The command from the Ultramarines officer had barely been given when a distinctive engine roar, approaching from afar, pierced the clamor of the battlefield and reached the ears of the Astartes in ambush.
It was the sound of a Thunderhawk Gunship approaching.
This sound caused the brows under the helmets of all the Space Marines present to furrow simultaneously—this was illogical.
Under normal military scheduling, coordinating precise strikes with the artillery units in the rear, both the reaction time and the trajectory speed should be much faster than a Thunderhawk Gunship, which needed to take off, fly, and then enter the combat zone.
Why was the Thunderhawk Gunship the first to arrive, while the artillery rounds they requested hadn't even shown a shadow?
Moreover, judging from the singularity of the engine noise, it seemed only one Thunderhawk Gunship was coming.
Was such firepower truly enough to eliminate the heavily guarded, psychically powerful Neurotyrant? Or, had the conflict in other war zones become so intense that not even one extra Thunderhawk could be spared?
Just as the Sons of Guilliman on the ground were brainstorming, the Thunderhawk Gunship in the sky had already begun its action.
Like an angry iron hawk, it dove down from the thick fog at a nearly vertical angle. The multi-barreled laser cannons beneath its wings and the heavy bolters on its nose simultaneously spat out tongues of destructive fire.
In an instant, dense energy beams and explosive warheads rained down on the Tyranid artillery positions, stirring up a storm of steel and flesh.
Giant biological artillery pieces were torn to shreds in the explosions, with gore and chitin scattering everywhere. The Neurotyrant immediately sensed the threat.
Streaks of pure psychic energy, manifesting as blue lightning, shot up from the ground, lashing out like whips at the intruder in the sky.
However, the Thunderhawk Gunship's pilot demonstrated incredible skill. The gunship performed a sideslip-roll in the air, a maneuver that completely defied aerodynamics.
Its engine nozzles continuously adjusted their thrust direction at maximum capacity, allowing the fuselage to scrape past the edges of several psychic lightning strikes.
The entire process was so fluid it seemed less like piloting a multi-ton aircraft and more like a breathtaking aerial ballet.
Are you kidding?
This player has accumulated tens of thousands of hours flying the Thunderhawk Gunship.
To use a somewhat crude analogy—he and this Thunderhawk Gunship were like an old married couple who had lived together for ten years; on the bed, just a touch of the other's waist was enough to know what pose to strike next.
Did they really think a few streaks of psychic lightning could shoot him down? Dream on!
But strangely, despite the fierce firepower of the gunship, it never aimed its attack directly at the most conspicuous Neurotyrant. Instead, it continuously cleared out the guards and artillery units surrounding it.
"Woohoo, a good haul of fries!"
After emptying the ammunition carried onboard, the Thunderhawk Gunship did not retreat. Instead, it brazenly opened its wide-area communication channel, and the pilot's cheerful voice rang out.
"Where are the guys who called for backup? I'm coming to find you."
The Ultramarines officer's brow furrowed tighter, and he hesitated for a moment.
This behavior was undoubtedly extremely dangerous, practically announcing their location to the entire Hive Fleet.
But out of basic trust in an ally—even one with such bizarre methods—he still sent their squad's coordinates via a short, encrypted pulse.
The next second, the Thunderhawk Gunship performed a beautiful tail-slide in the air, its engines roaring deafeningly, and without delay, flew straight toward their location, landing steadily in an open space right next to their ambush point.
The powerful airflow whipped up dust and gore from the ground, hitting the Space Marines' power armor.
The Astartes were stunned, instinctively tightening their grip on their bolters.
What was the meaning of this? Landing in the heart of the enemy's territory, actively exposing their hidden position? What reckless, what insane behavior!
The answer was quickly provided. The hatch hissed open, and a Helldiver stepped out.
At first glance, he wasn't carrying any weapons besides the standard full-coverage carapace armor of the Doomed—except for a heavy black briefcase he was holding.
What was this black briefcase?
What else could it be but a tactical nuclear bomb—
Calgar did not arrive nine hours late, he brought reinforcements and chased off the Tyranid Bio-fleet, securing orbital superiority. He has been at Plantidium for this long.
You wouldn't believe it if I said the Helldivers, a unit that throws nuclear bombs around like cheap cabbages, hadn't acquired a large stockpile of nuclear bombs.
The moment this Helldiver landed, seeing a dozen or so giants standing before him, two heads taller than himself and emanating a suppressive aura, he was also momentarily stunned.
The corner of his mouth twitched under his helmet, and he grumbled to himself: "The mission briefing didn't say there were a dozen Astartes; can this single Thunderhawk Gunship fit them? Won't it be like squeezing into a sardine can?"
Nevertheless, he quickly snapped back and urged the Astartes:
"Gentlemen, hurry up and get on the Thunderhawk Gunship, or the Tyranids will catch up. If a lightning strike hits the plane, none of us will escape."
The Ultramarines officer's gaze was fixed on the black briefcase in the Helldiver's hand. He asked in a low voice,
"Is that—a nuclear bomb?"
"Ah, why bother asking when you've already guessed," the Helldiver seemed a bit impatient, waving his hand.
"Hurry up and get on the plane. You don't seriously want to rely on your two legs to run out of the explosion range, do you?"
This mortal clearly showed no respect for the Space Marines, yet the Sons of Guilliman did not waste their wrath on a man who already walked in the shadow of death.
They understood what he was—the "Final Solution," a desperate measure dispatched by the Helldivers to eliminate the psychic Neurotyrant. Every Astartes boarding the cramped Thunderhawk Gunship knew with certainty that this man would not survive the return trip.
The gunship's engines roared, kicking up ash and debris as the massive craft clawed into the sky. Its silhouette dwindled into the clouds, leaving the battlefield momentarily quiet, until the rustling tide of chitin and claws surged from behind the lone Helldiver.
He turned, his tattered, ash-stained cape snapping violently in the rising heat wind like the banner of a doomed crusade. In the distance, the colossal brain bug pulsed with malevolent blue psychic energy, its swollen synaptic lobes shimmering like a beacon of corruption.
The swarm poured toward him in an unstoppable tide, each Tyranid screeching with murderous hunger.
The Helldiver cursed under his breath, dropping to one knee as he keyed in the final sequence on the briefcase.
"Damn it… that son of a bitch's barrage stole half my kills. Those kills should've been mine!"
"Damn it… that son of a bitch's barrage stole half my kills. Those should've been mine!"
The last sigil turned green.
Then a newborn sun erupted from the Helldiver's position—white, blinding, absolute.
His cape whipped upward in the blast's initial shockwave, a final salute before the light consumed all.
An indescribable storm of radiance surged outward, erasing shadows, vaporizing the deep purple spore fog, and unmaking every scrap of flesh, armor, and chitin down to their most primitive particles.