Marsh Silas II: Bloody Platoon

Chapter 14

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 was no light and no supporting wooden trims. 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.