Picus. Another hell hole for men to fight and die in. Once a pristine agriworld, covered with trees of ripe fruits and great fields of grazing Grox and native livestock. Now a blasted wasteland in most areas. Its cities in ruin, its vast forests burning, the few pockets of those still brave enough to resist the Chaos occupation having the life choked out of them in ever shrinking territories.

And this damned airfield is about the last place I wanted to die Captain Sorte thought to himself bitterly, as he clutched his Lasgun against his chest.

Las bolts and solid slugs flashed and whizzed about in both directions for a while now, the occasional explosive retort of a tank or savage bark of a Heavy bolter breaking the din, but Captain Sorte knew the real assault was soon to come. And when it finally came upon them they wouldn't last long.

In the past two months he saw his units numbers become fewer and fewer each day. Of his original 1000 men, barely 400 were still alive. Some of the men now weren't even trained soldiers, his real solider count still left of his original brigade probably closer to something like a hundred men. The other 300 being mostly militia. Desperate in their fight for their home many civilians picked up weapons from dead soldiers and fought on themselves. Some were smart enough to hook up with units as his. But now his unit would be the only one left as far as Sorte knew.

All he could do now was defend this damned airfield they found two weeks earlier. It was just another speck on the map, abandoned long ago by local PDF forces.

There wasn't much left. All planes were gone, save for a few ancient rust buckets who haven't been used in decades. They did find some small-arms, two AA-gun carriers, four chimera's and two rusty Leman-russ tanks. An Exterminator and a Conqueror. As luck would have it most of this stuff was barely able to move so they towed the armor out and dug in. The guns thankfully still worked. There was nowhere to run anyway and this place was as good as any other for a fight.

At least now they had more of a fighting chance than before, which for all they had wasn't worth much. Those tanks being just about the only thing keeping his ragged band of troops alive.

They had been surrounded and outnumbered for three days now, huddled close in their foxholes. Sorte had hastily arranged for the defence with his remaining sergeants and Lieutenant Heath, an old war-horse lucky to be alive with what was left of the battalion. The 2 tanks were dug in, hull down, in the gap between the two runways, facing east towards the remains of a local forest and the main defence around the terminal. The two tanks arranged in a 'V' shape to protect the ammo dumps and mortar pits behind them. The AA were set to ground fire and Chimeras were turned side on and reinforced with dirt. Their broadside of lasguns facing out over the open ground and foxholes. Most of the infantry however were set up around the terminal building, with some 30 men barricaded inside. The rest, along with Sorte, were huddled in two-man foxholes arranged in a staggered pattern. Ready to attempt to see off an attack.

It was the best they could have done with the time and resources they had but the situation was still grim. Even if the the Aquila station held, they couldn't expect reinforcement... until about an hour ago. There was some contact over the Vox with Imperial space ships, telling him his new call sign was Trojan and to expect reinforcements. They were under way, they had told him, but Sorte still had no idea when they would actually arrive.

He just told his boys they were coming. It was the best news many had heard in months. It was certainly enough to bring some small ray of hope to Store's own bitter and desperate mind.

As Sorte rounded of his inner monologue, the enemy war-horns sounded and the incoming fire intensified, the rumbling of engines coming from the burnt-out forest. Their final attack was coming.

Sorte jumped to his feet, calling out over the fire "Wakey wakey, ladies! The heretics are coming! Get on the guns! Vox the Tanks, I want suppressive fire on the tree line now! For the Emperor!" And may he have mercy on our souls. He thought, as he cradled his Mk XI Mars-Pattern Lasgun and squeezed off a long burst into the rising tide of enemy fire.

The battle was a furious mess. Green-ish chaos las-bolts answered by red imperial ones, paired with the orange tracer of autocannons and the odd stream of yellow rocket trails from Heavy bolter rounds. The few mortars they had left were hard at action, pumping out their shells almost continuously. Soon they would have to slow down or they would cook a round off and blow themselves up. Something they could not afford to happen. Vox was almost useless on top of that, channels filled with static from dead lines or incomprehensible chatter and shouting. Explosions, shouting and screams from those who wished they were dead made it incredibly hard to understand what the other was saying even without them. Sorte giving up very quickly on trying to give any orders during the fight.

Wave upon wave of enemy cultists and traitors kept coming. With his rifle at his shoulder he ushered prayers to the emperor and continued firing. Focusing on aiming, the action of firing his weapon, and the dropping of his chosen targets. Sorte trying his hardest not to notice the the blood and brains of his former comrade beside him, or that the heretics were getting ever-closer to his hole. He was dimly aware of a shadow slowly enveloping the battle, Sorte spared a glance upward to see the underside of two hulking great warships drifting its way over to the airfield he was fighting for.

Sorte dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and prayed harder than he ever had in his life. He and his men and fought and died long enough, and he awaited blessed release from this hell.

-Minutes Earlier-

"Two Destroyers are approaching and you want to send marines on raptors down to the surface! Have you lost your mind!? They'll be torn apart! If not by the warships then surely by the guns on the ground!" Howard virtually roared at The Blue standing across from him.

"Well Colonel I don't know if you've noticed but those surviving ground forces are not exactly having a picnic! We can't afford to delay our arrival by fighting with petty escorts! We can easily crush them and get reinforcements to the ground if you didn't have such a weak stomach for combat!" The Imperial retorted back, a savage snarl in his voice. Howard looked about ready to throttle him to death.

Price looked down at his plotting table, drowning out his bickering executive officers.

The bulk of the enemy fleet had been driven away, as planned, but two Iconoclast destroyers had broken past the fleet and were on their way to intercept them. He knew Howard was right, they could indeed easily destroy them without risking marine lives, but he also knew Goradin's observation that the ground forces couldn't hold that long was also true.

Come on Price, think of something! He thought, growing frustrated, when an idea suddenly hit him.

"Pipe down! Both of you!" The two men reluctantly turning to face their commander. "You are both right. We can't waste time fighting the Iconoclasts, or we lose the fight on the ground" Goradin turned to look at Howard with a smug and utterly triumphant grin "BUT!" Price added, supremely irritated by the face, "We can't risk the lives of my men trying to get support down there while those destroyers are close by. And don't ever do that face again, or I will launch you out of the airlock" Goradin looked slightly stunned for a second before straightening himself up and trying to regain his composure.

"Well John, what do you suggest?" Howard asked

"I suggest an orbital drop. We burn hard towards the planet and punch through the atmosphere. The sonic boom and flaming mass should scare off the two destroyers, if what Goradin tells us is correct, they should be pirate mercenaries and won't have the stomach for facing up to a 3K long hulk of metal flying at them. We can launch Vipers on the way down to give close air support and maybe a few Raptors. When they are clear we jump into low orbit and provide further support from there and see off the destroyers if they come back. Its risky, but it should allow us to complete our mission with minimal casualties."

Both Goradin and Howard looked at each other, then back at Price, "What?!" they said in unison.

"You heard me! Have a better plan, either of you?" They exchanged another look "No sir."

-Present-

Sorte's prayer was interrupted by a loud boom, and the now thoroughly withered captain looked up at the sky to see a bright light descending from the heavens. Well Sorte. You've well and truly lost it. He thought to himself, squinting to try and make sense of what he was looking at. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a great burning mass of metal was hurtling towards Picus at terminal velocity... The captain just continued to stare at the strange mass, unable to believe or comprehend what he was looking at.

The enemy destroyers, their captains in a panic at the new development, rapidly accelerating away with all the speed they could muster towards the horizon. Sorte neither noticed nor particularly cared anymore. His prayer, for the first time in his life, had been answered.

The Invictus, far above, had burned right through Picus' atmosphere, dropping rapidly. Its hull glowed red by the friction of the thick planetary atmosphere, leaving behind a wall of fire dozens of meters high.

"Altitude hundred five thousand and falling like a rock!" sounded through the CIC.

"Launch! Launch them all!" Howard called down the horn while Price ordered: "Standby FTL!"

8 Raptors that had been waiting and loaded flew out of the main Launch pods at top-speed, Vipers and Strike Vipers ejecting from the launch tubes along the Pods' broadsides.

Duster's Strike Viper shook restlessly in the launch tube. With the tube doors open he could see the inferno raging outside.

"Cleared to launch!" sounded in his headset.

"Whelp, this is a new one." Duster mumbled before being shot out through the wall of fire, into the Picus atmosphere together with 79 other craft.

"All birds are clear!" Shouted Goradin from his station.

"Stand-by................ JUMP!" Price shouted, and with a great flash, Invictus disappeared. A mere 500 metres from the surface of Picus.

Everyone within a 5 kilometer radius, not looking away, was temporarily blinded by the bright flash of the Invictus FTL jump. With almost 3 cubic kilometers of metal gone, the void left behind collapsed with a giant sonic boom, throwing about people and debris even remotely close to the event and sucking up dust and pebbles in every direction at the vacuum-based disturbance. Sorte quickly ducked down and lowered his head to shield his face against the dust-storm, sand and pebbles ticking against his helmet and skin. Eyes dazzled and hands shaking in shock.

Moments later his vox began to sound:

"Trojan 2-1, Trojan 2-1 this is Hawk 1. Come in."

Struck with disbelief Sorte just looked over at the Voxcaster for several long moments. Staring. He could hardly believe what he was promised by the Navy was actually occurring. Certainly an Improvement over Guard High Hommand... Sorte mused in his typically cynical inner dialogue.

"Trojan 2-1, Trojan 2-1 this is Hawk 1, Callsign Duster. Come in."

Slowly he approached the Vox and picked up the horn.

"This is... This is Trojan 2-1. Aye. Captain Sorte of the 122nd Guard-PDF Infantry Battalion. Are you our Navy reinforcements?" The answer seemed obvious, but Sorte had to ask to settle his confused mind.

"That's affirmative! You've got eight Shuttles with Marines inbound to your location. I suggest you clear an LZ for them to land. ETA three minutes."

Thank the Emperor. "Roger that Duster, can you provide Close Air Support?" Please say yes. Sorte wasn't even completely sure he'd have the wafer thin defence he did have without some kind of heavy firepower.

"You've got nine fighters and seventy strikers at your disposal Captain. We'll do what we can. Better tell your guys to get real small in their holes and mark your lines. We can't see friend from foe from up here."

By the Throne! This keeps getting better! "Understood. Sorte out!" he threw down the mic, and looked around wildly for surviving men. The Chaos attack had noticeably eased in shock, barely any fire being exchanged, it barely registered as he turned right turned and finally spotted a few of his men several fox-holes along from him. Theirs being a slit accommodating 6 men as opposed to the two-man hole Sorte currently found himself in.

He recognised two of them from his original company. Sorte sucked in and projected his voice over to them "Merkin! Doyle! Get behind that depression behind us and prep an LZ for incoming reinforcements! Use det-cord if you have to! Go!" the men didn't need it repeating. While fire was still relatively light, they ran off at meteoric pace back and away from the line.

He turned to his left to see what he could scavenge from his dead Vox officer when he spotted a boy from the militia in the Fox hole directly next to his. Barely out of his teens, he was showing his metal by hammering the line with his autogun. Either not noticing or recovering quickly from the surprise arrivals.

"You! Boy! What's your name?" Sorte shouted, lugging up the Caster and scurrying the short distance between the two fox holes, narrowly avoiding a hail of Autogun slugs.

The boy looked around startled, swinging his gun around, before realising his Captain was the one scurrying toward him. The boy lowed the weapon, swallowed, and replied weakly: "Dannings, sir."

"Ever worked with one of these?" Sorte asked, nodding to the caster dropped at his feet.

He looked down at it. "Can't say I have sir. Best I had was a short-range toy and a radio I used to tinker with." Nervousness and anxiety clear in his voice.

"That's good enough. You just volunteered to be my Vox officer. Congratulations on the Promotion. Now pick this piece of crap up and stick to my ass from now on, understood? You are now our lifeline!"

"Yes sir!" the boy replied, feeling both proud for vote of confidence and now nervous of the immense pressure now lying on his shoulders rather than performance anxiety.

"First order for ya. Drown out all vox noise and send to all our boys: friendly ships incoming, watch fire. Stay in your holes and mark our lines. Use smokes to mark out position. Friendly CAS inbound. You got that?"

Dannings nodded and started working with the caster right away, playing with the switches and knobs.

The kid sure looked more confident with a vox than shooting a rifle Sorte reflected, Let's hope he is proficient with it too.

The arch-enemy's forces were in disarray after Invictus made its dynamic entry. Soldiers stunned, blinded, and unsure of how to proceed with what had seemed like an easy victory, paralysing the attack. The front line had stalled, and more infantry and the first vehicles pouring out of the Forest edge had created a target-rich environment. It took a few moments before they realised there were strikers inbound, once they did the Chaos force was in motion again. Scurrying for cover in the forest, rushing forwards into captured foxholes, while the Hydras they had in the area roared out wave after wave of FLAK. It would be far too little too late for many of them. But the Hydra batteries were a nasty hazard for Invictus' planes.

Strike-viper 279A, On station above Picus

"Wow, someone really isn't happy to see us." seeing the thick black blanket of lead rising up to greet them from the Hydras on the ground.

"Damn right Wizzo" Duster replied while jinking away from the wall of fire. "Shall we return the favour?"

"Already on it. Got one mobile AA at one O'clock at five KM."

"Lock missile!"

"Locked!"

"Rifle!" Duster called in his radio while pulling the trigger, calling his shot.

The optical seeker found the heat-signature of the enemy Hydra battery and sped towards it at Supersonic speeds. Just over a dozen seconds later the missile impacted the lightly armored weapons carrier and detonated inside, tearing the vehicle apart in a brilliant orange fireball. Secondary explosions cutting down surrounding Infantry in the Forest.

"Whelp, that shut them up." the Wizzo commented, looking over at the rising column of thick black smoke.

"Yup, but he isn't the only one down there" Duster replied before switching to his radio. "Duster to all Planetary units. Mobile triple-A units in the area, priority one targets. Stay at altitude and scan your sectors. We need confirmation of who's friendly down there. All Hawk Units, form a ring up high, pick your targets before your run in. By the numbers people. We can't lose any ships here. No time to Frack about!"

He was answered by multiple acknowledgements over the net.

All craft rose to altitude and formed a giant rotating wheel of strike craft orbiting the combat zone, waiting for the lines to be marked. White smoke markers began to rise from the airfields outer edges. Trojan had marked their holdings.

"We're in business!" someone exclaimed over the comm. And the craft set in for their first pass. Diving like great predatory birds after their prey.

The smoke-markers were barely active before Sorte could see a dozen or so small Strike Craft screaming down towards the enemy troops mere dozens of meters in front of him. Large streams of tracers and FLAK arched up into the sky, trying to hit the small craft. They were met with missile-fire aimed right at the source, explosions accompanied by shouts and screams marking the termination of the missile's trajectory. Stopping whatever had been shooting at them in very short order.

Each craft came down low and dropped two canisters which quickly exploded in massive fireballs almost a hundred meters long, enveloping dozens of enemy troops with them with every blast. Their deaths marked by screams and the foul stench of corrupted and burning flesh. Within minutes the airfield was practically surrounded by fire. Sorte winced and felt the immense heat burning, but cracked a savage grin. A truly fitting end for the heretic.

The fire temporarily isolated the airfield, leaving only small lanes open where the fires failed to overlap. In spite of the blocked path, enemy troopers and APC's attempted to resume the assault, flowing out of the surrounding woods. To Duster the mass of troops looked like a heap of ants crawling towards their target. Seeing the opportunity he swooped his Strike-Viper down and started his attack run, shortly followed by two wingmen.

Sorte ripple-dropped cluster-bombs above the highest concentration of enemy troops he could find. Before the traitors could react, the area was saturated with hundreds of small bomblets which exploded on impact, severing limbs and ripping apart bodies. His wingmen executed expert rocket-strikes on the lightly armored APC's. Some managed to get a few shots off with their side-mounted lasguns, before getting gutted by armour-piercing rockets exploding inside and eviscerated anything in their way.

All that was left behind being scored and gored earth, punctuated only by the screams of