglan had offered very sincere thanks to the Emperor for his benevolence. He felt and saw rather than heard the start of the diversion. There was a series of bright flashes and the sound travelled through the ground and into his chest.

‘Start your chromos and pick your targets’. Two hundred metres in front of them was a set of barricades manned by the orks of the Snakespit tribe. They were the poorest of the tribes and so the breakout had chosen their sector as the one that offered the best chance of success. Not only were they the poorest of the tribes, they also appeared to have even less discipline that normal orks. Fights were constantly breaking out, sentries dozed at their posts or took pot shots at the ruins just for the sound and flash the guns made.

Every second of those thirty minutes dragged. Raglon check and re-checked his chrono. Every time he was certain that the time must have surely passed, only to find that barely a few minutes had done so. With two minutes to go it started to buzz. He rolled onto his stomach and took aim, tapping the troopers on either side of him and telling them to pass the ready signal on. At his shot the breakout would unleash hell on the positions in front of them before charging headlong into the fray.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

He carefully looked through his sights at a small group of orks directly in front of him and flicked the fire selector to full auto. The Snakespits were smaller than most of their cousins and had obviously not fought in many wars. It was a fact that orks thrived on battle and war. What didn’t kill them literally made them bigger, meaner and stronger. Ugly fugging slits. His chrono alarm chirped and he stroked the trigger of his rifle. To the left and right of him the entire company opened fire. Over one hundred rifles and support weapons poured fire into the ork positions.

Raglon’s chosen targets barely had time to register that they were under fire before they started to die. He raked his fire from left to right trying to put at least five rounds into each ork. His first rounds were naturally more accurate and they punched their way into the first ork’s skull sending brains and bones in equal measures in all directions. The second ork was still blinking the blood from its eyes when it took two shots in the throat. It sank to its knees with both hands clutching at the wounds, arterial blood spurting at least ten feet in front of it as died. The third had started to turn and raise its shoota before Raglon’s shots stitched their way across its chest, blowing chunks of lung and rib into the air. The final ork had actually managed to start firing, albeit in completely the wrong direction. Raglon’s final shots hammered into its groin and destroyed its pelvic girdle sending it howling to the floor to die in its own blood and faeces.

‘Charge! Take the bloody fuggers down!’

The company surged forward, screaming their fear and hatred. Running forward they kept pouring fire into the enemy lines, some firing from the hip whilst others pepper-potted forward with their comrades, aiming their shots. With twenty metres to go they started throwing grenades causing even more disarray. Such was the confusion sown by their sustained fire that they covered the two hundred metres with few casualties. Every trooper had their bayonet fixed or carried a specially sharpened entrenching tool in their hand. They launched themselves with a vengeance into the orks. Blades hacked and sliced at vulnerable points in a frenzy.

Raglan found himself facing a clutch of Gretchin. He fired at short burst at two, blowing them off their feet in a spray of blood and gore. He sidestepped to the creature’s outside right with his left foot as a third tried to run him through with a makeshift spear. Quickly he smashed his rifle stock into its ugly face. Fierce satisfaction surged through his body as he felt the facial bones break under the force of his blow. Reversing the motion he stepped his right foot directly back and slashed his bayonet across the creature’s throat, opening it up so that the air whistled and bubbled as it tried to take a shocked breath and scream.

Giving it no more though he twisted to avoid a shot and rammed an uppercut strike with his butt under the chin of his next opponent. There was a loud crack as its head snapped back, the jaw shattering into pieces and then he raked his bayonet back down, cutting through the throat and into the gretchin’s chest. The last gretchin tried to turn and run so he speared it through the back, severing its spine and leaving it squealing its pain. He stepped forward and fire another burst, cutting down an ork that was attempting to saw the head off one of the troopers. He was too late to save the woman, but snarled with satisfaction as the ork dropped to the floor in a heap of blood and gore.

Just as suddenly as that he was through the melee. Taking advantage of the unexpected lull he popped the magazine from his rifle and slammed a full one in, tucking the other one into a pouch. He took a knee facing the ork lines and started to snipe at clear targets, picking grots and orks off at any chance he had. Other troopers were doing the same and a trickle turned into a flood as more and more troopers fought their way through the increasingly thin ork lines.

He spotted the rest of his assigned squad.

‘This way! Over here!’ He stood and waved his rifle, catching their attention and they quickly headed deeper into the ork positions.

Every so often they would come across a single ork or a squad of gretchin and cut them down. There seemed to be no end to the camp and he was starting to get desperate as he searched for a way clear out. There was a break in the smoke that was starting to cover the area and he spotted a looming hulk of a vehicle.

‘Rats!’ he turned, looking for the squad’s most technically able member,’Rats, reckon you can drive that thing?’

Rats literally stumbled with surprise as he realised that Raglon was pointing at a Gunn Trukk. Compared to the trucks that the Guard used, it was a beast of a vehicle. Covered in slabs of bolted-on armour, spikes, exhaust pipes and weapons it resembled an engineseer’s nightmare.

‘You can’t be serious man! Drive that? It’s xenos tech! We can’t drive that! We have to destroy it!’ Rats stared at Raglon with his mouth open, oblivious to the rounds that were starting to come their way.

‘Do you really think we have a choice?’ Raglon still wasn’t hearing properly but he’d been able to lip-read the odd word and could tell from Rat’s face that he wasn’t too sure about nicking an ork trukk.

‘Can you drive the bloody thing or not Rats?’

A resigned shrug and desultory jog over to the vehicle was Rat’s only answer. The rest of the squad piled onto the truck, cursing as they received the odd cut from the spikes. As more rounds pattered off the side armour, they quickly took position behind the truck’s armour..

‘Come on, come on, come on, you fugging piece of slit-shite!’ Rats was hammering at every button he could find, hoping to chance on the starter. Finally he pushed the one button he’d been trying to avoid. It was big. It was obvious. It was red. One thing that humans learned from an early age was that red meant ‘Danger, don’t touch’. Coincidentally, the tracers that were starting to come in their direction were also red. With a another curse he slammed his palm onto the button and screamed with triumph as the engine roared into life, the vibrations making his teeth rattle.

The rest of the squad had started to return fire. Trooper Ven Tour had jumped into the bucket seat of the main gun, whilst Trooper Rudo started to slam rounds into the four magazines.

‘What the hell is this gun Rudo?’ Ven had worked out how to traverse and depress the four barrels and was laying them so that the aiming reticule was on the nearest mob of orks.

‘Dunno Ven, looks like a flack gun mate. Four bloody big barrels, and shitloads of ammunition mean that I don’t give a fugging damn boy. Just blow that lot of orks away!’

With a savage grin Ven stamped on what he hoped was the trigger pedal. Just like Rats, Ven was rewarded with an equally satisfying roar as the guns burst into life. The mob he was aiming at was latterly blown into little pieces. Their bodies were blown into mere chunks of flesh as the 30 millimetre rounds slammed into their ranks at a rate of over six hundred rounds per barrel, per minute. At a tap from Rudo on his right shoulder he traversed right and poured fire into another mob that had started their way. With a jolt the trukk started forward as Rats finally found first gear.

At another tap on his left shoulder and Ven swung the steaming guns. His jaw dropped as he saw three parodies of the Astarte’s venerable Dreadnoughts come through the smoke. They shambled forward, waving their multiple arms and shooting an amazing array of weapons at them. Anger surged through his body at this blasphemous attempt at imitation. He continued to depress the barrels as the trukk finally started to gain speed. Finally there was enough distance between the killakans and the trukk to enable him to lay the sights onto them. He stamped down with all his might onto the firing pedal, screaming his anger and fear at the kans. Tough as they were, they weren’t built to withstand a rate of fire equalling two thousand four hundred rounds a minute. The first one was just about to open fire with a big shoota when the rounds started to hit it. Sparks flew everywhere and rounds started to ricochet into the air before the armour finally gave in. With little fanfare it stopped moving and slowly toppled onto its face.

He quickly poured more fire into the other two, sending them stumbling away, smoke and sparks pouring from their limbs and holes. He stopped firing as Rudo added more belts of rounds. Scrubbing at his face he winced at how sore it felt. Rudo saw this and started to laugh so hard he could barely stand up. Finally he pulled out a mirror and held it out to Ven. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Soot covered his whole face, making him blacker than night and where he had rubbed at his face the skin was red raw from the flash.

‘Dunno what you’re laughing at mate! Take at look at yourself’. Rudo’s laughter stopped suddenly as he snatched the mirror from him and groaned as he felt just how sore his face was.

Whilst Ven and Rudo starting rueing ever opening fire with the flakk gun, Rats was having the time of his life. What the trukk lacked in sophistication it more than made up for in spirit. ‘Suffer not the alien to live’ was a mantra every trooper had been taught from an early age. But by the Emperor this was fun. The engine was far more powerful than anything he’d driven and the trukk continued to gain more and more speed. The steering was a different matter and sweat was running down his face as he struggled to turn the trukk around the various obstacles that the sprawling ork camp threw in front of him.

It took another ten minutes before they were finally clear of the camp and it wasn’t until they’d travelled another ten miles that Raglan felt they should stop for a water break. One thing that many people fail to understand is just how much adrenaline, fear and exertion make a soldier sweat. Dehydration could be as dangerous as any bullet and combat ability quickly degraded. It was vital that Raglon’s squad take the time to chuck as much water down their necks as possible and have a quick break to bring their heart rates down.

‘Keep the engine going Rats, I don’t want us to get stuffed by it not starting.’

Quickly they broke out their rations and water bottles and crammed as much of both as they could down their necks. Break over Rats drove the trukk towards the hills and temporary safety. Raglon turned to look back at their old positions, wondering just how many of their friends had broken free. Smoke poured into the air from the Snakespit’s ruined camp and he felt some satisfaction at the number of orks they had killed that day.