checklist on the thunderhawk

[Roland Muleto]

As it is always the case on a spaceship the primary sideboard hangar was buzzing with activities : servitors carrying loads of ammo, maintenance on the shuttles and all the other noises of work.

At the center of a the activity was a thunderhawk drop ship, its massive structure made the smaller ships look insignificant. Tons and tons of adamantium, weapons and engines, sufficient to deploy the entire remnants of the fourth company, the deadliest weapon at their disposition, except for the Delivrance herself.

Sergeant Agrippa hadn't tell them deployment would use the thunderhawk. He didn't had to. Tactical sense was part of the base of space marine training, each men in the first tactical squad... even most of the scout squad... would make a fine captain in any guard regiment, it was expected from them to fill in the blanks of the briefing, their officer going straight to the point, making no mention to the obvious. And Roland's tactical sense was shouting "thunderhawk deployment". A drop on a contested planet, but not directly on a war front, on a fitting spaceport instead a city or countryside, an easy drop for two squads working tightly together... He would have bet his right arm on it.

The thunderhawk is probably the best vehicle to drop from orbit to the surface of an hostile planet, but not nearly good enough for him. He hated the very notion of flying, hell! sometimes he even hated being on the Delivrance. The long minutes of the drop, tied in a box, sitting like a duck waiting for the hunter's bullet, entrusting his life to the pilot... Of course once on the surface he would entrust his life to the others in the squad, even Marcus, despite his recent brain wound, but this seemed... different. Hell, he didn't even know what a pilot could do to save his skin, if things were to turn ugly !

He didn't know how to pilot it, its technology far too complex for him to understand clearly how it works, but he had always felt more confident after inspecting the ship himself. He began his examination of the insides and outside, searching for any little sign of damage or neglected maintenance.

[Manius Gordianus Tranquill]

Manius entered the room, panting. It had only been very recently that he awoke from a healing coma in the med bays after suffering some blows to the head. After being alerted by someone that he missed the briefing for his squad's next drop, Manius ran to the hangar with all do haste. He was tired, and his lungs felt like they were on fire from the amount and speed of the running, thought it was satisfying. The sting in his chest, the long deep breaths, the burn in his legs. Something he was rarely able to experience since receiving the early batches of enhancements.

Panting, Manius addressed himself, panting the whole way through, "Brother-Scout Manius Gordianus Tranquill, late for briefing for medical reasons, Reporting for duty, Sir." As he spoke Manius thought about how his body will have shrugged off the tiredness in a matter of seconds, a minute or two at most. Such was the glory of a space marine, each one the finest soldier in the galaxy. One in a million achieves anything great enough to allow for them to be accepted into the ranks of a space marine chapter. One in ten or so of these prospects will die due to surgical problems. And then most of the scouts will actually become a space marine, with the muscles of an ork, the skill of the finest soldier, and weaponry enough to annihilate infantry, heavy infantry, light vehicles, light emplacements, each man was a cross between a heavy weapons specialist combined with a squad leader. No finer fighting force has ever existed, or ever will exist.

[Deliverance]

The hangar was a hive of activity as servitors loaded metal ammo boxes and weapon cases into the belly of the Thunderhawk. Brother Augustus Fendal looked up from the Thunderhawk to see a scout sprinting into the Hangar. The scout dusted down himself and tried to look presentable as he approached the gruff marine.

"Brother-Scout Manius Gordianus Tranquill, late for briefing for medical reasons, Reporting for duty, Sir."

Brother Fendal gave a dismissive wave before addressing the marine.

“Calm yourself young one. I’m no sergeant. Like you said you missed the last Hawk taking the company planetside. I’m due to land a supply Hawk for Strike Force Alpha on their way to Checkpoint Gamma. Seems that they landed a few clicks southwest of Checkpoint Gamma to assist some Guard in trouble. “The marine seemed to forget the young novice for a moment before turning back to him as if irritated.

“Take a seat in the crew seats just behind the cockpit, the main compartment is a bit crowded. You can get off and regroup with your squad when they resupply.”

Fendal was a fine pilot and he knew it, this is why he brought the emperor’s aid and judgement from the skies. There was a certain adrenaline rush to be had from being in the fray with the gore and rounds going down but it paled in comparison for him when compared with unleashing the full firepower of a Thunderhawk on an attack run.

It still amused him to watch the young marines, so cocksure before their ascension to near god-like status. Now they were bottom of a large food chain. In reality if one chose to learn but more importantly listen then they would soon find themselves among the ranks of the full battle brothers. They had survived to become a scout-novice, the hardest part in his opinion. Now all they needed to do was survive long enough to obtain enough experience.

Just then a siren sounded and a flashing lights heralded the start of launch protocols.

As the servitor started the Thunderhawk engine and the chapter serfs and loading servitors made their way to a safe distance Fendal turned to Tranquill and shouted.

“Get on board, wouldn’t want to leave you behind!” The gruff marine shook his head in bemusement and walked up the ramp and into the belly of the Thunderhawk.

[Manius Gordianus Tranquill]

Manius felt a pang of regret for not catching up with his squad. He nodded and thanked the man, "Thanks, I'll pay you back one of these days." Before continuing on, into the Thunderhawk, and sitting in one of the crew seats. He tapped his fingers against his bolt pistol, thinking about all the possible repercussions for his delay.

As the beast took off, Manius felt giddy. It had been some time since he'd been in combat, and he was eager to get some solid exercise, and something inside of him just called for blood. It was something that could not be understood by those who had not experienced the adrenaline high, it was indescribable to those who had not felt it. It was like the withdrawal from Addictive drugs, it riddles through you, though not as severe. He sub-consciously began polishing his knife, regardless of how polished it was already.

His thoughts strayed to the knife. It did it's job, though it was nothing as satisfying as a blade, too thin, too short. Not sufficient for dueling, not enough range to rush in and slaughter. Even bashing foes with a shotgun was greater in similarities to a blade than a knife. That would probably explain the brutal mis-use of the blade. The Pistol, he felt better about. It did it's job well, and sacrificed remarkably little. Of course, that didn't mean he didn't use it as a club. Though he would no longer need the clubbing aspect when he received a blade, one way or another he would. He would either die, or join the Assault marines, no such other futures appeared before him, naively unaware of the Khornate powers that could so easily dominate his already bloodthirsty and choleric personality.