Squads of Astartes pounded down the ramps, the drop-ship trembling with the weight of dozens of booted feet upon plasteel. Squad by squad the company assembled under their captain before being dispersed to positions around the site.
Astelan cast his gaze left and right, taking in his surrounds, the landscape digitally projected onto his eyes by his helmet’s auto-senses so that the dark was almost as bright as day. According to Astoric there was a medium-sized conurbation three kilometres away. The dropsite was located in a patchwork of fields separated by chest-high walls and ditches. Here and there were dotted clusters of plain buildings. To the west was a thick forest, beyond which lay the town. The fields rose up onto steep-sided hills to the north, but the rest of the terrain was open and flat. It was these long fields of fire that had contributed towards Astelan’s decision to land at this point.
It was here that Astelan hoped to make contact with the planet’s inhabitants.
Having been present at three other first-contact situations, he knew that the next minutes and hours would be vital. Scans had shown no orbital craft, even basic communication satellites, so the shock of visitors arriving from space might well be considerable. Astelan had chosen this relatively small backwater to acclimatise to the world and to act as a gentle introduction to the natives – it was unwise to drop armoured warriors into the heart of a planet’s major cities unless widespread panic was the desired result.
That the world did not have space-capable craft was surprising but not unknown. So much knowledge had been lost during the long centuries of darkness, many worlds had even returned to cruel barbarism and superstition. At the moment, the world was neither friendly nor enemy, simply an intriguing enigma that Astelan wished to swiftly unravel.
Astelan set up his command post some five hundred metres from the Harbinger inside an abandoned farmstead. It was a set of simple cubic constructions of plascrete, of a pattern laid down by the standard template data seen all across the galaxy during mankind’s expansion to the stars. As other units moved to similar positions in buildings and along walls surrounding the dropsite, Astelan idly mused whether other standard template construct materiel would be found. It was not a particular concern of his, but the Mechanicum of Mars would be interested.
The sound of a distant detonation tore Astelan from his thoughts and he dashed outside, ducking his considerable frame beneath the low lintel of the doorway. Amongst the trees a pall of smoke rose into the air. He saw flashes of flame and a few moments later came the crash of more explosions.
His comm-piece crackled inside his helmet and Astelan gave the sub-vocal command that activated the pickup. It was Sergeant Argeon, the leader of the recon sweep.
‘It looks like our small town is, in fact, a military installation, commander,’ the sergeant reported blithely. ‘I don’t think they were expecting visitors.’
Astelan swore loudly. The jetbikes were almost three kilometres distant, several minutes from supporting units. Before he could make any further analysis, the keen auto-senses of his armour attracted his attention.
It was the unmistakeable whine of approaching jets.
The defence arrays on the Harbinger also detected the incoming craft and a hail of missiles streaked skywards upon trails of fire, screaming to the west. Explosions blistered in the low clouds that hung over the whole sky, but there was no way of telling if any had hit their targets.
No more than a minute later the answer came. Small black shapes appeared, a long chain of them drifting downwards towards the Harbinger. They erupted in blossoms of incendiary destruction around the drop ship and upon its hull, splashing some form of burning fuel in their wake. Evidently at least one aircraft had survived.
As the Chapter commander processed this new development, Argeon’s voice was in Astelan’s ear again.
‘They are readying for an attack on our position,’ the sergeant said. ‘What are your orders?’
‘Pull back a kilometre and establish a new cordon,’ Astelan replied. Jetbikes were for scouting, not for mounting a resistant defence.
‘Acknowledged, commander,’ said Argeon.
The tactical display showed that Sergeant Cayvan was moving his three squads forwards on his own initiative, securing the boundary of the woods. Astelan left the experienced sergeant to his own devices, confident that he knew what he was doing.
‘Withdrawal pattern, commander?’ asked Sergeant Jak in the comm-piece.
‘Not until we know what their aerial capability is,’ said Astelan. There was little sense in piling the troops back onto the burning Harbinger until Astelan knew whether the enemy had the means to shoot down the transport.
A different tone signalled a message incoming from orbit.
‘I have coordinates for orbital barrage confirmed.’ It was Belath, his tone quiet and assured.
‘Negative,’ responded Astelan. ‘They might not have orbital craft but we have no idea if they have ground-based defences capable of striking back. Do not give away your position.’
‘I understand,’ said Belath. ‘I am dispensing craft for atmospheric dominance.’
‘Yes, cover the landing zone and put your companies on their ships in preparation for landing,’ Astelan said.
‘They already are, Astelan,’ replied Belath with a note of umbrage.
‘Stand ready for my word then,’ said Astelan.
By now the Harbinger was ablaze along half its length. Its surviving turrets were firing a near-continuous stream of anti-air rockets into the clouds. Their approach all but masked by the din, more unseen jets screeched overhead and a short while later the ground was rocked by massive explosions.
The heavy bombs tore huge craters in the grassy mud and sent plumes of stones and dirt high into the air. Several scored direct hits on the landing craft, tearing out great chunks of plasteel armour and rockcrete superstructure.
More thunderous detonations swiftly followed, the explosions much smaller than those of the bombs though more accurate and numerous. It appeared that artillery was also being brought to bear on the drop zone.
The rattle of small-arms fire drifted from the woods, interspersed with the heavier cracks of bolter rounds. Cayvan’s squads were being engaged by their new enemy. Astelan swore again. He had so little information with which to construct a suitable strategy. The enemy had unknown numbers, unknown positions and unknown capabilities.
In the face of his own ignorance, the Chapter commander fell back on the principal strategy of the Astartes – attack and dominate.
‘Cayvan, hold position,’ Astelan barked quickly over the comm-net. ‘Sergeant Argeon, I want the locations of those artillery pieces relayed to Chapter Commander Belath. Jak, deploy your Devastators onto the hills and provide cover fire. Move the rest of your squads north and support Cayvan. Melian, stand ready to reinforce either flank.’
His warriors thus set into motion, Astelan ducked back inside the farmhouse. It was empty inside but for a few broken pieces of furniture and discarded rags. Sergeant Gemenoth had erected a tactical display unit in the centre of the main room. It was a simple vertical glass plate and projector, linked into the comm-net of the Dark Angels’ battle-barge in geostationary orbit thousands of kilometres above them.
The screen showed the rough topography of the surrounding area, and the locations of Astelan’s squads were marked out by symbols that juddered across the artificial battlefield. Astelan tried to match the fragmented display and the gunfire and explosions outside with the reports buzzing over his helmet’s comm-link. It was no good; he still felt he had no clear picture of what was happening.