Wulfe and the ork looked at each other for the briefest instant, blue eye locked to red, and Wulfe knew that it was over. The ork’s rusty cleaver was already in the air, poised at the start of a sweeping downward stroke that would hack him apart. His heavy stubber couldn’t help him. The ork had one massive foot on either side of the barrel.
Oh, frak, thought Wulfe.
A tidal surge of adrenaline slowed time to a crawl and blocked out everything but the enormous figure of the monster that was about to end his life. Wulfe didn’t hear the burst of fire from his right. He didn’t hear his name being called over the vox. But he saw the ork’s weapon hand disintegrate in a bloody mist, followed almost immediately by its massive, razor-toothed head. It burst like a rotten fruit, and he felt the monster’s foul blood spray over his face and fatigues like hot rain.
The creature’s heavy blade clattered against the turret armour as it fell. Then the headless body followed it, falling backwards, slipping over the tank’s track guards to the red sand below.
Wulfe didn’t move for another second, confused that he was somehow still alive. He didn’t register the ork shells that were whining past his head.
There was something powerfully salty on his lips, and the foul taste of it snapped him back to his senses. It was ork blood. He wiped it off with his sleeve and turned. Looking to the right, he saw Corporal Lenck standing in the cupola of the New Champion, his heavy stubber still pointed in Wulfe’s direction.
For just the briefest moment, Wulfe felt absolutely sure that Lenck was about to shoot him. There was a look of utter triumph in the arrogant corporal’s eyes. He could end Wulfe’s life with the merest pressure of thumb on trigger.
But the lethal impacts never came. After a tense second, Lenck laughed, turned his stubber back on the orks and continued firing. He looked sickeningly pleased with himself.
By the frakking Eye, Wulfe cursed. Now I’m in his debt. Damn it all! Why did it have to be Lenck?
His eyes followed the line of Lenck’s tracers and he saw that the New Champion had cut a deep, broad path in the ork ranks, deep enough and wide enough to make all the difference to Stromm and his men. The orks were pushing away from the crashed drop-ship, eager to avoid being slaughtered under the torrent of explosive munitions and autocannon fire. They left hundreds of their dead behind them in great heaps of reeking meat. Wulfe looked beyond the piled bodies and saw Stromm’s infantrymen fighting valiantly with their backs to the crashed ship’s hull. Not smart, he thought, to get yourself grounded like that without an exit strategy. It was only by sheer luck, or perhaps the machinations of the Divine Emperor, that the Gunheads had found Stromm’s lot in time. If Lieutenant van Droi had picked up the colonel’s faint vox-transmissions any later, the Gunheads would have found only dead men and scavengers.
Wulfe had said it before, and he said it to himself again now; he wouldn’t have been a footslogger for all the gold on Agripinaa. What kind of madness made men march to battle without at least a hundred millimetres of solid armour between them and the foe? Little wonder that the life of an infantryman was so short. One way or another, most died within their first six months of combat duty. The average for tankers was almost double. He knew some men resented that, but it was tanks and their crews that drew most fire on the battlefield.
Through the veils of churning smoke and dust, Wulfe spotted a man that could only have been Colonel Stromm. His poise, his movements, everything about him radiated strength and leadership. He and the men immediately around him were fighting desperately against those orks that were still pressing in from the far side, protected from the tank fire by the very men they were so eager to kill. At a glance, Wulfe judged that there wasn’t much more than a company’s worth of men left standing: two hundred, maybe three. The number was dropping even as he watched. The orks kept up a constant pressure, clambering over banks of their dead to fire clumsily-made pistols and stubbers, or to charge forward with blades raised high. The sand under the carpet of dead men and orks had turned into a blood-sodden quagmire.
Wulfe dropped down into the turret and nudged the vox-selector switch to F channel, band six.
“Colonel Stromm,” he voxed, “you have your corridor, but it won’t hold for long.”
Stromm didn’t waste time offering thanks. Instead, he answered, “Understood, armour. We’ll make our push. Give us all the cover you can. Stromm, out.”
Wulfe contacted Lenck and Siemens briefly and passed this on. For an instant, he considered thanking Lenck, but he couldn’t forget the look in the man’s eyes. He decided that they would talk about it later, providing they both lived through this. He scrambled back up into his cupola, intent on doing whatever he could to help Stromm’s men. He saw two squads of Kasrkin storm troopers moving out from the colonel’s side, swiftly taking up positions that would allow them to hold the passage open for as long as possible. They moved as one, firing clean, disciplined hellgun bursts for maximum effect, and Wulfe found he was profoundly impressed. The Kasrkin were a special breed. He wondered what it took to remain so cool-headed, surrounded by all that death and horror, by alien savages that outweighed you three or four times. He marvelled at their calm efficiency.
Like tankers, the Kasrkin drew a certain level of resentment from standard infantrymen. They received special training and superior kit, and commanders tended not to waste them in wars of attrition when there were other options available. Right now, however, that training and equipment was being employed to save lives.
Wulfe wondered how any soldier could resent that.
With the corridor momentarily secured, the remnants of the embattled infantry began pouring out, desperately making for the cover of Sword Squadron’s tanks. As they ran, some stopped and turned, dropping to one knee to fire back at the pursuing orks. When the men behind had overtaken them, they rose again and ran while someone else covered the rear. It was as well-executed a staggered retreat as Wulfe had seen.
While Sword Squadron’s secondary weapons continued to blaze and stutter, helping to hold the orks at bay, Wulfe saw Colonel Stromm run down the centre of the corridor, a wiry-looking comms-officer at his side. The comms-officer was carrying a regimental banner of bright crimson and gold that rippled and waved above his head as he ran. It might have been glorious but for all the bullet holes in it. Wulfe noticed, too, that Stromm’s right arm had been strapped to his body. It was probably broken, and yet he moved towards the tanks with as much speed as any of the others, slowing only to turn and fire blazing hellpistol shots back at his howling pursuers.
With men pouring out, racing to the relative safety behind the tanks, it wasn’t long before only the Kasrkin storm troopers were left, holding the line until the last man was clear. The orks vented their full fury and rage on them, and some inevitably went down, though they fought to the bitter end through wounds that would have killed lesser men outright.
Sword Squadron gave them all the fire support they could manage. Most of the Kasrkin made it out, but not by much. As they raced towards the cover of the tanks, Wulfe ordered his squadron to keep the fire up but prepare to fall back. Then he contacted Colonel Stromm.
“You have wounded men in your group, sir. Get them up onto the tanks. Use the track-guards and the rear decking, but stay clear of the engine louvres and the radiator. We can carry them out of here and still cover the retreat. Those on foot will have to run. What do you say?”
Stromm began barking out orders immediately, and the track-guards of the three tanks were soon crowded with men in blood-soaked Guard-issue fatigues. Wulfe would have helped them up, but his continued fire was needed to keep the orks at bay.
“Sword One, Sword Two,” he voxed to Siemens and Lenck, “fall back to Hammer’s position. Keep your fire up as we move, but no main guns until van Droi gives the word. We don’t want to scatter them.”
A short series of acknowledgements followed and, slowly, steadily, Sword Squadron began to roll backwards. It was then that Frontline Crus
ader’s engine sputtered and died. Wulfe could hear Corporal Siemens swearing over the vox. The panic in his voice was all too clear. “Oh, Throne! We’ve stalled. Come in, Sword Leader. Frontline Crusader is in big trouble!”
From his cupola, Wulfe saw Siemens slamming his fists on the top of his turret. The wounded men perched on the Frontline Crusader’s track guards were looking agitated. The orks coming forward immediately angled straight towards the crippled tank.
Some of the wounded leapt off and started limping through the sand, clearly unwilling to gamble on the engine restarting. Others stayed put, bravely pouring las-fire down at the oncoming enemy. That didn’t last long. Wulfe saw them struck by wild sprays of enemy fire. The wounded Cadians fell from the sides of the tank, as lifeless as rag dolls.
Wulfe barked orders over to Lenck, and both the New Champion and Last Rites II turned their weapons left, desperate to buy Corporal Siemens some time.
Wulfe knew Siemens needed more than time. He needed a bloody miracle.
None was forthcoming.
While the stubbers and bolters were busy raking the charging greenskins, three orks with rockets strapped to their backs suddenly careened upwards on trails of blue fire, landing just metres away from the Frontline Crusader’s armoured flanks.
Wulfe barely had time to register the thick, cylindrical weapons the orks were carrying, before they were put to murderous use. The moment they landed, each of the orks raised its tube to its shoulder, took aim at the sides of the crippled tank, and fired.
Three explosions sounded in rapid succession, and a cloud of dust and fire erupted into the air, cloaking the Frontline Crusader from view.
“Siemens!” shouted Wulfe over the vox. There was no answer. He immediately turned his stubber on the orks responsible, turning two of them into hunks of dead meat where they stood. Aiming at the third, his shells struck the red rocket on its back, and it detonated, scattering tiny burnt pieces of the ork in every direction.
As the cloak of dust and sand around the Frontline Crusader showered back down to the ground, Wulfe saw Siemens’ body. It was still in the cupola, slumped forward. His flesh was black. His clothes, hair and skin were still burning. One charred and lifeless arm was draped over the barrel of his heavy stubber.
There were holes in the tank’s armour, too. Wulfe could see twin gaping wounds where the plating looked like it had melted straight through. Red flames were boiling up out of them, and out of the hatches the crew had tried frantically to open in their last moments.
Four men, men Wulfe had known, dead. Rage lit inside him like dry tinder. He turned his stubber back on the advancing horde with a vengeance.
“Throne curse you and your entire stinking race,” he yelled at them.
“What are you doing, Wulfe?” a gruff voice demanded over the vox-link. It was Lieutenant van Droi speaking on the company command channel.
“It’s the Frontline Crusader, sir,” replied Wulfe, breaking only momentarily from his revenge. “She’s been brewed up.”
“I can see that, damn it,” growled van Droi. “Keep falling back. Spear Squadron is in position. It’s time we put a lid on this.”
Wulfe gritted his teeth. Siemens had been all right, not a friend exactly, but a fellow tanker, a Cadian brother. He was one of the few left who had been with the company since before Palmeros. He didn’t deserve to be cooked in his crate like that. Wulfe didn’t want to think about what it had been like for the crew inside, struggling to free themselves while the flames devoured them. It seemed like every time Wulfe faced the orks, he came away mourning lost men.
He ordered Metzger to keep them rolling backwards, and Holtz to keep the autocannon firing. Moments later, they were back in line with van Droi’s Foe-Breaker and the tanks of Sergeant Richter’s Hammer Squadron. The New Champion had beaten them to it. Lenck hadn’t wasted time venting anger on the orks. Maybe Siemens’ death didn’t really bother the cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch.
With the tanks pulling up into a horizontal firing line, Colonel Stromm ordered his able-bodied men to help their wounded brothers down from the track-guards and lead them back to cover behind the vehicles. There was little left for them to do, and it was better for them to stay well back from the main guns if they didn’t want their eardrums ruptured.
Rhaimes and the rest of Spear Squadron were visible on the left, pressing the orks into a crossfire. Last Rites II and the New Champion were ordered to edge right, the better to cover any attempt by the orks to break and run in that direction. The greenskins seemed emboldened by their tank-kill and eagerly charged straight on, a mad howling mass of flesh and metal. Soon, they were exactly where van Droi wanted them. He gave the order.
“Fire main guns!”
What followed was no battle. It was the grisliest sort of massacre.
Against the full, unrestrained fury of the Gunheads, the mindless greenskins never stood a chance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gossefried van Droi stood looking up at the ruin of the naval drop-ship, chewing on the end of a damp cigar while, all around him, Colonel Stromm’s infantry went about the business of identifying their dead, stripping the bodies of anything that could still be put to use. Grim work, yes, but van Droi knew that it was essential. Out here in the desert, the supplies they had brought with them were all the supplies they would be getting. Speaking over the vox, Stromm had already confirmed van Droi’s worst fears: no, there had not been word from anyone else. Exolon’s status remained a bloody mystery.
Dark days, these, thought van Droi, and darker ones ahead. Saints guide you, Siemens. You were a good man. I hope you find peace with the Emperor.
The drop-ship that had carried six companies of The Fighting 98th to Golgotha was in a sorry state, even worse than the one that had carried van Droi’s Gunheads. It looked like a carcass, the decaying body of a giant beast, huge and grey, landing legs twisted and bent, the bones of its titanium superstructure shining through where the hull had been ripped or blasted away. It was a wonder that any of Stromm’s men had survived the crash. It was another wonder they’d lasted out the ork assaults as long as they had. Van Droi wondered how many men and machines he would have lost if he had ordered his Gunheads to dig in back at their own crash site? Might an Exolon reconnaissance patrol have found them? Or would the orks have got there first?
He chided himself. There was nothing to be gained by such speculation. He had made the decision to move out, and he stood by it. Throne above, if he hadn’t, the infantrymen scurrying busily back and forth all around him would be corpses, probably headless ones, given the greenskins’ propensity for taking grisly trophies.
Siemens’ death weighed heavy on him. Ten tanks had become nine. A full crew had been lost. Morale had taken a beating, too, though his tankers were understandably glad to have found others who had made planetfall more or less intact.
Van Droi was still looking up at the ruined ship when he heard boot heels grinding the sand just behind him. He turned and found himself looking into the scarred and weathered face of a man he judged to be about twenty years older than himself. He was wrong. There was barely ten years between them. Even covered in blood and dust, though, Colonel Stromm somehow managed to look dignified.
“Colonel,” said van Droi.
The colonel was a little shorter than van Droi. He filled his uniform well — muscular — fit to fight, and van Droi found himself nursing a hunch that Stromm had once been Kasrkin. That seemed to fit, but he wasn’t about to ask. None of his business. Instead, he gave a sharp salute and received one back.
Formalities over, the colonel’s face immediately broke into a wide grin.
“You know, van Droi, I’d shake your hand if my right arm wasn’t in pieces,” he said, glancing down at the limb in question. It was cradled in a white sling stained with dust. “Bloody orks. Damned good to see you and your boys come out of the desert like that. Like Saint Ignatius riding into Persipe. I thought I was dreaming.”
Van Dr
oi grinned back. “You won’t find any saints among my lot, sir, but I’ll bet we were as glad to find you as you were to be found. Five days without a trace of anyone, and we only came across you by sheer luck.”
“Luck or the Emperor’s hand,” said Stromm. Gesturing up at the wrecked ship, he continued, “A proper mess, this. The cogboys should have warned us it would be so rough coming down. I know they mentioned the storms, but they didn’t say anything about them knocking our ships out of the sky. And why the hell weren’t we told about vox-range limitations? I’d love some bloody answers.”
“I wish I had some for you, sir. Hundreds of drop-ships launched. Where the others ended up is anyone’s guess, but some of them must have touched down safely at Hadron. If we could just see the damned stars clearly for one night, we might be able to navigate our way there.”
Stromm nodded gravely, and then gestured for van Droi to walk with him. Together, they moved off towards a large tent that was doubling as a temporary command centre. Stromm’s adjutant, Lieutenant Kassel, was inside. When the colonel and van Droi entered, he turned and saluted.
“Good to meet you, lieutenant,” said van Droi after a brief introduction. The two men, equal in rank, shook hands while Stromm walked over to a munitions crate and sat down.
“Damned heroes, those tankers. Eh, Kassel?”
“Heroes, sir,” answered Kassel with a smile. He produced two glasses of water and set them down on a large crate that was doubling as a table.
“That’s the next big problem,” said Stromm, looking down at the glasses before glancing up at van Droi. “How are you fixed for water, lieutenant?”
Van Droi frowned. “Not good, colonel. Not good at all. Fuel is another thing we’ll have to worry about soon. Food, not so much. I’ve had my lads on half rations since the crash. But we’ll be dead men before long if we don’t get water and fuel.”
[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads Page 10