Outer Rim Territories // Esstran Sector // Ziost.
New Adasta - “The Gateway to the Empire.”
7th Mechanized Regiment, Attached to the Prosecutor.
+00:05 After Mission Commencement.
Strategium; Primary Command Deck - The “Prosecutor.”
Battlegroup Kenobi; 2nd Fleet; 1st Taskforce.
Begin Your Landings...
Adjusting to the darkness and the false-firelight of the tactical display table, Captain Jor’Dosta let out a heavy sigh of frustration. Their Warships managed to breach the orbital defence grid through sheer dumb luck, and every second they remained within the planet’s orbit spelled mounting disaster. If those guns were to come back online whilst disgorging their troop complement, it was unlikely that the shields would hold for very long. While their Starfighters were deployed to intercept these guns, their numbers slowly whittled down by the surface emplacements. It was a stressful situation to be in, but the Captain had gradually grown accustomed to such reckless acts over the years.
With the Jedi working in concert with the Military, acting as advisors or leading from the Front, they always seemed eager to drive themselves into the heart of the enemy without delay. Thus, to meet their demands - or counsel, as they called it - more lives had to be put on the line to ensure their success. With one rapid strike after another, the Sith Empire would likely be kept at bay whilst the Alliance set themselves to work. However, as often noted throughout history, even the best-laid plans never survive contact with the enemy. With everything proceeding swimmingly so far, a sliver of doubt began to enter Jor’Dosta’s mind. Something had to go wrong.
That was when his eyes drifted away from the tactical display table towards the ensuing battle that raged around the planet. The heavens above Ziost were filled with blinding displays of light as the Alliance and Sith Empire’s naval forces exchanged one volley of plasmatic cannonade after another. In a way, the sight was morbidly beautiful. Even though the Captain knew that dozens of lives were snuffed out with every unshielded barrage, it was a sight that made his shrivelled heart soar. Nothing was beautiful because it lasted, and there was something oddly calming in the death and destruction wrought amongst the silence of space. Such a death made for a beautiful end, Jor’Dosta thought. At least then, his corpse, along with those who died in the infinite void, would be preserved, unlike those who perished upon the planet’s surface. His spine shivered at the thought of the local fauna feasting upon his remains.
“Captain!” a voice called out, preceded by the sound of parting doors. “We’ve got the latest reports for your review.” Jor’Dosta nodded, narrowly missing the holographic viewport and the bulkhead after that. He pivoted with militaristic ease and accepted the datapad that the crewman was holding. With his eyes focusing on the crystalline surface before him, the Captain scrolled the data and absorbed what new information there was.
It seemed that the first transports were away. They were gunships laden with soldiers, armour, and countless pieces of war material. While they would have a rough go of it during their approach, several starfighter squadrons did what they could to pave the way. Nearly a dozen pilots were splashed down by the enemy emplacements, unlucky individuals that couldn’t escape the storm of plasmatic hellfire that came their way. Their names would be remembered as Heroes of the Alliance, regardless of the Battle’s outcome. But, it was just as likely that they’d be forgotten as soon as they were etched into some memorial to honour the fallen. Nevertheless, their sacrifices allowed their comrades the time they needed to deploy to the surface.
From there, the Captain absorbed the remainder of the data and watched out of the corner of his eyes as the collated reports materialized nearby. Some of his Squadrons reported their successes as they began taking out the disabled guns situated directly above the Prosecutor, whilst others encountered resistance. The Sith Empire wasn’t going to make it easy for the Alliance, Jor’dosta mused.
:: Gunnery Control, :: the Captain began, as he placed down the newly acquired datapad. :: Bring our dorsal cannons about and have them support our Starfighters. If the Sith Empire wishes to protect their vaunted orbital defence network, let’s make them choose between our guns or the deployed squadrons. ::
A simple confirmation and acknowledgment were transmitted in reply. Mere seconds later, the Prosecutor’s dorsal cannons swivelled about and began targeting the nearby combat installations. Although their lethality was disabled, they still posed a significant threat should they recover from their temporary power loss. Thus, Jor’Dosta believed it would be in his best interests - along with that of the deploying’ Strike Team’ - to permanently remove those combat satellites from the equation.
After the command was given, the Captain began refocusing his efforts towards the expedient disembarkation of his warships’ troop complement. With several gunships of the first wave already dusting off and proceeding towards the surface, Jor’Dosta began ordering the second wave to prepare themselves for their drop. He wasn’t sure how long those installations would remain out of commission, and for this mission to be accomplished - they needed as many boots on the ground as they could manage. It was a frustrating situation to be in, to be sure, and the Captain wondered how his juniors would fare if they were in his position.
“By the Force,” Jor’Dosta muttered. “Be swift, for I wish to not tarry longer than needed.”
+0:35 After Mission Commencement.
Hangar Bay 04; Deployment Deck - The “Prosecutor.”
7th Mechanized Regiment; 2nd Company; 4th Platoon; 1st Squad.
The Second Wave...
Trooper Milo Hernan was as fresh as Alliance marines could be. Before the Stygian Campaign began in earnest, the man spent weeks undergoing his two-fold training. During the long days beneath an alien sun, the would-be warrior conditioned his body for the perils that awaited him in the depths of the Sith Empire. His mind, however, was hypnotically sculpted during their short nights beneath that foreign moon. While it wasn’t a readily adopted practice within the Defence Force’s entirety, Hernan believed that having information imprinted into his thoughts would make him a better soldier. Not only would he have a vast repository to draw from. It was only a simple matter to render that acquired data into physical prowess—something about knowledge being power.
Nevertheless, nothing that Trooper Hernan garnered during his nightly flash-training sessions could prepare him for the reality of War. He had only heard tales of the Chaos that their enemies unleashed. Of how the Sith Empire torched the entirety of the Braxtant Run as their New Imperial adversaries claimed victory. And how they were all too willing to sacrifice their indoctrinated populace to defeat their enemies. It was vile that they would stoop to such self-destructive tactics. What made matters worse were the tales of horror that resonated around the supposed deployment of chemical and biological weapons. The others in his Squad had names for these creatures, but the bright-eyed Trooper had come to call them Demons.
They were creatures, drawn from the depths of his darkest nightmares. Horrors wrought from stolen flesh and bone. In every story the Trooper heard, these Demons carved their way through portions of the Alliance’s vanguard. They killed the veterans and newbies alike before massed volleys of plasma-fire brought them down. There was a part of him that hoped he wouldn’t encounter these creatures on the planet below. Yet, the truth of the situation was likely to be disappointing once it was revealed. There was a towering citadel of basalt and sorcery that lurked on the horizon. From there, it was rumoured that the most horrific alchemical creations stalked within those darkened halls.
And, should the Masters of that Citadel wish it, those creatures could be unleashed upon the streets of New Adasta, butchering allies and enemies alike.
A hearty slap on the shoulder pulled the Trooper’s errant thoughts back to reality. :: I need you with us, Trooper. If you start to daydream on the surface, you’ll put yourself and the rest of your Squad at risk. :: The voice, though mechanically processed, belonged to Milo’s Sergeant. His name, rank, and a brief iteration of his service history showed up in the corner of his armoured visor. The man was decorated as a combat veteran and was worthy of the station they held. He also had everyone’s respect under his command, as the Sergeant proved they were a capable battlefield commander. Not only could his thoughts remain clear during a firefight, the man never seemingly lost his cool when things went tits up.
:: Yes, Sergeant. :: Milo replied with a tinge of embarrassment coating his words.
:: Now, First Squad! :: the Sergeant’s helm boomed. :: We’re to be a part of the Second Wave heading to the surface. General Treicolt, Major Tycho and some of our best Pilots in the Alliance have already made Planetfall. They’re making our jobs all the easier as they soften up our approach vectors. ::
Some of the Marines pounded fists and gave voice to their approval. But, at a gesture from their Sergeant - the early celebrations were silenced.
:: Just because it’ll be easier doesn’t mean that it’ll be a blue milk run. We don’t know if the Sith have pulled their Civilians out of the Capital City or if they’ve armed them like they did at Dantooine. Sadly, our intelligence in that area is lacking - so pick your targets carefully. We aren’t monsters and don’t slaughter non-combatants because they’re ‘happily’ serving the wrong side. ::
:: If I see anything other than blue rings hitting rowdy ‘Non-Coms’:: the Sergeant continued, lifting his service pistol for emphasis. :: I’ll execute you myself and leave your corpse for the locals to do with as they please. :: Trooper Hernan swallowed, hard. With the possibility of Civilians in the Combat Zone, the man would have to be extra careful with every shot he took. Instinctively, the Alliance Marine unslung his rifle and began thumbing the fire-selector. Some of his nearby comrades considered doing the same. Still, their eyes drifted back towards their Sergeant as the man concluded their briefing.
Lightning warfare was the name of the game. Alliance forces rapidly deploy to the surface and rush the defence emplacements through combined arms. Once the walls were breached, they would move onto the second stage of their assault and swiftly assail the Sith-Imperial orbital command centre. Should that structure fall, the defence network that orbited Ziost would likely be turned against its masters and bring a swift end to this portion of the campaign. The second wave was intended to support the advance of the first and rout any remnants of the Sith-Imperial garrison left behind.
Sweeping up after the speartip, Milo’s Sergeant called it. It would be far from glorious, but as the Trooper’s first foray into actual combat - rather than simulated environs? The battle was likely to be an experience worthy of recollection. And so, as the last-minute munition checks were completed, Trooper Hernan and the rest of his Squad mounted up in their Gunship. Their porcelain-white armour, trimmed with yellow affectations, was soon bathed in the crimson lights that hung overhead. There was no going back now, the Trooper thought to himself as the blast door slid shut.
Soon, Milo would get his first taste of actual combat.
+0:55 After Mission Commencement.
“Iron Duke,” Glaive-Class Fighter Tank.
7th Mechanized Regiment; Command Section.
Hit The Ground Running...
"All systems are green," Major Tycho began as he withdrew his armoured gauntlet away from a nearby terminal. His words were echoed by several others over his unit's encrypted channels, which filled the Alliance Marine with a small measure of pride. Sadly, such emotion was swiftly tempered by the reality of the situation. He was sequestered in an armoured box magnetically bound to a descending gunship and bracketed by anti-aerial guns on the surface. It was a terrible situation to be in, and his flesh began to prickle. Yet, as more slices of time were carved from the Fighter Tank's chronometre, the Major began counting his lucky stars.
Not all of his comrades were so lucky, however. Some of the descending gunships found their shields collapsing under the heavy concentration of enemy fire. Their armoured hulls were blown open, as others found themselves blossoming into fiery flowers once their munitions were prematurely detonated. Tycho would mourn their losses as the battle concluded and would likely etch their names and unit citations into his Fighter Tank's cockpit. But, despite the sadness that sought to steal away his thoughts, the Major couldn't lose heart. Their sacrifices would ensure their mission's success, and the Sith Empire would crumble beneath the ocean of blood that ate away at their foundations.
As the Gunship speared towards the surface, Tycho felt the pull of the planet's gravitic field tug at his stomach. It wasn't a pleasant sensation, but years of conditioning helped the Marine through the worst of it. He exhaled heavily as the pressure began to normalize. After his body grew accustomed to the planet's atmospherics, Tycho began activating the Fighter Tank's propulsion systems in preparation for the drop. Once released from the Carry-All's embrace, the Iron Duke, as the Fighter Tank was named, would hit the ground running. There would be no room for any mistakes or delays from this point forward. His entire Regiment was broken in two and were dying by the numbers with every passing second.
Every ounce of alacrity that he and his chosen steed could muster would need to be employed if the 7th Regiment survived the coming assault.
:: Touch down in three, :: the Carry-All's pilot announced, as the pull from the planet's gravity grew ever stronger.
:: Two... One... ::
:: Release! Release! Release! ::
Tycho's fingers reacted longer before his mind could pulse the command.
Within a moment, the Fighter Tank was released from the Carry-All's grasp. Running on its own repulsorlift suite, Tycho slammed his armoured boot down on the accelerator and began his approach towards the City's walled exterior. As his shields and weapon systems cycled to active and ready status, the Major watched as the chaos of the battlefield unfolded around him. Explosions were erupting all-around him whilst Alliance Gunships began deploying their precious cargo to the surface.
As the 'Iron Duke' raced towards the walls, the Fighter Tank ran afoul of a surface emplacement, whose guns peppered the heavens with plasmatic hellfire. While there were several such installations stitched across the planet's surface, this one was within range. Tycho offered his visor's reflective curvature a small smile as his fingers tightened around the control stick's triggers. His cannons, primed and ready for action, shouted with all the fury they could muster as they discharged their lethal payloads into the installation's armoured exterior. After seconds of 'skating' across the planet's surface, Tycho noted that his weapons didn't have the desired effect. The emplacement still functioned despite bites being torn from the metallic surface.
He needed to hit it with something harder. But, as the Major's thumb drifted towards the warhead's firing mechanism - the emplacement's turret began tracking towards him. Tycho knew that should this installation draw a bead on him with all four barrels bearing down on him, it would all be over. He doubted that his shields, those impressive in their own right, could withstand the firepower of that magnitude from such a short distance. The first volley would likely breach his plasmatic barriers and bathe the Fighter Tank's surface in molten hellfire. The successive barrages would core through the heated armoured plating and end his life in the blink of an eye.
Tycho wouldn't allow that to happen, not when most of the 7th's armour was deploying to the surface. They needed their Commander, just as he needed them. Together, they would see each other through the Chaos and likely towards the Victory that awaited them on the other side. So, the Major's hands acted out on instinct. They twisted rapidly, which threw the entirety of the Fighter Tank into a strafing arc that barely outpaced the swivelling cannons of the emplacement. The ground where the 'Iron Duke' once occupied was stitched with plasmatic cannonade, throwing up billowing columns of glassed earth.
Tycho gritted his teeth as the gravitic pressure mounted. He needed to focus. The man pushed through the discomfort and allowed his Fighter Tank's targeting systems to track their stationary quarry. Once the lock was achieved and the computer chimed, the Major slammed his thumbs home. The Fighter Tank belched forth a pair of warheads that impacted the emplacement's surface, melting the durasteel plating. A resulting explosion caused the guns to fall silent as their barrels were blasted apart and scattered across their surroundings.
"Scratch one!" Tycho whooped.
As the Major reorientated his Fighter Tank towards the City's Walls, the 'Iron Duke' was joined by other Fighter Tanks and Speeders from the 7th Mechanized. Their deployment was met by measured degrees of success, but those that managed to make it onto the surface followed their Commander’s lead in the end. With the Wolfpack and the rest of Strike Team Skywalker charging the defences of New Adasta, Tycho and his Speartip raced after.
The Jedi, nor their rival Brothers-in-arms, would have all the glory this day.
