"Understood."
Chris's reply was cold and decisive. As the comms cut off, the channel fell into electronic silence, punctuated only by the soft hiss of static.
Without a word, Leon and Mike swiftly withdrew.
Their tactical boots crunched over gravel with only the faintest crackling, finally disappearing behind the wreckage of an armored vehicle that had been deemed beyond repair.
The optical camouflage cloaks draped down, seamlessly merging their outlines into the night.
The searchlights, surveillance stations, and various detection facilities at Deadwater Base continued their mechanical tasks, sweeping their blinding white beams across the barren desert like blind tentacles.
The sentries atop the steel walls were oblivious to the greater "darkness" encroaching from above.
That darkness was the ghostly blue trails of missile exhaust slicing through the clouds.
The first incoming "kiss of death" didn't even trigger an alarm.
In an instant, the northwest anti-aircraft turret was engulfed in a blinding ball of orange-red flame.
Composite armor twisted and shattered like fragile tinfoil. The barrel of the gun was corkscrewed into the air by the shockwave, and its flaming debris rained down like falling stars.
The second missile struck almost simultaneously, slamming into the ammunition depot. A chain reaction of explosions hurled the entire defensive structure skyward, molten shrapnel stitching a deadly net across the sky.
Only when the third penetrator warhead bored through the command center's foundation did the "delayed" sound of howling missiles and explosive fury finally reach Leon and Mike's ears—
Whsssh—BOOM—BOOOOMMM!!
The shockwaves slammed into the earth like titanic hammers. A swelling mushroom cloud seared the sky.
The roar of the blasts became tangible force, sweeping gravel and heat across Leon and Mike's position.
At the same time, they heard the metallic groaning of collapsing structures—the air defense grid screaming its death throes in flame.
The burning base finally sounded its sirens—but too late.
From the churning clouds above, more "meteors" traced graceful arcs.
Inside and outside Deadwater Base, once-orderly patrol formations crumbled in seconds.
Soldiers clad in fully-sealed power armor scattered like startled birds, trampling through mud and sparks as the shrill alarms cut through the night.
Their pale faces, illuminated by the glow of tactical HUDs, reflected the fire raining from above.
The comms channels had devolved into chaos. Electromagnetic interference screeched through screams and garbled shouting, forming a chorus straight from hell—
"Enemy attack! All units, battle positions now!"
"Radar array down! We're under full electronic warfare suppression!"
"Switching to backup systems—dammit, backup links are cut too!"
From the edge of the base, engines roared as heavy vehicles powered up. Their composite armor clanged shut, turrets spinning wildly on hydraulic mounts as they tried to target the sky.
But the drivers' HUDs, once clear, were now drowned in blizzards of static.
Targeting computers screamed warnings. Blood-red "SYSTEM FAILURE" flashed across every screen.
"Manual mode! Switch to optical targeting!"
One vehicle commander ripped open the hatch. Hot wind and smoke filled the cabin as he raised an old-fashioned scope.
Through the warped lens, he saw only distorted skies and blurry lights.
His orders hadn't even left his lips before a missile struck the landing pad a hundred meters away. The blast flipped his entire vehicle, and his shout was instantly drowned in the detonation.
The night sky had been completely torn apart.
Countless streaks of fire pierced the clouds, their incandescent trails like divine spears of retribution.
But they weren't natural—they were orbital drop pods carrying the Special Operations Division, Helljumpers, and the Salamanders.
The friction of atmospheric entry painted the pods with fierce light, an inverted rain of fire.
The soldiers of Deadwater Base stood frozen.
As members of a civilization that also possessed orbital deployment technology, they knew exactly what this meant.
Someone began screaming and firing blindly into the sky. The tracer lines left pale streaks but couldn't even scratch the ceramic-coated pods.
Another soldier raised a shoulder-mounted SAM launcher—but the targeting tone never came.
He fired anyway. The missile veered off, detonating harmlessly thousands of meters above. The fireball bloomed like a mocking firework.
Leon and Mike, crouched behind cover, watched as their visor HUDs projected this one-sided massacre in crisp detail.
The moment the first wave of drop pods slammed into the ground, the battlefield trembled as if struck by an ancient colossus.
The earth shuddered beneath deafening booms. Shockwaves radiated outward, flinging debris and dust dozens of meters into the air.
Three obsidian-green pods landed in a clearing not far from Leon and Mike.
Their plasma deceleration nozzles still hissed with blue flame, alloy claws driving deep into the concrete, cracks webbing outward.
Thoom! Thoom!
The pod doors burst open.
Thud! Thud!
Every footstep from their magnetic boots beat like war drums. The ground quaked rhythmically, and their micro-fusion reactors gave off a low, ominous hum.
Over a dozen Salamanders—each over 2.5 meters tall, some nearing 2.7—emerged, their crimson visor lenses already locked onto targets.
"For the Emperor!"
"For Humanity!"
"Die, scum!"
The battle cries thundered from their helmet speakers, metallic and terrifying, sweeping across the battlefield like a storm.
It wasn't a sound humans could make—it was the genetically-enhanced, power armor-amplified death knell of the Astartes.
The Salamanders surged out of the drop pods like an iron tide.
Their armor was matte green, trimmed in blood-red, with a salamander sigil glowing coldly on each pauldron.
THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!!
The "melody" of bolter fire began its brutal symphony.
Each .75 caliber rocket-assisted bolt spewed a cone of flame half a meter wide from the barrel.
The 1.0cal heavy bolts were even more monstrous—the recoil alone would shatter a normal human's arm. But to the Astartes, these weapons were toys.
BOOM!
The first bolt caved in a soldier's chest plate.
SPLAT!
The second pierced through his armor layers, blasting viscera from a hole the size of a bowl in his back.
CRACK!
The third, a 1.0cal, obliterated him completely. His upper body exploded into mist, and his legs staggered a few more steps before collapsing.
"Energy shield reading stable. Threat level: low."
On the Salamanders' HUDs, the light-blue shield indicators never dipped below 90%.
The disorganized defenders couldn't even scratch them.
Even with Gauss rifles—technically armor-piercing—the defenders couldn't turn the tide.
The Salamanders, despite their size, moved with speed and grace far beyond their enemies' perception. The defenders couldn't even track them visually, much less shoot them.
And their power armor, while superficially resembling Titan suits, lacked energy shielding. Against bolters, they were paper.
The most they could endure was two or three hits—and that was it.
Leon and Mike's HUDs captured one scene in stark clarity—
A soldier in command armor raised a fist to counterattack—but before it swung, three bolts struck his head, heart, and reactor core simultaneously.
BOOM!!
His remains painted the wall five meters behind him in a grotesque splash of crimson.
"Advance formation."
At the squad leader's order, the Salamanders adopted textbook wedge formations and rolled forward.
Their pace was slow but methodical—each step landing between enemy fire patterns.
Amid the roar of bolters, the whine of chainswords began—the second movement of their brutal symphony, meant for close-quarters slaughter.
When the defenders were forced into melee, true despair arrived.
A heavy trooper roared as he raised twin grenade launchers. But before he could fire, a glowing power sword stabbed out like a viper—
SHLACK—
The plasma field sliced through his chest plate, vaporizing his heart and spine.
Elsewhere, a chainsword shrieked as its teeth bit into a defender's waist armor, spraying sparks and blood.
The man didn't even scream—his upper body slid off in a slant, entrails spilling across the floor.
The base's prized power armor might as well have been made of cardboard.
Every swing from the Salamanders ripped metal and flesh with banshee-like howls.
Heads flew, bodies cleaved in two, chests crushed into horrifying concavities.
The battlefield became a slaughterhouse.
Perhaps it was the knowledge—learned from Leon, Mike, and countless agents—that civilians here had been brutalized and starved. The Salamanders held back nothing.
They made sure Deadwater Base would know the meaning of "slaughter."
On their flanks, Helljumpers moved like shadows.
Their lighter power armor lacked Titan bulk, but offered excellent mobility.
Operating in triads, they cleaned up any survivors with pinpoint bursts, following the giants' advance.
High above, Chris and his Special Ops unit prowled the rooftops like ghosts.
Their nanofiber suits blended seamlessly with the night.
A commander in ornate power armor barked orders from behind a vehicle—his white insignia marking him as high-ranking.
BOOM!
His head exploded like an overripe melon.
Chris shifted his aim calmly. His breathing was as steady as sleep. Only the kill count on his HUD showed his ruthless efficiency.
The battle was now a massacre.
At that moment, a Salamanders fireteam broke from the front line and approached Leon and Mike's position.
Their magnetic boots stomped over blood and brass, six towering warriors emerging from the smoke like walking bunkers.
The squad leader raised a fist, then addressed Leon and Mike with a deep, metallic voice:
"Agents, assist us in rescuing the civilians."
"Understood."
"No problem."
Leon and Mike didn't hesitate.
Together, the team moved fast.
The six Salamanders took the lead, bolters ready. Leon and Mike flanked them, moving swiftly along the wall shadows.
After clearing stragglers, they returned to the foul-smelling warehouse.
Most of the guards had been pulled into the firefight. Only two jittery soldiers remained, pacing nervously.
When they saw the giants, they froze.
Before they could shout—or run—they were cut down by pinpoint bolter shots.
The warehouse's electronic lock gave out instantly under a brute-force override.
BOOM—!!
As the door crashed open, the stench of chemicals, waste, and blood overwhelmed them.
Everyone fell silent.
Dozens of metal cages lined the dark warehouse. Each one packed with ragged civilians.
Most were skeletal children, with needle marks on their arms.
In one corner, medical equipment sat idle—injectors, electroshock devices, monitors still humming.
Several white-coated researchers scrambled to destroy data. When they saw the Salamanders, they froze in terror.
"By the Emperor…" one Salamander whispered, voice trembling with cold fury.
A boy and girl near the door curled into their mother's arms. She instinctively covered their eyes.
The squad leader raised a hand and said:
"Too loud. Handle them barehanded."
Apparently, the fear was that gunfire would traumatize the children—so they chose to kill the researchers with their hands.
What followed was worse than gunfire.
The giants advanced like death itself. One crushed a skull with a squeeze, brains dripping between his fingers.
Another snapped a man in half at the waist.
A third drove a punch into a chest, heart exploding in a burst of blood.
This methodical execution brought only deeper terror.
"Mama!!"
A little boy finally broke down crying—and a chorus of screams erupted through the warehouse.
Mothers clutched children tightly. Adults vomited and curled into balls. The weakest among them simply fainted dead away.
(End of Chapter)
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