Marsh Silas IIS: Squad Stories

Chapter 1

A lonely road cut through a series of vegetative interlocking spurs. No lights or signs were posted to guide any souls who found themselves treading it. Whether on foot or by vehicle, any traveler had to be wary of rockslides. Underneath all the yellow cotton grass and thick, green hedges were sheets of slate broken up by centuries of rainfall. Even if one were to pass through without encountering mounds of earth and stone, they would most certainly find a gnarly slab or two on the sharp bends. Each of these rocks seemed to stand as a waystone, or perhaps a feeble attempt to slow whatever traffic attempted to traverse the route.

But whichever unfortunate soul managed to traverse the arduous route thankfully found themselves in open country. The grass was no more than a stubble and there was hardly a bush, boulder, or tree to be seen. Although, these were no mere flatlands. Soft, rolling hills rose like the peaks of waves upon the seas. Here and there was a low ridge which lacked the rocky spines of the spurs and the towering nature of the surrounding mountains. In the very center of the valley there was a particular rise which ran parallel to the wide road. Drainage ditches were on either side of the route and, standing like watchtowers, were two little hills on either side—perfectly perpendicular to that gentle ridge. Upon the crest and embedded on its slopes was a development that would have appeared out of place to a geographer: a series of helmeted heads.

Nestled among the vegetation, prone along the ground, crouched in firing pits, they monitored the road. No one made a sound. Not a cough, not a sneeze; not some passive comment nor a grumble about the wet, misty air. Occasionally, a head swiveled slowly to the west where those rough spurs stood. Once in a while, a helmet looked over the corresponding shoulder at the very top of the low, soft ridge. Then, after gazing for a time, they would return to their post.

They were glancing at one particular helmet, the only one in the platoon that bore a golden Aquila on the front. Underneath it, a pair of piercing violet eyes peered keenly through a set of magnoculars. His free hand clutched the handset of a Clarion Vox Array, carried by the shorter fellow laying beside him, up to his ear. An unlit pipe hung from his lips. He remained so still it was as if he were not even breathing.

In the west, a weak, white light bloomed. It was a glow at first, then it widened, and finally expanded into two circular beams. These two lances of light were followed by another, another, and another. Eight pairs of these pale eyes came trundling down the grade of the last spur. The vehicles accelerated as they ran along the level road.

"Lieutenant, eyes on," rasped the sniper on his left side, peering down the long road through the Night-Eye scope of his Hellshot.

"Check," uttered the leader, who lowered his scope. He keyed the handset. "Red Six Actual to all call-signs: keep the platoon net clear of all non-critical traffic. Stations, report readiness in sequence, over."

Their voices came low and clear, one after the other. Red One, green. Red Two, green. Red Three, green. Red Four, green. Red Five, green. Red Eleven, green. Red Twelve, green. Both weapons section attachments and the sniper team confirmed they were ready. The Lieutenant smiled. "Spit out your chewing tabac and say your prayers: the Emperor is with us, for he knows our mission is righteous and just."

At that, he tucked the pipe into his satchel and reached into the collar of his Carapace Armor. He pulled out a silver Aquila-I icon and kissed it.

"They're increasing their intervals," the sniper whispered. "I still think we shoulda hit them on the spurs, sir."

"And that's why, Isenhour, they made me an officer and you'll be an OSR beat for the rest of your life," the Lieutenant sparred. In turn, the sniper snickered. But the Commissar crouching behind them huffed.