Nephilim wrote:

Smoke banks drifted across what had become no mans land. In truth, the strip of crater marked desolation was an ever shifting band of attack and retreat. It had been nine hours since the last Ork assault had been repelled; in that time the Imperial forces had not been idle. Basilisk emplacements bombarded the newly measured tract of razor-wire hell between the two forces. Troop companies took up firing positions on trench steps and Leman Russ tanks moved into hull down positions ready for their next foray against the greenskins. It was against the clamour of men readying their weapons that a new sound cut the cold, fume filled air of Dararix III. Like thunder transmitted through the earth or like the heart beat of some ancient god, the ground shook with its stride. A great war cry cut the air followed by dual explosions. For a moment the Generals and Commanders dared think the Ork warmachine had fallen folly of its own crude weapons. The thought dissolved as burning steel rained down on their lines.

Rolling on its axis the gunship performed a manoeuvre that an object of its mass should have found impossible; had a lesser design even attempted a barrel roll it would have come apart at the seems. Rolling aside, the Fire Raptor avoided a chain of cannon fire destined to tear it apart. Cheated of its victim, the shells ripped open the belly of the Vulture that had been flying aft of the gunship. Another pair of Vultures exploded, their fuselage shredded by air bursting munitions fired by ranked flak trucks parked around their target.
‘Orbital telemetry locked’ Sabrius confirmed, adjusting the targeting algorithm of his autocannon nest and invigorating the Machine Spirit.
‘Beginning attack run’ Crast replied from the cockpit as the gunship lurched into a nosedive.

The formation began their controlled fall. Predators Mark lead them, its Bolter Cannons spitting death down at the trucks just as they spat death upwards. Behind her came a cousin; Savage Claws, a Storm Eagle that held in its belly Dararix’s last hope for survival. Around the jet black duo flew the eight remaining Vultures, little more than ablative armour readily sacrificed to ensure the Gargant's death. Missiles, las-cannon charges and bolter rounds hammered down, a rain of death heralding its Angels. Without evident cause the wall of flak dribbled to nothing and eerie calm filled the air.
‘Initiate drop!’ Crast shouted hauling his gunship into another near impossible roll.
+Negat…+
‘Drop no…’ Crast never finished his command. A wave of shattered steel, broken tank hulls, and bloody corpses smashed the formation apart. Vultures exploded or fell into uncontrolled spiraling descents as their engines were clogged with steel or the flesh of their allies. Predators Mark didn’t explode, her mortal wound came in the form of a construction spar impaling its belly. Fuel lines severed, power conduits broken, and armour shattered; she fell from the skies, a jet-black stone cast into murky waters. Savage Claws was spared but fared no better; ramjets choking on debris, her pilot did all he could to keep the gunship in the air. That was until a second wave of scrap rushed up to envelope her.

Like rounds from a cannon the Marines leapt from the broken belly of their transport. The sky was full of scrap that had reached its zenith and was being pulled inexorably back by gravity. Amongst the falling detritus were two Death Watch gunships and the remaining Vultures.
+You know what you have to do+ Captain Vurk snarled into the vox, the howling of free fall threatened to steal even that. Forcing his arms flat against his body, he triggered the jump pack not to arrest his descent, but to hasten it. Brother Mutals biometric rune blinked red before turning a mournful coal grey. Had he not witnessed the Marine collide with the spinning remains of a Chimera he wouldn’t have believed such a quick death possible. Piercing a bank of smoke, Vurk saw the gigantic hulk for the first time. The Orks had called it 'Da Lobba' and without any other information to work from, the guardsmen had simply dubbed it 'Lobba'.

The gargant was a jigsaw mountain of steel, painted red and yellow like some colossal idol to the Orks' foul gods. A mammoth claw arm extended from its back with which it hungrily grabbed at scrap from an ever-growing pile, only to feed the twin yawning cannons, which replaced its arms in a foul parody of anatomy. Steeling himself, Vurk triggered his jump pack again. A jerk of deceleration span him round so his feet once again aimed earthward. Grunting, he made contact with a falling girder, coming to rest on it as it fell. His auto-senses displayed a string of rapidly decreasing numbers signifying his distance to the target. After barely a moment the numbers passed five hundred meters.
‘Emperor guide my hand’ swore the Raven Guard marine as he flexed his legs and launched himself from the falling debris, his jump pack howling flaming wings into the junk filled chaos around him. Below him the war engines comically sunken head turned skyward as if aware of his descent. A rumble of clanking machinery sounded deafeningly loud even over the roar of his swan dive.

‘Suffer not the alien to live’ he intoned before his world dissolved into a cloud of burning light and cannon hurled steel.