**Chapter 761: Iron and Fog**
**Scene 1: Mygeeto – Low Orbit to Surface**
Ironfoot clutched the safety harness hanging from the ceiling with one hand, checking the gear strapped to his belt with his free hand. Everything was in its place: power cells for his blaster carbine, a spare gas cartridge, four grenades — three ion and one fragmentation. Two sets of sturdy lanyards — they could come in handy for combat in this towered city. Emergency rations, a canteen of water. A small backpack over his shoulder held more ammunition and a warm armor cloak. The climate in this region was moderate but cold — even during the day, the thermometer showed minus two degrees. But clones were no strangers to fighting in harsh conditions. Especially not the soldiers of the Thirteenth Legion.
*Yes. He was going back into battle…*
The clone had earned his nickname — which later became his name — Ironfoot — after Jabiim. During the final CIS and nationalist push, a Hyena-class droid bomber squadron had been shot down by his platoon. Unfortunately, one bomber had crashed hot. His legs had been crushed. He would have been dead if the General hadn't pulled him and his men out of their collapsed bunker. There had been enough medication to stop the bleeding, but full treatment was out of the question. So he had lain in bed until they reached Coruscant after leaving the planet. Even there, problems had arisen. Well, not problems exactly… Clones had it easier than other sentient beings. Their blood could be transfused, organs and even entire body parts transplanted without risk of rejection. Even from freshly killed clones, a hand could be cut off and reattached to someone who needed it. However, such parts were not always in short supply, and treatment was determined by the severity of the injury. In the end, he had to make do with prosthetics.
He didn't care. He could continue serving — and for that, he was grateful.
The shuttle's body shook slightly.
"Attention! Entering atmosphere! Ready in five minutes!" Sergeant Harvey's voice came over the helmet speakers. He was the squad leader, and along with three others, they made up the fourth platoon of the second company of the first regiment. Along with them in the shuttle's belly was the third platoon, positioned closer to the forward ramp. They were also in the rear, near the two side exits, opposite which two AT-RT walkers stood motionless. Ironfoot stood directly in front of them, right at the exit. Nearby were the squad members — Calvin, Bug-Eyes, Derek, Lind, Puck Smith, and Phil.
The latter did not fail to speak out.
"Let's put on diapers, boys!"
"Your humor is as good as ever," muttered Bug-Eyes.
"Of course! We're all at altitude now… about a hundred kilometers!"
"Stop chatting!" Harvey was adamant.
A sharp jerk — and the shuttle slowed slightly. The thought flashed through Ironfoot's head: *We've entered the lower atmosphere.* Of course, ideally, the passengers wouldn't have felt any jolts — everything was supposed to be perfectly smooth. However, they weren't on a cruise, but on a combat landing, and the shuttle, as they say, fell from the sky like a stone.
The whining of the cooling system pumps, located just beyond the compartment wall, signaled the activation of the heavy rapid-fire blasters. Apparently, the enemy had deployed air power, not relying on artillery alone. But… it was all in vain. Yes, the shuttle was large — thirty-five meters long — but its shields were also powerful.
"Get ready! Thirty seconds to drop!" the sergeant commanded.
Ironfoot grabbed a small shield that had been leaning against the wall of the compartment. This piece of armor with attached handles wasn't required by regulations, but command encouraged rationality, and some soldiers — especially those assigned to lead the first wave — had these improvised protective devices. Of course, they wouldn't protect against a massive barrage, but they could stop a few hits from the tin cans' carbines.
Another sharp jerk — and the shuttle landed on some solid surface. The forward ramp collapsed — and a stream of clones rushed toward the exit. Side passages gaped open; the dim daylight caused the helmet's visor sensors to change modes. The AT-RT, until now securely fastened to the floor, unhooked its grips and strode out. Ironfoot followed.
They found themselves on a large landing pad; the bulk of a transport ship loomed to the left; several overturned carts and scattered containers indicated that unloading was in full swing. But there was no time to look back — battle droids were everywhere. After shooting a B-1 that someone had missed, which was trying to turn around to shoot the squads ahead in the back, Ironfoot waited for his comrades, and together they hurried forward. The shuttle's guns choked with fire, clearing a path for the infantry: many of the battle droids that were on the pad at that moment had already been destroyed. But a new avalanche of canisters was already advancing from the passages into the hangars. Covering himself with his shield, the clone hurried forward. Behind him, a walker rose to its feet and began firing over their heads; the staccato clatter of its blaster cannons gave way to the barely audible pops of its grenade launcher.
Then everything merged into a picture that was strange to an outside observer, but normal for any clone.
Step forward. Shot. Shot. Dash. Search for a target. The pygmy spider fires at the lifted shuttle. Shot. Shot. Shot. Shot. The droid is destroyed. Take cover behind the crate. Lean your shield against it. Remove the grenade from your belt, the trigger for a second and a half. Press. Swing, throw. An ion discharge covers the B-1 group: the disabled droids settle on the landing pad. Finish off the survivors. The sergeant's voice comes over the speakers: "Forward!" Shot. Shot. Grab the shield…
"Attention, droidekas!"
Several dozen of these deadly machines rolled out of the hangar. Ironfoot, who had already taken a step forward, covered himself with his shield and retreated back, under the cover of the container. Not everyone was as lucky as he was — a couple of dozen clones fell under the heavy fire. This was not surprising, as droidekas were the most dangerous opponents.
"We're losing momentum!" the sergeant growled. "The lieutenant's not happy. Derek, what are you messing around with?"
The aforementioned clone, under the cover of his comrades, was already silently preparing the GD-7 for fire. The cylindrical magazine holding four rockets slid into place. A click — and the grenade launcher was ready to fire. Ironfoot, without leaning out, raised his carbine over the crate and began firing indiscriminately toward the enemy, drawing them toward himself. Many of the soldiers followed suit.
And so, along the entire line, grenade launchers rose above their cover. Shot, shot, shot… Missiles with ion and high-explosive warheads raced toward the enemy. Not all the shooters were lucky. Some managed just one shot. Some two. Derek emptied his entire magazine before a blaster bolt struck his helmet. A short beep from Ironfoot's helmet alarm confirmed his friend's death.
**Scene 2: Bridge of the Devastation – Mygeeto Orbit**
Almost four hours had passed since the landing on Mygeeto began. And three since enemy reinforcements had started arriving. They weren't numerous — five or six ships at a time — but they came in a steady stream. So it was too early to relax.
At least they now had a favorable position. The landing force had formed up at the edge of the enemy's turbolaser range — those they hadn't yet disabled. In four of the cities they were assaulting, the anti-ship defenses had either been damaged or captured by Vanko's paratroopers. The guns of the other cities controlled their own sectors, but they were no longer able to reach the Republic fleet. And now the next wave of landings should proceed unhindered. Although the first had taken a beating: according to Lee Noriega, losses amounted to 13 percent in the first wave and 7 percent in the second. Or, to put it less formally, they had lost almost three regiments of clones, not counting the shuttle pilots and infantry transports. They had predicted exactly where each squadron would emerge from hyperspace.
All they had to do was instill confidence in the gunners. And thank the Force that battles were fought primarily in the so-called three-hundred-kilometer zone around planets. Of course, their turbolaser cannons were the most powerful of their kind, and no other ship had anything like the Venator turret mounts: their firing range in space was a whopping 1,500 kilometers. But the whole point was that a shot would travel that 1,500 kilometers in about five minutes. Considering the maneuverability of even large ships — which was significantly inferior to the speed of fighters — this wasn't even funny. But at close range, up to fifty kilometers, it was already impossible to dodge.
The *Devastation* was far stronger, with XX-9 turbolasers literally capable of destroying fortified Muun structures at 2,000 km — still probably not too much less, or they would destroy the first city accidentally.
Even before the battle, Arsam had looked unusual. Colossal towers rose from the thick fog shrouding the planet's surface. Occasionally, the fog was illuminated by flashes from the lower levels. Now, clouds of smoke rose from everywhere, eclipsing the already dim light of the sun, and the haze was tinged red. And everywhere — the sounds of battle.
Dagon stood at the center of the bridge, the open Battle Meditation linking him to every mind under his command. The girls remained close — silent anchors feeding him strength.
"Landing wave three, begin descent," he ordered. "Guardian network priority on anti-fighter coverage. All capital ships — maintain pressure on the remaining orbital platforms."
The war for Mygeeto continued — brutal, cold, and unrelenting.
And the Dragon refused to blink.