Chapter 14
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Tunnel warfare was a challenging mode of combat Bloody Platoon rarely engaged with. While they were experienced diggers, their expansive base-wide tunnel networks were not designed for battle. Their passages, like communications trenches, were long and facilitated the movement of Guardsmen. Each side was referred to as a lane and both lanes could sustain two troopers walking abreast of one another. Every ten to fifteen meters were alcoves that allowed individuals and even small groups to get out of the lanes to allow a more important party to pass by.
But these were different. There were no lights and supporting wooden trim. Depth and height alternated and the pattern was long, winding, then sharp and claustrophobic. Even after years of warfare in almost every environment Cadia had to offer, Marsh Silas found himself disoriented within these heretical halls. Before long, he was forced to crouch down as he pressed forward. Keeping his Ripper Pistol aimed in front of him, posing his arm close to his side, he crept as silently as silently as possible. Behind him, Graeme maintained the same lack of noise. The Whiteshield was careful not to drag his boots and walk heel to toe, just like he had been trained. His armor did not scrape on the rock walls nor did he bump his head against the roof of the tunnel.
Communication in the pitch blackness was difficult. Without specialized optics, his eyes could only marginally adjust and there was only a meter of visibility. It was not like the Raid on Kasr Fortis; although it was very dark there was just enough moonlight and ambient light in some areas to make out hand signals. Any hand signals were invisible here and they had to maintain silence. All Marsh could do was push on while Graeme kept a hand on his shoulder, following him as if they were about to breach a doorway.
Marsh Silas’s heart beat heavily in his chest. Sweat rolled down his forehead and trickled down his neck. The sensation was cold and he was very aware of the growing pool on his back. His thermal layers clung very tightly to his skin. He controlled his breathing as best he could, keeping each breath shallow and subdued. Instinctively, he looked over his shoulder. The pale moonlight which filled the entrance to the tunnel was now gone.
He stopped again and sank to his knee. During this pause, he recalled the first time he ever received training in tunnel warfare. It came not from his instructors and sergeants but Commissar Ghent. Back then, he was a newly minted Commissar with the battle scars to prove it. Every single Whiteshield in a class of six hundred cadets was terrified of the imposing man he marched up and down their line. Deliberately, menacingly, he lectured them in his rules; rely on one’s senses, do as much killing with a blade instead of a lasgun, and never turn on the light until one has secured the contested area or finds himself in battle.
Like a series of prayers, Marsh mouthed the mantra to himself again and again. When he finally found his bravery again, he reached back, tapped Graeme, and moved on. The Whiteshield was so close to him he felt the lad’s trembling breath on the back of his exposed neck. They rounded another corner, paused, and then pushed through a short tunnel with an upward gradient. By the time they reached the top, both men were on their hands and knees. Again, they stopped to get their bearings before pressing forward again.
Moving at a half-crouch with his dagger and suppressed Ripper Pistol pointed forward, Marsh went through a level tunnel. At the end, he could make out a junction; one path went left and the other went right. Stopping just shy of it, his immediate thought was to split up to cover more ground. But he quashed the idea just as quickly as it came. It was too dangerous to separate. Unsure of which direction to take, as he had just about lost all orientation with the shape of the hill he was now inside, he approached the left side. Sliding along the wall, he came to the corner. He began to stick his face around the corner and immediately stopped as a breath of hot, putrid air washed over his face. It was a rotting stench, as if air itself were decaying.
Marsh whipped his pistol up but the enemy snatched his arm and pushed him to the ground. As he was pinned by his right arm, he swung his trench knife in his left and clocked his opponent on the side of the head with the knuckles. In the scramble of flailing limbs, he lost his grip on his sidearm. Resisting the urge to bellow a war cry, a Cadian’s first instinct, he threw himself against the form, struggled to find the neck, and deflected the wild punches from his foe. He heard sounds of muffled thumps and grunts behind him. Graeme was in a fight as well! Marsh searched, hit, searched, hit, took blows, defended, and fought. No matter how he tried, he could not land a blow with his trench knife. Finally, he just grabbed the heretic’s face. He shoved it as hard as he could against the earthen wall and then hit him as hard as he could.
Grabbing a handful of the heretic’s hair, he jerked the head up and jammed the knife through the bottom of his jaw. The heretic let out a garbled gasp and went limp. Withdrawing the knife, he turned around, grabbed his lamp pack, and turned it on. Graeme was on top of a hooded heretic dressed in rags. He had his hands wrapped around the enemy’s throat and was putting all his strength on it. With bulging eyes, the Whiteshield growled through his clenched teeth as he put more and more weight on him.
In the warm yellow light, another figure emerged. A man wearing a sack hood, a black vest, and olive trousers appeared with a autopistol. Marsh saw his Ripper Pistol in the light, dropped his knife, dove, snatched the weapon up, and feathered the trigger. A burst of three rounds hammered the enemy in the chest and he dropped backwards like a falling tree. Just as he was about to help Graeme, something heavy hit him from the side. The blow was so severe he was knocked to the ground and both lamp and pistol fell from his grasp. Kicking and hitting, his blows were feeble and the heretic dragged him back onto his feet. Before he could attempt to defend himself, he was thrown against the wall very hard. It knocked the wind out of him and he gasped loudly.
A fist struck his cheek so hard he went reeling to the side. Catching himself, he tried to bounce back up. His attacker pounced on him, planting both knees in his abdomen. He was big and heavy. The heretic grabbed Marsh Silas by the throat and squeezed. Marsh first felt around, sure that his pistol or trench knife were close to him. But all he felt was bare ground. So he attempted to reach up and dig his fingers into the heretic’s eyes, but the man craned his head back. Unable to get a grip, he felt around the enemy’s person for something he could use but there was nothing. Marsh Silas’s lungs burned; it felt like his bulging temples would explode.
Suddenly, Graeme appeared behind the heretic. He brought the bottom of the trench knife down on the enemy’s head. The skull crusher on the bottom of the hilt made a fleshy thump sound. When Graeme delivered a second blow, there was a dull crack. But he still didn’t let go. So the Whiteshield leveled the knife and drove it through the back of the attacker’s neck. The tip came out through his throat. Blood coated the blade and ran down the heretic’s throat. Marsh pried the dead man’s fingers off and kicked him away. Taking a few raspy breaths, he looked up at Graeme in the light of the lamp pack. Another form drew near.
“Behind you,” Marsh croaked.
Graeme whirled around only to be tackled. A shadowy form lifted a dagger. Just before it entered his eye, the Whiteshield checked the blow with his forearm. But when he tried to throw the heretic off, he was wrestled, beaten, and could only restrain the knife. Marsh regained his footing and clocked the rusty knife descending steadily towards Graeme’s cheek. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he marched forward and kicked the heretic in the side as hard as he could. It was enough to boot him off of the Whiteshield but the heretic gracefully recovered, springing back onto his feet. But he was not swift enough; Marsh struck him in the gut with the barrel. He followed it with another barrel strike that drove him down, and several more to the heretic’s face. The heavy metal barrel smashed through teeth, broke his nose, and crushed his faceplate.
Marsh recovered his lamp pack, and briefly illuminated all three tunnels. As far as the light could go, he could not see any more enemies. After his sweep, he went over to Graeme and put a hand on the boy’s back. He was on his knees. Both of them caught their breath, gazing at one another with wild eyes. Eventually, the platoon sergeant patted him on the back and then on the top of his head. “Good work, Guardsman,” he panted.
“I think I should have let Yeardley come with you instead,” Graeme wheezed. That made Marsh smile.
After they collected their wargear and situated their combat loads. They approached the entrance of the left tunnel and illuminated it with the lamp. Marsh’s hand trembled as he held it. Inhaling slowly and then releasing a shaky breath, he deactivated the light and put it back in his kit bag. Several tense minutes passed in utter silence between the pair as their eyes readjusted and their senses grew accustomed to the tunnel once more. The platoon sergeant found himself moving more slowly than he did before. His feet felt like rockcrete slabs. He could hardly pick them up.
There were many bends in this part of the tunnel but not so many level changes. Marsh Silas tread carefully, knowing at any moment there could be a dip in the flooring or a rise that could trip him up. Complacency could kill a Guardsman no matter how experienced he was. At another bend, his gut tightened. Something was off. So he crouched down and felt around in front of him with his trench knife. He dragged the tip across the ground, prodded the walls and the ceiling, and discovered nothing. Even though the feeling hadn’t abated, he knew he could not waste time. He took one step, then another, and then his foot fell into a gap. A shriek caught in his throat. In the same instant, Graeme’s hand, gripping his shoulder, snatched his webbing and jerked him back. Both men tumbled and Marsh Silas landed on his trainee. His heart raced but he controlled his breathing so as not to appear too flustered.
Sheathing his knife, he took out the lamp pack and turned it on. After ensuring they were alone, he realized right out of reach of where he inspected with his knife was a ditch. In the bottom were dozens upon dozens of sharpened wooden stakes. Slowly, he met Graeme’s eyes who looked just as frightened as he did.
Although stripped of their rucksacks and most of their equipment, they still carried too much to traverse the trap. He tried to find some kind of wooden platform or trapdoor to cover it but there was nothing present. The only way to cross it were the little edges on either side. These were only wide enough for a man’s heel or palm. Apprehensively, Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder. Past Graeme, there was nothing but a dark and empty tunnel. Going back seemed like the easier and more logical approach. But from the first day Cadians learned small unit tactics, they were explicitly lectured on an important rule of maneuver warfare: never go back the way you came. Even with all the reconnaissance and security on one’s own turf, the enemy still knew the ground well. Potential ambushes, traps, and roadblocks were threats considered too great by the basic company elements. In the enemy’s stronghold—this terrible networking of twisting, turning tunnels—the likelihood of running into a more prepared and determined foe was too great.
Marsh took his shotgun from his shoulder and gently tossed it across the pit. It was barely three meters wide but it was wide enough to lose one’s wargear just as well as their life. Taking as much excess gear off, he lobbed it across the pit. Graeme squeezed in beside him and did the same. “Staff Sergeant, I’ll go first.”
The platoon sergeant’s pride was immeasurable. It was hard to see small Graeme as a boy now. Flashing him a smile and delivering a clap on the back, Marsh gave him room. The Whiteshield angled himself so his feet were against the left side of the gap and his hands were on the other. With his rear end high in the air, he slid sideways across the edges. Gripping the opposite ledge with his hands and keeping his heels balanced on the other, he shuffled his way across. On the other side, he drew his autopistol and checked the area, then looked back at Marsh Silas with a happy smile.
Giving him a nod, Marsh tossed him the lamp pack and assumed the same position. Very quickly, he realized this was going to be a bit more difficult for him. He was taller and stronger; while he could run fast and push himself into any kind of terrain, he was not the most agile soldier there ever was. Unable to look anywhere but down also proved detrimental as the sharpened tips of the stakes made his mouth go dry. As sweat dripped down his face, he eased onto the ledges and crossed. He felt loose soil trickle between his fingers. His back ached from the pitched angle.
Well, this is terribly exciting. Barlocke chuckled as they were about halfway across the obstacle. Marsh groaned out loud but within he said, ‘I am trying to make sure we both don’t die, would you let me be?’ Again, Barlocke laughed, his chortling bouncing around Marsh’s skull. But we have already crossed! Before Marsh had a chance to be confused, he felt Graeme take hold of his webbing and help him onto level ground. It was a tight, awkward space and Marsh released a breath as he fell onto his pupil.
After regaining his strength, he extricated himself from the Whiteshield and collected his wargear. As they fell back into formation, he found himself acting as the rearguard. Graeme nodded confidently as he turned off the lamp. “Nobody ever covered that in our training, Staff Sergeant.”
“We shall never speak of this damned act to anyone, understand?”
“Aye, Staff Sergeant. I’ll take point this time.”
Marsh gripped his shoulder and tapped him once They crawled onward, slithering up an incline, traversing several bends, and then going even deeper into the heretical lair. Throwing the occasional glance over his shoulder, Marsh Silas felt braver than before. Careful, Silvanus, we’re not out of this yet. ‘And where were you,’ the platoon sergeant thought, ‘when we confronted those rotten heretics earlier? Can you not sense them?’ What power I have extends only so far. Besides, I knew you and young Graeme could handle it. ‘If it’s at all possible, whether ya think we can or can’t handle it, sing out if you feel somethin’ nearby.’ I shall try my best, old friend.
Graeme stopped shortly after that. Marsh peeked past him and saw they were at another pit. Wedging himself between the Whiteshield and the wall, he realized it was actually a vertical shaft. A shoddy wooden ladder fastened with rope and nails leaned against the lip of the opening. Silently, they stared into the abyss beneath them. I can sense only vague forms of life; for all I know, it could be Logue and Foley. Tread carefully.
“I’ll go first this time,” Marsh whispered. Graeme backed off to give him room to turn on his hands and knees. Keeping his Ripper Pistol in his right hand, the veteran began descended. It was longer than he expected, delving nearly twenty meters below. Each time his heavy boot settled on a rung, the entire ladder groaned. More than once, the groan evolved into the subtle squeal wood made just before snapping. But with the Emperor’s blessing, he reached the bottom without incident. “Go,” he hissed back up the shaft, his voice carrying and reverberating up the shaft. A moment later, the ladder shuddered as Graeme followed.
As he waited, Marsh observed the new area. It was a wider intersection. The landing led to a tunnel to his immediate left, another at his right, one directly in front, and one in between them all. Five different paths and none seemed to differ all that much from the other. Although he could stand upright in the landing, the tunnels were shorter and he would have to walk at a half-crouch. Despite his age and fitness, his back was already aching from the prolonged posture.
Marsh walked up to the one directly in front of him with his Ripper Pistol raised. He saw and heard nothing. Knowing he would just have to choose a tunnel, he picked this one. Turning around, he went back to the ladder. There’s one to your left! He whipped his pistol around and activated his light at the same time. A heretic loomed out of the darkness with a hatchet. One squeeze of the trigger sent him tumbling to the ground. Turn around, quickly now! Whirling, Marsh shot another heretic charging out of the darkness. Two more, there’s—Marsh felt a force collide into his back. At the same time, another heretic barreled into his side. Caught between the two enemies, Marsh roared, kicked, and failed as hard as he could to free himself. Throwing himself against the second enemy, he knocked him to the ground. Even as the other one continued to bash and throttle him from behind, he continued to hit the one he was straddling.
Finally bringing his pistol to bear, he smashed the barrel against the heretic’s face to stun him and then fired a single round through the head. But he felt a weight come off his back and watched the strap of his shotgun fly off his other arm. Turning, he found himself face to face with the barrel of his own weapon. Just then, Graeme charged into the enemy with his combat knife. The shotgun went off, deafening the platoon sergeant, and the round struck the ceiling of the tunnel. As the Whiteshield stabbed his opponent, Marsh covered him. More heretics came flooding out of the tunnels, crawling and crouching before springing out like animals. They came with axes, daggers, and short swords.
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He cut down several with a single burst from his Ripper Pistol. Right behind you! Marsh swapped his weapon into his other hand, turning as he did, lifted the pistol right into the attacking enemy’s face, and fired a single shot. The suppressor went thunk and there was a crack as the bullet broke through the heretic’s skull. More came and Marsh fired until he heard the click. Drawing his trench knife, he hit one across the face with the armored knuckles. Blood appeared around the mouth of the sack hood he wore. Before he fell, Marsh snatched him by the shirt and drove the blade into the soft tissue right at the base of his neck. The enemy gurgled and went limp.
Dropping the corpse, he heard another scrambling out of one of the diagonal tunnels. Just as the head appeared, he brought the skull crusher down on the back of his neck. The blow was enough to stun him. Flipping the knife over, he brought it down on the same spot. It sank all the way to the hilt. For good measure, he twisted it by ninety degrees. This made the twitching corpse grow still.
A war cry behind him made him duck instinctively. The blade of an ax struck the wooden trim outlining the tunnel. Turning around at a crouch, he stabbed the heretic in the knee cap which made him scream. Throwing himself against the heretic, he knocked him to the ground and pummeled his face in. Marsh didn’t stop until the front of the sack hood was coated in slick, black blood. Even then, the heretic was still feebly resisting Grabbing the handle of the ax, Marsh raised it over his head and buried the blade in the enemy’s chest. Three more coming from the tunnel behind you and there’s another coming down the ladder, hurry!
Marsh spotted his pistol on the ground. He ejected the magazine, slid a full one in, and ran to the tunnel. Flashing his lamp on the tunnel, he spotted the trio attempting to burst out. Crouching down, he grinned and sprayed the tunnel with automatic fire. All three crumpled on top of one another, blood leaking from the entry wounds. Darting over to the ladder, he raised the lamp and illuminated the heretic who was descending. Through the slit in the sack hood, he could see the dark eyes widen. Pointing the weapon up, he expended the last rounds in the magazine. The body trembled with each hit and fell limply from the ladder. Taking a single step back, Marsh watched the body fall in front of him. Bones broke and snapped, reducing the body to a limp, fleshy pile.
He loaded another magazine and turned around.
“Clear?” he asked aloud. Yes...but where is young Graeme?
Marsh shone the lamp pack around the landing. The Whiteshield was nowhere to be seen. He approached the spot where he had seen him fighting. None of his wargear was on the ground; only Marsh’s trench knife and shotgun remained. After collecting both, he stuck his head down each tunnel. “Graeme!” he hissed. “Graeme! Damn it lad, speak up if ya can hear me!”
The urge to find him grew frantic. He looked for a trail in the loose sediment but after so much hand to hand combat all the footprints and trails were ruined. Every single tunnel had some indication of movement, fresh and old, and Marsh Silas was not that good a tracker.
He crouched down and tried to catch his breath. “Barlocke, can you sense him?” I am trying, Silvanus. Maybe…no…wait…
Marsh felt something pull away from him. Once again, he saw dust form into Barlocke’s ghost. The image of the fragment sat cross-legged on the ground, closed his eyes, and made the Sign of the Aquila in front of him.
Marsh Silas ran his hand over his face and went back to the first tunnel he chose. It was near where Graeme saved him before, it was the best option he had. He was afraid; even though Graeme acted so bravely in their two fights, it was too difficult to imagine him alone and lost in this darkness. What if he was taken? What if he was being beaten by the heretics at this very moment? What if he was dead? He had to go!
“Calm yourself, man,” Barlocke whispered without opening his eyes. “You will not serve him by driving yourself mad with every possibility. Focus.” The Inquisitor’s ghost opened his eyes and pointed down the tunnel. “This one. Come.”
Throwing his shotgun over his shoulder and turning off the lamp, Marsh took up his smaller weapons again and went into the tunnel. In the bleakness, he could just make out Barlocke’s visage and stayed close behind him. Marsh could not speak for fear of giving his position away. His eyes adjusted to the darkness but sometimes it was easier to just close his eyes and feel his surroundings with his hands. Marsh Silas wanted to find his pupil and complete his mission, but the further he went the more he wanted to get out of these damnable tunnels. By no means perturbed by small spaces, having lived for many years in subterranean bunkers, trenches, and evening fighting holes during some very bad battles, he found these far more terrible than any he inhabited before. Here, the darkness was oppressive and the tightness of the tunnels made him feel like he could hardly breathe. It was not like being inside a building; one could still hear the outside world through thick walls. Distant artillery, the moaning of the wind, martial voices, the call of carrion birds, and the rumble of armored vehicles were all constant sounds on Cadia. Any Cadian would find these noises familiar and inviting.
But down in these depths, there was nothing familiar. Those sounds Marsh Silas was so accustomed to were absent. What sounds the tunnels carried came from within and they were ghastly. The occasional, muffled footstep, a brief cough, loose soil falling from the ceiling, the creak of a rotten timber, and his own subdued breathing were all the sounds he could make out. It did not even seem like he was on Cadia anymore. Everything seemed to close in on him; the walls, the darkness, the silence. On and on and on, he crawled and clawed his way through this abyss. All understanding of which way was up or down, left or right, deserted him. More and more, it seemed like he was being swallowed up by the hole in the earth.
Marsh stopped and took a long breath, but Barlocke wrapped his hand around his and led him on.. There was no time to say the prayers he wanted so he remembered the mantra Commissar Ghent had him repeat over the years.
“The platoon cannot be beat,” he whispered to himself. “Who do we serve? The Emperor, sir. Who are we? Cadians, sir. The platoon cannot be beat...” He squeezed his eyes shut as he continued to say it. Faces flashed through his mind; Carstensen, intense but so brave; Hyram, kind of heart yet resilient; all his friends, rough, filthy, smiling, faithful, courageous. Then came his father Dayton and his mother Faye, gentle and worn; Ghent, implacable, threatening, yet suddenly reassuring; the visage of the Emperor, golden, pure, perfect, strong, and guiding. He opened his eyes and pushed himself further. Even as the dread sank into his heart
Crawling on his hands and knees, he came to a curved portion of the tunnel. Barlocke held up his hand and slid further into it. When he came back, he nodded.
“It’s clear.” Barlocke faded back into Marsh Silas. The sensation was so soothing and it went into Marsh Silas. It seemed to enter his spine and cascade down it with the warmth of a fireside. Another ladder was at the end of the curve. Except this one led upwards, not downwards. Sliding out of the tunnel and sheathing his knife, he climbed up. Rung after rung, creaking, moaning, he climbed and prayed he would finally be free from this place.
As he ascended through the shaft, a glow at the top grew more visible. It was a thin yellow; a pale and weak radiance. Slowing down, he made sure he came over the lip with his Ripper Pistol aimed. When he finally peeked over, his eyes widened. Before him was a wide, well-lit, and commanding room. It was clean, organized, and well-supported. To the right were many camping bags and collapsible cots with bedding. On the left side were crates, large and small, containing various wargear ranging from autoguns and lasrifles to full sets of Flak Armor. In the center appeared to be tables molded from the earth and encased with wooden trim. From the angle he was at, he couldn’t see what was on any of them. Everywhere, there were emblems and icons of the true enemy but he did not look at them. These filled him with rage and disgust. He would not insult his Emperor by laying his eyes upon them. Soon, he would destroy them.
Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to two large forms on the opposite side of the room. Surrounded by many hooded heretics, the pair dwarfed them. One was clad in purple robes and was taller and thinner. Mechadendrite tentacles flowed from his back and pale green orbs glowed within its hood. Obscured by shadows, the other was even taller and larger. He appeared to wear power armor and he carried a staff. His plating was silver and there were yellow and black hazard stripes along his greaves.
“You continue to displease me,” said the larger form to a puny heretic kneeling before him. “My lord placed great faith in you and yet you fail him with folly after folly. Now, this filthy band of the blind come to wipe us out. How many hundreds of your acclaimed and worthy warriors have died at their hands? They number less than a hundred! You squander the gifts I have furnished you with!”
His voice boomed throughout the room. All the heretics still standing fell to their knees. The hooded, skinnier form loomed over them.
“You promised us great footholds but they have all been undone,” he said in a mechanical voice. “Now our forges are threatened. You fail not only your new overlords, but you fail me as well.” He turned to the large form. “I am reconsidering the alliance between our two forces.”
“I ask you to remain steadfast. My brethren will emerge from the Eye with a great force. Your machines of war will be of the greatest boon. If you wish more of the spoils, I will speak to Consus and Summanus upon their arrival. I can negotiate more of the manufacoturms to fall in your favor.”
“Oh, great smith, please!” the leader of the mortal party cried. “Forgive us. We are erstwhile servants of Iron! We did not think the Cadian ilk would pursue us and we have attempted to exterminate them with all haste. Please, we can only ask for more gifts. The engine which you have hidden, may we—”
“Speak not to me of the engine!” the large figure—this Smith—cried out. “You bowed before us and requested to become the harbingers of our arrival. You have failed! Snuff out this meddlesome Bloody Platoon at once. One feeble Guardsman is not enough! If I must solve your dilemmas in your stead, then you shall not be alive to exalt in our victory.”
He and his robed companion approached a large tunnel exit. The exit sealed behind them while the company of heretics left behind rose uncomfortably to their feet. Whispers and hisses passed between them. Marsh Silas rose out of the ladder well with his pistol up. Silvanus, are you really going to—
Marsh shot one of the heretics through the back and the force sent the target sprawling onto one of the tables. Heaving himself up, Marsh Silas fired at the many hooded figures who were now turning to face him. Diving behind the walled table the corpse was by, Marsh reloaded his pistol but holstered it in favor of his shotgun. Waiting for the intense automatic fire to die down, he raised himself and unleashed a fusillade of shells. Figures darted and dived for cover. One recoiled and disappeared from sight. Ducking down, Marsh Silas reloaded. Digging into the pouches lining and crossing his webbing, he chose the incendiary rounds. Rolling the cylinder back, he immediately raised it at a heretic attempting to flank him. The round struck him square in the belly and exploded. Streaks of flame scorched his khaki clothing and blackened the flesh underneath. He tumbled back and Marsh again stood to suppress the enemy. Just as he did, a door in the rear of the chamber burst open. Logue rushed in with his custom autopistol raised and fired in short, controlled bursts. Slugs tore through the air, chipping away at wooden crates and pounding the earthen walls. Scores of heretics fell.
As he rolled behind a box, Foley appeared with his double-barreled shotgun. One heretic sprang up to shoot him but he was faster on the draw. The round he fired sheared away part of the enemy’s head and he dropped out of sight. One came around on Foley’s flank and charged him with a hatchet. Swinging his shotgun towards the attacker with one hand, he squeezed the trigger. The recoil made the weapon jump very high but sent the charger hurling to the ground.
Smiling, Marsh ducked down, quickly reloaded, and slid his bayonet onto the lug of his shotgun. “The Bloody Platoon has come for you!” he screamed as he ran forward.
“Bloody Platoon!” Logue and Foley shouted in unison. All three Shock Troopers charged the enemy, cutting down any who exposed themselves among the cluttered room. Funneling them towards the right, the enemy tripped over bodies and beds, tried to stand and fight, but were defeated. Only a handful remained and attempted to escape through the single tunnel on that side. Logue took point, crouched, and fired as Marsh Silas illuminated them with his lamp pack. The remainder were cut down in the tunnel.
As smoke from the barrels of their weapons filled the chamber, Marsh Silas lowered his shotgun.
“Clear,” he said coolly, turned, and embraced each of his friends. “Praise be to Him that He should reunite us in this terrible place.”
“The Emperor’s light shines even in such depths, it seems,” Foley said. “I must say, it is a welcome surprise to see you here.”
“We found another entrance and we thought another team would even the odds.”
“Resistance was heavy at first, but it began to abate,” Foley continued. “You must have drawn some off. I thank you for that, Marsh Silas.”
Logue offered a nod in agreement. The platoon sergeant smiled at them, but it quickly faded.
“But I came with Graeme! I have lost him! We fought with the enemy twice and he disappeared after the second time. You must help me search for him.”
“If he is lost I don’t know if we can find him,” Logue said worriedly. “This place is large and confusing. We had to mark our path with stones for fear of not being able to find our way out. Even if we have secured it, it could take hours, perhaps days!”
“Calm down,” Foley said, raising his hand. “Marsh Silas is right, we cannot leave a man behind. Let us catch our breath and then we’ll set out. For now, let us see what the heretics have been hiding from us.”
Marsh Silas agreed and they investigated the room. The earth kept within the table walls looked strange at first. But after a few minutes of studying, Marsh Silas realized it was a model of the sector’s map. Every hill, draw, ridge, and thicket was detailed through mounds of dirt, pebbles, and sticks. Eventually, they came to the center table which showed the ring of strongholds they discovered from the last piece of evidence. But beyond them all was a very large object, a giant rise out of the land. It was by no means a mountain but it was not a gentle rise or a mere hill. The corner of Marsh’s crooked lips hooked into a smirk.
“We’ve found it, the enemy’s keep!” Marsh declared, bringing his fist down on the trim of the table. “If we destroy it, we’ll secure the sector.”
“No tactician I,” Logue muttered, “but we still need to knock out these here tunnel links.”
“Hyram will see that it’s taken care of,” Foley said as he carefully went through the pockets of the leading heretic that was killed during the fight. “And we should discover who this ‘Smith,’ is. By the Emperor, he is creating and distributing weapons to other heretical cells all over Cadia. If we eliminate him, we’ll strike a major blow against their uprising.”
Foley stood up and handed the parchment he collected to Logue. “Compile all the intelligence you can. Marsh Silas, if you’re ready, I’ll go with ya to find young Graeme.”
There were only three exits to the chamber; the ladder well Marsh Silas took, the doorway Foley and Logue came from, and the tunnel the heretics tried to escape through. The choice was obvious. They explored the tunnel and discovered many rooms carved into either side. These appeared to be more quarters for the heretics. Although they were quite certain they wiped out the skeleton crew guarding the place, they cleared each room, avoiding the disgusting cultists’ iconography.
Marsh Silas expected their search to take some time. They cleared a set of rooms just past the pile of corpses, then another, then another, and then came to a fourth. Foley went left, Marsh Silas went right. The room was a storage facility packed with metal crates carrying lasguns and laspistols. “Marsh,” Foley said, his voice a whisper.
The platoon sergeant darted out of the room, his heart pounding. But the excitement in his eyes died as he saw Foley crouch beside a body. Graeme was propped up against a wall; his left hand was chained to a stake in the floor. His eyes were gouged out black holes, his throat slit, and his stomach was ripped open. All his intestines were sliding out. Blood was everywhere.
He knelt in front of the young Whiteshield and looked at him for a long time. Eventually, he looked down and covered his forehead with his hand.
“We’re not leaving him here,” he said, his voice trembling.
***
When Marsh Silas, Logue, and Foley emerged from the tunnel the latter took, it was almost morning. As the light turned blue, the three ascended to the top of the hill. There they found the platoon command squad and many of the platoon’s members. Babcock, in anticipation of their victory, had planted their standard in the dirt. Chilly winds tugged and flapped the banner.
Everyone turned to witness their return. Wide smiles quickly disappeared as they saw who Marsh carried in his arms. Graeme’s coat was buttoned over his wounds and there was a cloth over his face. Marsh carefully placed in front of the platoon. Out of the crowd came Carstensen and she immediately approached the platoon sergeant.
“Silas,” she said, her green-blue eyes tired and strained. He looked back at her, his violet eyes glimmering.
“Lilias,” he said, his voice heavy. They stood so close their chestplates were nearly touching. She put her hand over the silver Aquila emblem on the left side and bowed her head.
Hyram knelt beside Graeme’s body, his head hanging low. He tugged his blanket out of his rucksack, rolled it out, and with a little assistance, draped it over the body. The Lieutenant leaned down to the body’s ear. He said something in a voice so low no one could make it out. Then, he stood up and came over to Marsh Silas. They saluted one another.
Marsh dug into his kit bag and produced all the documents they collected. “We found their true lair and the strongholds defending it. It’s big, sir, and they’re sendin’ weapons out to other traitors across the planet from the looks o’ it. We’ll need the whole regiment for this’un.” His eyes shifted to the body. “He got caught during our second fight. Lost him in the confusion. Found him all cut up real bad like, and...”
Hyram put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it very hard. The Lieutenant offered a very sad smile. He looked haggard and it was made all the more apparent by his bushy beard circle, stubble-covered cheeks, and equally messy sideburns.
“You did what you could, Staff Sergeant. That is all the Emperor could ever expect.”
Hyram continued to say more but Marsh Silas didn’t hear any of it. The other Whiteshields hurried up the hill and threw themselves over the body. They surrounded it and wept sorrowfully, sending up sundry prayers for preservation of his soul. Their cries were pitiful and torn and the tears flowed with the intensity and volume of a child’s.
He felt a hand thump his chest and it woke him from his stupor. Carstensen stared at him intensely.
“Remember, Silas: this is war.”