[h2]Second Platoon[/h2]
His radio crackled, he froze. The message came, and he went numb, having taken a good while to grasp the words. He felt now something else, something of fire. An infernal rage, bubbling up, boiling within him. He knew not the Captain well, but felt his presence, knew his authority, his compassion for his troops and comrades, his value to the unit. He saw the face now, the grizzled veteran of the Clone Wars of which Trad had been sure would bring victory to Rancor Company. But, he dared not dwell on it, for there was a job to be done.

[i]"This is Second Platoon. Moving sternwards, continuing to clear bunkrooms. Making dead schedule according to available instruments. Two casualties. One wounded, one fatality, both Troopers.[/i]

He threw knifehands left and right, and men followed, the fallen from their last skirmish already stabilized and prepared to be picked up by litter teams. The rage continued to fester within him as his boots clattered, making way down the hall. They made exceptional time, clearing the now mostly empty rooms that became less frequent as they move down the corridor, and it split into an intersection, all locked down by blast doors. The sappers prepared the remainder of their charges to blast clear towards the stern, and they were set. Another door clattered after a deafening roar, and the Rebels poured through. Met they were by fortifications, manned by a hastily rallied mercenary squad, well entrenched with what looked to be sturdy cafeteria tables.

The first and second sections took what cover was afforded, while the other sections lay in wait, protection the rear echelon. Shots flew between both forces, and the first men to fall were that of Trad's platoon, and two more met their end at the hands of random chance. Trad took arms, drew his bayonet and nodded to the section leaders, which muttered an order to the huddled troops which followed suit. Soon, both sections were armed with weaponry which mounted matte black longknives, affixed to the muzzle of each. And a dull deep sounded from the first section. Two thermal detonators flew forth, and detonated in a deafening cacophony and blinding flash.

Those men of Trad's platoon, they did not simply yell. No, they roared an infernal roar, one which would pierce the morale of the hardiest. And they charged the enemy, of which were battered and confused by the blasts. Only one of Trad's men were injured in the struggle, however  the mercenaries fared worse. Three of the seven were fell with fatal stabs. Another cried mercy as he lay there injured, and was spared. The rest surrendered summarily, and were herded by the overwhelming force and carted off, under the escort of a man from the third section. Aforementioned third section moved in, as did the fourth, the sapper section. They saw once more another blast door, and Trad sighed, beads of sweat dripping from his brow as he and his men prepared to go once more unto the breach.