[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  “Colonel,” yelled Kassel excitedly, “there’s an urgent message coming through from… say again… roger that… from a Lieutenant van Droi, sir.”

  “Van Droi?” said Stromm. He didn’t recognise the name. Most of Exolon’s armour was with 10th Division. He and his men were with the 8th. “Well, don’t keep it to yourself, Hans. What’s the message?”

  Kassel beamed.

  “To dig in, sir. Van Droi says the Gunheads are here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gossefried’s Gunheads roared forward, guns booming like thunder, far more than simple promethium fuelling their charge. Disgust, hatred, the desire for revenge, all of these things and more filled the hearts of the men inside the massive, rumbling war machines as they surged on, desperate to cut the foe down before it was too late for their fellow Guardsmen.

  For Gossefried van Droi, the survival of the embattled Cadian infantrymen was paramount. Here at last, after days travelling through the desert without any sign whatsoever that others had survived planetfall, he had found welcome confirmation that his Gunheads were not alone. Someone else had survived and, right now, that meant everything in the world to him. But they wouldn’t survive much longer if they didn’t get the aid they so desperately needed.

  It would be a close thing. He could see that from his cupola. Colonel Stromm’s footsloggers were on their last legs. That much was all too clear, despite the dust and black smoke that shrouded the chaos of the battlefield.

  “Spread out,” van Droi ordered his tank commanders over the vox. “Keep your main guns blazing. I want secondary weapons on those hostiles as soon as you make range. Don’t spare the treads! Our brother Cadians are dying out there!”

  A stutter of cannon fire from the tanks on either side was answer enough for him. Up ahead, still more than a kilometre away, but closer with every passing second, pillars of sand and gore burst into the air. Firing on the move meant a big trade-off in accuracy for the gunners, but, given the sheer number of gargantuan brown-bodies in front of them, they could afford to be sloppy. What they couldn’t afford to be was slow.

  No fear of that. Their engines roared, spewing thick black fumes out behind them, powering the sixty-tonne war machines forward over the sand with surprising speed. Between the noise of his engine and the booming of his powerful main gun, van Droi could hear nothing at all of the fighting around the crashed drop-ship. He didn’t need to hear it to know how badly it was going. As his tanks crossed the one kilometre line, he gripped the pintle-mounted heavy bolter in front of him and made ready to open fire. Much of the mad alien horde had turned its aggression towards the tanks, knowing they posed a far greater, more immediate threat than the infantry, and a better fight. His eyes picked out the biggest orks, long-tusked, black-skinned abominations wearing huge suits of armour and carrying ludicrously oversized blades. He saw them throw back their heads to bellow battle cries as they readied the rest of the horde to charge.

  Bring it on, you godless freaks, thought van Droi. You don’t stand a frakker’s chance in hell against my 10th Company.

  “Break them wide open, Gunheads,” he called over the company command channel. “Sword, Hammer, move into line formation. Rhaimes, take your squadron out on the left flank. Angle in on their rear. Wulfe, Richter, move your squadrons straight up. Keep the pressure on. Not one of those alien bastards survives. No runners.”

  “Spear Leader to company command,” replied Sergeant Rhaimes. “Read you loud and clear, sir. We’ll make them wish they’d never crawled out of the dirt.”

  “Sword Leader to command,” voxed Sergeant Wulfe. “Moving into formation.”

  Sergeant Richter was the last to vox in. “Hammer Squadron confirming, sir. Moving up now.”

  Van Droi looked to either side and saw his tanks fan out to form a broad fighting line abreast of his machine. Old Smashbones, The Rage Imperius and The Adamantine pressed left, bearing north-east so that they could swing in on the greenskin flanks and funnel them into the killing zone. As van Droi watched, flame and smoke licked out from their barrels and the air shook with the sound of exploding propellant.

  On the right, the tanks of Spear and Hammer squadrons were also keeping the pressure on. Not all of them were fitted with standard battle cannon, of course. Van Droi’s company was a mixed force, glad to make do with whatever machines it could get its hands on. As he always impressed on the new meat, what the Gunheads lacked in uniformity, they made up in versatility. Who gave a flying damn if some of the other company commanders sneered? Czurloch and Brismund were the worst for it, those stuck-up pricks. Let them have their nice, ordered companies of identical machines. Specialise too much in one thing, van Droi knew, and you’d be properly stuffed when some bastard suddenly changed the rules.

  That didn’t happen to his Gunheads.

  His machine, Foe-Breaker, was a rare and highly prized Leman Russ Vanquisher from the forges of Ryza. She was hundreds of years old — the saints alone knew how many kills she’d made since her inception — but she still excelled at taking out enemy machines with her 120mm smooth-bore cannon and its highly specialised, armour-piercing sabot rounds. No other Leman Russ could fire as far and as accurately, and van Droi conscientiously prayed to her machine-spirit every single day, making obeisance in the form of litanies approved by the regimental enginseers.

  All this love and attention was repaid tenfold in her performance. She had added another armour-kill to her tally today when van Droi’s gunner, “Bullseye” Dietz, had lit up one of the ugly ork artillery pieces like a bonfire. It was still gushing red flame and thick black smoke into the sky. Dietz hadn’t let up, either. Van Droi’s loader — a grumpy little short-arse by the name of Waller — was still slamming high-explosive shells into the main gun’s breech with all the speed he could manage, and Dietz wasn’t wasting them. Every time the gun belched, scores of orks disintegrated, turned into a downpour of red rain that muddied the desert sand.

  Seconds now, thought van Droi, his finger beginning to squeeze gently on the heavy bolter’s trigger. Just a few more seconds.

  He revelled in the rush of hot desert air as it whipped at his collar. Adrenaline surged through him, familiar and welcome. Two and a half decades of this, with combat experience spanning a dozen contested worlds, and still it thrilled him like nothing else ever could. He would never tire of it, never.

  In lethal range, he pulled the heavy bolter’s trigger back and loosed a flood of explosive shells. The noise was deafening, even with his ear-protectors firmly in place. The recoil was wicked, too, despite much of it being absorbed by the pintle-mount. The gun kicked hard in his hands, pouring spent cartridges from its ejector like brass rain.

  He strafed the orks in front of him as their return fire danced and sparked on the thick front armour of his tank. Dozens were struck, bolts punching deep into meaty bodies before detonating a fraction of a second later with sickening, yet satisfying effect.

  All along the line, his tank commanders were doing the same, manning the heavy stubbers and bolters that graced the lip of each cupola. Those few tanks with sponson-mounted weapons chattered and blazed even louder than the others. Hull-mounted weapons, too, spat deadly torrents into the enemy force, leaving the orks nowhere to run to escape the slaughter.

  Van Droi didn’t shout or growl or laugh madly like some men did while they fired on the foe. That was for youngsters and fools, in his opinion. Instead, he let go of everything, losing his sense of self, becoming part of a kind of gestalt entity that encompassed the tank and her entire crew. The fighting always seemed to go so smoothly when this happened, as if each man instinctively knew what needed to be done without having to ask. The mark of a good crew, he thought. No. An exceptional one.

  A sudden crackle of static on his intercom yanked van Droi from his almost trance-like state. The gruff voice of his loader sounded in his ear. “Vox-panel’s flashing down here, sir. Looks like you’ve got a call coming in from one of the footsloggers.”


  Van Droi picked off a few more of the orks nearest Foe-Breaker and dropped down into the turret. As he checked the board, he told Dietz, “Hostiles closing on our two. Get the co-ax on them.” Then, he switched from intercom to vox, and said, “This is Lieutenant Gossefried van Droi, 81st Armoured Regiment, 10th Company. Go ahead.”

  The voice that came back had the sharp ring of the Cadian upper ranks, but it sounded tired and more than a little desperate, too. “This is Colonel Stromm of the 98th Mechanised Infantry Regiment. Can you hear me, van Droi?”

  “I can, sir.”

  “Emperor bless your armoured arse, man! You and your men got here just in the nick of time. Bought us a bit of space to fight back, but not much. I’ve lost a lot of troopers, and it’s far from—”

  He cut off mid-sentence to issue orders to his men. Van Droi could hear the sounds of intense fighting from the other end. It sounded all too close to the colonel’s position.

  “Van Droi, are you still there?” asked the gasping colonel a moment later.

  “Yes, sir. What’s your status? I have a squadron flanking the orks from the rear and two engaging from your left, but you’ll need to hold out a bit longer. I can’t risk firing any closer to your position. It looked like one of our earlier salvoes was close enough to shave you.”

  “I needed a shave anyway,” said Stromm. “But listen, it’s touch-and-go here. The loss of their artillery turned their heads, as did your arrival, and we made them pay. They’re fighting on two fronts, and that has split their forces, but there are still plenty of them hell-bent on bloodying us up in a bit of hand-to-hand. I don’t need to tell you how long we’re likely to last at that range. They grow the bastards tough on Golgotha, and our backs are to the wall, literally. Short of moving inside what’s left of the drop-ship hull, there’s nowhere else for us to go, and I’ve no intention of getting trapped in there. It’s suicide. If there’s any chance you can create a corridor for us, I have a few platoons of Kasrkin that might be able to hold it open long enough to facilitate our escape.”

  Van Droi nodded as he listened. “You’ll have your corridor, sir. I’ll send one of my squadrons up flush with the drop-ship. They’ll cut a path in towards you. Keep your men back until the last moment. There’ll be plenty of lead in the air, you understand.”

  “The more the better,” replied Stromm. Grunting and shouting almost drowned out his words. Chilling ork battle cries could be heard clearly in the background and, despite the security of his tank, van Droi felt his blood run cold. He knew he had to order Wulfe’s tanks forward at once. Sword Squadron fielded the company’s only Leman Russ Exterminator, New Champion of Cerbera. She would be best suited for the job.

  “As soon as you can, van Droi,” Stromm added. “The Emperor protects. Stromm, out.”

  Van Droi immediately switched back over to the company command channel and said, “Command to Sword Leader. Respond, Wulfe.”

  “Sword Leader to Command,” Sergeant Wulfe voxed back. “Go ahead, sir.”

  Van Droi could hear the drumming of a heavy stubber between the sergeant’s words.

  “Listen up, Wulfe,” he said. “I have friendlies in urgent need of an escape corridor. I want the New Champion on it. Understood? Move your squad up and cut a path flush with the ship’s hull. Let the wreck cover the footsloggers’ backs. Carve them a path to safety. Colonel Stromm has the vox, F-channel, band six.”

  There was only the briefest pause before Wulfe responded — “Wulfe to Company Command. Sword Squadron is on the move.” — but van Droi could read into it easily enough.

  Wulfe was probably cursing. New Champion of Cerbera was Corporal Lenck’s machine.

  “Let’s take it to them,” Wulfe told his crew over the intercom. “Metzger, get her in close, three hundred metres, a hull-down position if you can find one. Expect plenty of fire.” Last Rites II gunned forward, churning up the desert under her treads, throwing waves of sand up behind her.

  Wulfe dropped down into the turret to switch vox channels. Once he had opened the link to his squadron, he said, “Sword Leader to One and Two. Orders from van Droi. We’re going in. New Champion, move up on my right and open a corridor for the infantry. Cut a path in line with the wreckage so their backs are covered. And try not to hit the friendlies, Lenck. Last Rites II and Frontline Crusader will give supporting fire centre and left. Frontline Crusader, stop parallel with me, fifty metre spacing. Hammer Squadron will be supporting us from the rear. Confirm.”

  Corporal Siemens came back first. “Frontline Crusader confirms, sergeant. Moving up to cover your left. The Emperor protects.”

  “The Emperor protects,” Wulfe replied automatically.

  “New Champion confirms,” reported Lenck a moment later. “Watch and learn, sergeant.”

  “Stow the backchat, corporal,” Wulfe spat back. “Just do your job.” He had seen enough of Lenck during training exercises in the massive holds of the Hand of Radiance to know that he was good — far better, in fact, than could be expected given his level of combat experience — but Wulfe wasn’t about to let Lenck know that. The man was already infuriatingly cocky.

  With Last Rites II just edging in front, the three tanks of Sword Squadron closed with the charging orks. Wulfe scrambled back up into his cupola and grasped the twin grips of his heavy stubber. Looking out at the wall of roaring brown bodies that surged towards him, he realised that he barely needed to aim. Anywhere he fired, he was sure hit something. Hardly pausing to line up along the weapon’s iron sights, he pressed his thumbs down hard on the gun’s butterfly trigger. There was a deafening rattle as the stubber unloaded on the alien horde, cutting dozens of them to pieces. It was a strange, darkly comical sight, one that Wulfe had witnessed before. The bulky alien savages appeared to dance a deathly jig as they were literally chewed apart by the hail of lead.

  Corporal Metzger stopped Last Rites II just behind a shallow dune, not much protection, but better than none. It would keep the tank’s vulnerable underside covered while the hull armour took the brunt of the enemy fire. Then Metzger manned the hull-mounted heavy bolter, adding his fire to Wulfe’s, devastating the press of enemies that were desperately trying to close the gap so they could swarm the tank’s hatches.

  At this range, Wulfe could see their grotesque faces all too clearly, reminding him of so many other greenskins he had faced over the years. Some men said they all looked the same, but Wulfe knew better. One face in particular was burned into his brain: the wart-covered, lopsided face of the ork that had given him the scar on his throat. The old scar was itching like crazy, as it always did when he was under pressure. Though the Golgothan orks were similar enough to their distant kin to dredge up unwelcome memories, they were different, too. They were brown for a start, discoloured, he imagined, by the red dust to which they had been exposed for so many years. They were also leaner and harder than any he had seen before, their muscles rippling like steel cables. Golgotha had made its mark on them. It had shaped them. Toughened them.

  Wulfe stole a glance to left and right, and saw that Frontline Crusader and New Champion of Cerbera had halted in formation, adding their lethal firepower to the slaughter. The toll on the orks was mind-boggling, and a number of the smallest turned and tried to break from the fight. These few began struggling against the tide pressing at their backs, eager to escape the sweeping arcs of fire that were killing so many of their foul kin. It was hopeless, of course. Wulfe swept his barrel from left to right, cutting them down without mercy.

  Suffer not the alien to live.

  Down in the turret, Corporal Holtz didn’t need Wulfe to tell him what to do. He had plenty of experience to guide him. Last Rites II, like so many other Leman Russ tanks, boasted a co-axial autocannon that could chew infantry and light armour apart with ease, allowing the gunner to spare the precious, limited ammunition of the main gun. Holtz employed the co-ax now, traversing the turret slowly in a ninety-degree arc, firing relentlessly, covering the sand in lifeless alien debri
s. On the other side of the turret basket, Siegler was pulling a fresh ammunition belt from a stowage box. With its incredible rate of fire, Wulfe’s heavy stubber would need reloading in a matter of seconds.

  “Don’t waste any time, Lenck,” Wulfe voxed to the New Champion. “Cut that corridor. Those men can’t last much longer.”

  “I’m on it, sergeant,” Lenck snapped back.

  Sure enough, Wulfe saw the Exterminator’s turret-mounted heavy bolters blaze into life, stitching a bloody path straight through the foe. They made one hell of a mess, a kill for almost every hit scored.

  Wulfe felt someone tap his shin twice. He tore his eyes from the bloodbath, dropped his hand down into the turret, and accepted the ammunition belt that Siegler was feeding up to him. Ork slugs rattled and spanged from the turret armour all around him, sending showers of sparks into the air. Wulfe ducked down, staying as low as possible without abandoning his cupola altogether.

  “Sort those bastards out, Holtz!” he yelled over the intercom. “I’m taking an awful lot of fire up here!”

  “If I could just use the main gun, sarge,” Holtz argued.

  “Well you can’t!” barked Wulfe. “No high explosives. We’re too near the bloody footsloggers.”

  Wordlessly, Holtz traversed the turret again, using the autocannon to pour out another lethal hail that bought Wulfe the time he needed to reload. With quick, practised hands, Wulfe re-threaded the belt into the heavy stubber, yanked hard on the cocking lever, and was about to resume firing when something huge and dark leapt high into the air on a trail of blue fire, curved straight towards him, and landed with a heavy clang on top of his turret. Just a metre closer and Wulfe would have been fatally crushed under the heavy body of a monstrous, mad-eyed brute with a smoking red rocket strapped to its back. It was some kind of insane greenskin assault trooper!