Kev-Hide boots thumped on crudely printed duckboards as they hurried over to the Chimera. The tank was stamped with the number 17-36, but the crew had personalised it with camo and the occasional obscenity to the enemy sloppily painted on. Andras saluted the driver while Megritt twisted open the back hatch, and the squad piled in. Mathas was the last in, swinging his bulky flamer round in an effort to close the door. Thankfully the pilot light was off, or else there would probably have been a few singed (and likely annoyed) faces. As the driver gunned the engines, the troopers began to check weapons and equipment, counting grenades, slotting magazines into webbing and enacting routine checks on their rifles. The las-gun was a reliable, if slightly power lacking rifle that was mass produced in its millions on numerous forge worlds across the galaxy. The interior of the Chimera was cramped, but it did beat trudging through the sludge by a long shot. Nobody spoke, the roar of the engines was too loud for anyone to be heard. Relaxing back into the cold metal bench, Andras flicked down his helmet visor. The HUD flickered into life. Flicking through the display, he found the briefing and began to scan it. He wouldn't pay too close attention. Things on this planet never went to plan anyway.
The tank ground to a halt, the engines dulling to a low purr. Andras' squad began to rise, but the driver's voice called them to sit.
"Nobody move." Puzzled glances were exchanged. They were inside a tank, they were safe, weren't they? He continued. "We aren't alone. I didn't pull the brakes. Something else stopped us." He turned around and looked hard at the men in the stowage compartment. "This was a trap-" he managed, just as a bullet came through the vision slit and exploded his brains all over Megritt.
"Out! Move!" Andras called, as they pushed the door open and sprinted into cover. Crimson helmets bobbed up and down as they desperately sought their attackers. It was a few long seconds before the first bullets came flying at them. Ducking behind a rotted, fallen tree, Andras yelled to his men:
"Contact!"
