Laphisto gave a low groan as the gunship shuddered through the upper atmosphere, his hand gripping the overhead rail for balance. The cabin rattled with turbulence, hull plating flexing under the strain as the
LAHT descended toward the burning horizon below. The sealed hatches hummed with pressure, muffling the roar of engines and the metallic rattle of weapons against armor.
He glanced over the soldiers seated across from him Commander Tarain's visor reflecting the dim red cabin lights, unflinching as always. Beside him sat
Aknoby
Laphisto's brow furrowed slightly. He'd already torn into the kid for what happened on Artisia. The rules of the Order were clear
no children in war. Yet Aknoby's age was a mystery even to himself, and when both he and the lieutenant who'd led the Chapel raid vouched for his capability, Laphisto had listened.
He wasn't one to ignore the faith of his soldiers. If they believed the boy had earned a chance, then he'd see for himself whether that faith was deserved or misplaced.
With a low rumble the gunship shuddered and Laphisto slid a gloved hand into the internal armory. He came up with an LO-20D fitted in the close-quarters sub-machine configuration, the metal cool and heavy in his grip. He checked the chamber with a single, practiced flick no showmanship, only habit then he handed the weapon to aknoby.
For a beat the cabin tightened to that exchange: the gun, the space, the soft thunder of engines and the red wash of emergency lighting. He did not hand it over like a prize. He set it into Aknoby's hands with the deliberate weight of a passing: a mantle, a tool, a responsibility. When he withdrew his palm he left more than a rifle in the boy's lap; he left a job to be done.
Laphisto keyed the battalion channel and his voice filled the transports, flat and iron-true above the drone of the descent. "
Alright, listen up we're coming in hot. We're facing Mandalorians: hardened plates, tight formations. Load AP-19s only. Nothing else will consistently punch through their armor. AP-19s were trialed at our foundries and cross-checked with HPI stock they bite clean. Mandalorians don't take prisoners. They don't give quarter. So you shoot to stop the threat. Hold your spacing, cover your sectors.Mandalorians are crafty. there armor is an arsenal all in its own." He let the order sit as the men checked magazines and adjusted straps; the hum of the ship swallowed the last syllable, but the intent stayed with them precise, cold, unavoidable.
"Mission is simple," Laphisto said into the battalion channel, his voice steady over the gunship's low rumble. "
Disrupt their attempts to activate the mines. The Diarchy has no need for this mineral, so we deny all access to the Mandalorians. Demo teams, set charges as you clear compounds. If we can extract any for trade leverage, do it but remember: priority is asset denial. Keep that in mind."
The gunships leveled out as they punched through the last layer of cloud. The deck shuddered; the side doors clanged open to a rush of heat and dust. Gunners on either flank racked their
LO-52R HMGs, the metal-on-metal sound cutting through the hum of the repulsors. Outside, the horizon burned dull orange beneath the storm haze nothing but broken ridges and the black skeletons of half-buried refineries.
Laphisto slotted the LO-20D back into the crook of his arm and thumbed his comlink. Around him, men checked charges, tightened straps, and slid AP-19 magazines into rifles with the quiet confidence of practiced hands. his comlink, caught a burst of static from one of the pilots"
Command, we're picking up an active firefight near the mining perimeter. Multiple signatures on approach looks like the fight's already started."
A flicker crossed Laphisto's HUD and he sniffed at the feed like a hound catching a scent. "
Allied signatures on the ground?" he asked into the local net, then cut the channel to a quick sweep of the tactical overlay. A brow lifted under his helm as the contact resolved.
"Green's on the field. Captain Varn move to engage and establish contact protocol," he ordered, voice calm but edged. "Vultures, you take point with armor. Ride the lead, take the rear ridge overlooking the complex, and hold that overwatch until we call for fire. You'll be our eyes and our hammer for artillery calls."
He pivoted his focus, fingers mapping the plan across the tactical pane. "
Night Claws [@Saul Whesai], you're on infiltration. Hunt the shafts, work the vents get inside the compound and take out any leadership nodes you can find. Crater Fangs, you're with me. We're touching down on the northern front; we breach, clear, and begin extraction or demolition of stored material on my mark."
A low chuckle slipped through the helmet vox, humor laced with contempt. "
These aren't the Imperial grunts we cut through on Artisia," he said. "
They're Mandalorians disciplined, proud, and dangerous. But remember this: we share their honor, not their weakness. The rot of their clans does not bind us." Replies rose like a chorus: clipped affirmations, the steady percussion of fists on armor, a few low, humorless snorts. Straps tightened, chargers clicked, and the cabin hummed with a machine-ready silence. Outside, the refinery's black ribs drew closer through the heat haze. The men felt the ship bleed altitude beneath them and, for a long second, everything narrowed to the list of names and the orders that would shape what came next.
As the formation split, sixteen LAET/C gunships and four heavier LAHTs fanned out across the sky, their contrails cutting through the furnace haze. The secondary group broke from the main assault line, banking wide toward a ridgeline several klicks east coordinated, deliberate, their engines low and even.
Then, from the heart of the formation, four gunships dropped altitude and surged toward the chaos around Rig Four. The air shimmered from the heat of the lava fields, the worm thrashing beneath the surface like something alive and hateful. Blaster fire streaked up from the ground a few bolts finding their mark, most scattered uselessly against the oncoming storm.
The gunships answered in kind. Slug fire erupted from their sides as Heavy gunners and ball turrets slotted with 50 caliber machine guns opened fire. on the mandalorians running to teh other rig [
Arden Priest
] heavy and relentless. Twin streams of .50-caliber Beskar-Seigurium rounds raked the ground, striking with a mechanical precision that drowned out every other sound. The air itself seemed to ripple from the force.
In the open, Mandalorians became the focal points of that storm. Impacts tore through the earth around them pockets of dirt and molten stone bursting upward in sprays of dust and glass. The heavier slugs found armor, and when they did, the results were unmistakable.
Plates dented, warped, and then cracked outright under the sustained fire. The sound was sharp, metallic not the deflection they were used to, but a puncture, a tearing shriek followed by the dull thud of impact. Those struck went down hard; some staggered, others simply vanished in the haze and shrapnel.
With suppressive fire carving paths across the field, the first wave of Lilaste infantry launched from the gunships. One after another, soldiers leapt into open air armored figures falling like meteors against the ash-choked sky. The rhythmic pulse broke their descent of repulsor thrust. The LO-ADS systems flared to life in sequence, stabilizing the drops with bursts of blue light and streaks of ion vapor. Dozens of them hit the ground in staggered formations, shock-absorbers engaging just before impact. Boots struck slag and rock with heavy thuds, smoke and heat washing over their visors.
IFF beacons blinked green across the tactical grid a deliberate show of coordination as data links connected to
Kei Amadis
and his units hoping that if anything The Order's sigils, etched on there armor, would also signal to the wookies and others in his formation that the order was there ally's
They didn't wait for acknowledgement however as Within seconds, the infantry split into squads and began advancing covering fire rolling forward in disciplined bursts while others moved to secure the northern approach to Rig Four. The battlefield shook under the weight of another roar the Fireworm. It reared up through the molten crust, a mountain of scale and stone turned sentient fury.
Two LAHTs broke formation overhead, banking hard to bring their guns to bear. The first burst from their front facing cannon slammed into the creature's carapace a metallic shriek as the the heavy slugs dug deep and burst molten ichor into the air. The side gunners joined in, twin .50-caliber streams punching through the hardened shell with unrelenting rhythm.
Chunks of glowing scale tore free, spinning through the air before shattering on the ground. The Fireworm thrashed in agony, molten spray hissing across the refinery floor. Circling like hunting birds, the gunships tightened their formation. The LO-BT ball turrets swiveled, locked, and unleashed. A storm of 40mm cannon shells detonated along the creature's spine in a chain of concussive thunderclaps each impact lifting chunks of magma and flesh high into the air.
By the time the smoke rolled outward, the worm was breaking apart. Segments of its body convulsed, then slumped into the lava lake below with a seismic crash. The air filled with the hiss of cooling stone and the hum of engines as the gunships leveled off, keeping overwatch above the ground teams.
One of the gunships peeled away from the main formation the instant its sensors registered the armored Basilisk tearing across the field. The pilot throttled up, engines roaring as the vessel dipped into a low intercept course. Its nose-mounted cannons barked, hurling streams of 40mm armor-piercing slugs that chewed through the air in glowing tracers, detonating against rock and ash with thunderous cracks that shook the ground around
Persephone Halcyon
.
If she
charged directly toward the gunship, the crew reacted fast. The pilot hauled back on the yoke, banking sharply to the right as the repulsorlifts screamed under the stress. The ship's profile flattened, then rolled into a hard lateral drift that carried it to try and circle around her. The maneuver brought her squarely into the firing arc of the side-mounted ball turret. The gunner wasted no time tracking her movement with clinical precision before unleashing a storm of .50-caliber slugs that tore through the haze, kicking up shards of molten debris around the Basilisk's armor.
And if she
managed to slip behind them, the response was immediate. The rear hatch slammed open with a hydraulic hiss, and the two door gunners unlatched their weapons from their mounts. Bracing against the ramp's lip, they opened fire from the ship's aft compartment, twin streams of .50-caliber rounds ripping through the smoke-filled air. Muzzle flashes strobed in the gloom as they tried to pin her in the rear blind spot, while the pilot pitched the gunship into a rolling evasive dive to deny her a stable firing solution.
Ship Specifications
4x
LAHT 2 ball turrets loaded with 40mm auto cannons 2 loaded with 50 caliber machine guns.
144 soldiers wearing
LO-58A armor and using
LO-20D weapon platforms - in .45ACP or 30-06 also equiped with
LO-52R and LO-10m
Ammo being used for all calibers.and all weapons
LO-AP/19
Laphisto touched down with the Crator Fangs on the opposite flank of the complex from Captain Varn and the Ash Dogs. The gunship's ramp folded down into a hot, sulfur-scented gust; he stepped off and into that blast, boots finding slag before he even looked up. He closed the channel to Aknoby with a short, clipped line. "
Stay close to me. and follow orders. Veer off and this is the last mission you ride I'll keep you in bootcamp until you hit eighteen. Understood?"
He didn't wait for an answer. The rifle came up in one motion and the Crator Fangs went with him 144 men falling into formation behind a single point of sight. Visors cycled through thermal, infrared, and night modes on Laphisto's command; data overlays ghosted across his HUD in neat, efficient layers.
They moved like a wedge into the mine throat, plates clinking, breath measured, boots chewing the black stone. The tunnel swallowed engine noise; comms went to low-band and close formation. Laphisto's hand rose, palm covering his mouthpiece; he flicked two fingers left, then two fingers right simple, rehearsed. The closed net answered with the sound of straps and the soft click of safeties; the unit tightened.
After a few meters the tunnel opened into a cavern lit by the ghostly glow of molten veins. Figures moved ahead, bent over crates hands shoving glinting ore into wooden racks. No grand charge, no parade: just work, and the faint metal smell of agrocite.
Laphisto stopped and counted with his eyes. Five, maybe six could be more deeper in the chamber. He held up his fist, then two quick left, two quick right on the private channel. "
Mandalorians dead ahead. I count five, maybe six. Possible more inside the chamber. Looks like they're loading agrocite into crates. Surround them. Fire on my mark."
The order snapped into the dark and the Crator Fangs moved, silent and deliberate: two fire teams peeled to the flanks to seal exits, one team cut across the rear to block egress, and the breachers took point toward the loading rack. Laphisto's silhouette slid forward, rifle ready, the mine's heat and the stale, industrial dust settling on steel like a promise.
Aether Verd
|
Renn Vizsla
|
Adelle Bastiel
|
Veyla Krinn
|
Siv Kryze
|
Edward Ashcard
|
Lord Mettallum
|
Rowena-022
|
Darth Keres
