[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  Brunner directed his attention to the ground on the left, and van Droi saw two tank tracks leading straight to the edge. Damn it, he thought. Ten kilometres per hour was too fast, after all. They’d have been over before they could stop, and the chains weren’t made to suspend a tank’s full weight.

  He squinted down into the shadows, but the drop was too deep to show him anything solid. The storm was still cloaking the area enough to hamper vision at that range, but it was weakening all the time. What would be revealed when it had passed completely? Had the orks followed them in? Were they closing on their backs even now? There was nowhere to run. Forward progress was blocked by the edge of the escarpment. How far did it extend to left and right?

  The answers would have to wait. Van Droi needed to speak to Colonel Stromm at once. He ordered everyone back to their tanks in the meantime, and then returned to Foe-Breaker. Once he was inside and the hatches were all locked, he flipped a switch on his vox-board and said, “Armour Leader to Colonel Stromm, come in, please.”

  “Go ahead, lieutenant. What’s the situation?”

  “Not good, sir. As I feared, one of our tanks took a dive. There’s a precipice about ten or twelve metres in front of my lead tank. No idea how deep it runs, sir. The bottom isn’t visible in all this dust. I’m guessing it’s deep. Deep enough to be a big problem, anyway.”

  “Do we know its extent? If the orks are right behind us…”

  “There’s no way of knowing right now, sir. The storm is moving on quickly, though, so I expect we’ll have decent visibility in half an hour or less. Suggest we wait it out until then.”

  “Of course, lieutenant. I don’t want any more accidents. Could any of your men, the ones in the tank… could they have survived?”

  Van Droi thought about this for a second before answering. For all the reliability of the Leman Russ — a design that had barely changed in many thousands of years — the turret basket was still a dangerous place to be. The centre of the hot, cramped, noisy little space was usually dominated by the huge mechanism of the main gun. On one side of this sat the gunner, on the other sat the loader. Close behind the gunner, the commander sat within easy reach of everything he needed: maps, comms equipment, small arms and more. What made it so dangerous were the stowage boxes bolted to every surface, their metal edges and corners responsible for more wounds than enemy fire. The locking levers for the hatches weren’t much better. They stuck out like blunted metal barbs. Veterans got used to this and reported fewer injuries with each passing year of service, but the new meat learned the hard way.

  “Chances are, sir, that most of the men inside are badly injured,” said van Droi. “More than likely there’s at least one dead.”

  “But you think there will be survivors?”

  “Can’t really say at this juncture, sir. It depends on the height of the drop.”

  Stromm paused, leaving van Droi to listen to the white noise that filled his right ear for a moment. “You know, van Droi, that if the orks are close by, I can’t give you the time you need.”

  Van Droi shook his head. “I know that, sir. If there’s any chance at all, though, that some of them are stuck in there, I owe it to them to get them out.”

  He was actually thinking that Stromm’s Fighting 98th owed it to them, but he didn’t say so. A second later, he was glad he hadn’t.

  “My boys and I will do everything we can to help, van Droi, but time really is of the essence here. Hold for one second.”

  Stromm broke the link, and then re-connected a few seconds later. “Take a look outside, lieutenant,” he said. “It looks like the storm has all but passed.”

  Van Droi craned his neck and peered through the forward vision block set in the ceiling just above his station. He could see the tank in front of him in sharp detail, the treads on her windward side piled high with red sand. Beyond her, he thought he glimpsed the horizon and… could it be? Was that the pale silhouette of a jutting mountain range? It was difficult to be sure. Behind the thick brown clouds in the west, there were hints of the sun moving lower, but the day was still hot, and the mirage line shimmered. If there really were mountains over there…

  Suddenly, something else occurred to van Droi. The orks! He spun to look through the rear vision blocks, but The Adamantine was blocking his view.

  “Any sign of the orks, sir?” he voxed to Stromm. “Have you got anyone checking the rear?”

  Again there was a pause while Stromm talked to his people. Then, “No sign of the filthy beasts, lieutenant. I can’t believe we lost them so easily, but eyes at the rear report no sign of them. Nothing whatsoever to our backs.”

  By the Emperor, thought van Droi. Could it really have worked? Had the storm covered their tracks and sent the orks off somewhere else?

  “You still there, lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry. I was just wondering where in the warp the buggers went. May I suggest we get scouts out looking for a way down from here, sir? If we want to continue north-east, we’ll need a slope or a trail down from this ridge. And, with your permission, I’d like to have some of my men abseil down to Cold Deliverance.”

  “You have it, lieutenant. Be quick. I want us all moving again as soon as possible. You need anything else, just let me know. Stromm, out.”

  Muller’s tank lay belly up at the bottom of a two-hundred-metre drop, and van Droi knew as soon as he saw her that the chances of any of Muller’s men surviving were next to none.

  With five other men, all hand-picked, he rappelled down to the rocky desert floor and moved closer to observe the results of the fall. The barrel of the main gun was crumpled and bent, and the secondary weapons had suffered such an impact that pieces of them lay scattered around the inverted hull.

  Her turret wasn’t even visible, buried deep in sand and loose rock. No one would be crawling from its hatches.

  He directed his team to move in and check for signs of life. Sergeant Wulfe was among them and immediately clambered up onto the machine’s upturned belly. He removed his laspistol from its thigh holster, lay flat against the tank’s belly armour and began tapping out a message in cipher-one. It was an old code, a series of taps and pauses that the Cadian military still taught to cadets in their first year, though there was little cause to use it given the prevalence of vox-comms. Van Droi was amazed that Wulfe remembered the code at all. It had been over twenty years since the man had been a cadet. Reaching back to memories of his own days in training, it took van Droi a moment to unscramble the message. It was the same code, repeated over and over again: Survivors, respond. Survivors, respond.

  Wulfe pressed his ear to metal for about a minute, after which his movements took on a distinctly urgent quality. Noting this, van Droi moved closer, but he didn’t dare speak. This was no time to distract the sergeant.

  Wulfe’s message changed: Number of casualties?

  Van Droi saw him press his ear to the armour again, and then, after a short pause, tap a single word: Wait.

  Leaping down from the belly of the tank, Wulfe marched straight over to van Droi.

  “Three dead, one alive, sir. It’s the driver, Private Krausse.”

  “Status?” asked van Droi.

  “Not good, sir. Lots of broken bones. Lacerations.”

  “Damn,” spat van Droi. “I think we both know how this is going to turn out, Wulfe.”

  The sergeant looked at the ground. “Frakking hell, sir. We can’t.”

  “We both know that’s not our call. Stromm’s the man in charge. Don’t hate him for it. He has to think about the rest of us.”

  “Can’t we at least try, sir?”

  “I wish we could, Oskar,” said van Droi heavily, “but with our limited resources, it would take the rest of this day and half of the next to cut him out. And that’s cutting where the armour is thinnest.”

  Van Droi couldn’t see Wulfe’s face. It was masked and goggled, like his own, against the airborne dust, but he knew the sergeant’s expression would be mu
ch the same as his: bloody miserable.

  “Get yourself and the others back up to your tanks. Stromm will have orders for us to move out soon. His people will have found a trail down for the vehicles by now. Do something else for me, will you? Tell the others… Tell them there were no survivors.”

  “You want me to lie, sir?” asked Wulfe. There was a knife-edge of bitterness in his voice.

  “I want you to think of what’s best, sergeant,” snapped van Droi. “Morale is bastard low as it is. So you go up there and you tell them no one made it. And we move on. Is that clear?”

  Wulfe snapped his boots together. The tone of his voice became flat and hard as he said, “Crystal clear, sir. My apologies. I should not have questioned you.”

  “No, Oskar,” said van Droi. “No apologies from you. Just… do as I’ve asked, will you?”

  “Of course, sir. You can count on me.”

  With that, Wulfe turned, gathered the other four men together and led them back up the ropes to the waiting tanks above.

  Van Droi hauled himself up onto Cold Deliverance, frowning under his mask at how dizzy the effort made him feel. He wasn’t drinking enough water each day, not by far. Who could blame him? The purification kits didn’t do much to take away the bitter saline taste of the processed urine. Food rations were also running very low. He must have lost a dozen kilograms over the last ten days, if not more.

  He removed a finely-crafted autopistol from the holster at his hip, and lay down on the upturned belly of the tank in the spot Wulfe had occupied a moment earlier. With the heel of his pistol he began tapping a message to the man trapped inside: Company commander here.

  He listened for a response. After a few seconds, there came a series of clangs. In his mind, van Droi translated the beats and pauses: Understood. Greetings.

  Van Droi tapped again: Extrication impossible.

  There was a much longer pause this time before the response came back. This time, a single word: Understood.

  Do you have a weapon? van Droi tapped.

  Yes, tapped Krausse. There was a long pause, then he added, Will use.

  Van Droi wanted to tap the word sorry, but something stayed his hand. Instead, he tapped, Go with the Emperor, son.

  He listened carefully, ear pressed hard to the thick metal below him, but the tank driver had stopped tapping back. There was only a single last clang from inside the overturned machine. It was the sound of a weapon discharging. Van Droi didn’t need to decrypt it to know that it meant goodbye.

  As he scrambled down from the tank, walked over to the rope, and began the tiring climb back up, the lieutenant’s heart felt like it weighed about sixty tonnes itself. Damn it all, he thought. Who would be a bloody leader of men?

  At the top of the rope, arms reached out to help him over, and he stood to find himself facing a row of his tankers clad in masks and goggles. They stood to attention as he rose and dusted off his fatigues.

  “Why aren’t you lot in your tanks?” he asked them. “Have Stromm’s lot found a way down yet?”

  It was the burly Sergeant Rhaimes who stepped forward and said, “They’ve found a lot more than that, sir. Switch your vox over to band nine.”

  Van Droi huffed impatiently and lifted a finger to his vox bead. He switched it to band nine and froze. He could hardly believe his ears. There was rapid chatter bouncing back and forth. One of the voices was immediately familiar, the gruff but well-educated voice of Colonel Stromm.

  The other, however, was new to van Droi, and that in itself was significant.

  “Sentinel patrol ident tag nine-theta-nine-six-five confirms your last transmission, colonel. Relaying it back to field headquarters. Standby.”

  Van Droi gasped. He moved towards Rhaimes.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he demanded.

  He didn’t need to see Rhaimes’ face to know he was smiling as he said, “Bet your balls on it, sir. A Sentinel patrol! It’s Exolon. They must have secured a base nearby.”

  Van Droi suddenly felt like leaping into the air. “By the bloody Golden Throne! They made it down after all. But I can barely hear them on this bead. Everyone back to your tanks on the double. Get ready to move out as soon as we have instructions.”

  The men saluted and trotted off at speed. Van Droi felt better than he had in days. Salvation at last. He had been sure they would all die out here one way or another. But now… hope!

  Inside his turret, using the more powerful vox-caster there, he heard the communications from the Sentinel patrol coming in much louder and clearer.

  “Colonel Stromm,” said the voice, “I have orders for you from Major General Bergen. You are to move due east, proceed down from the escarpment, rendezvous with this patrol at the base of the cliffs and follow us back to the base at Balkar. Confirm.”

  Balkar! thought van Droi. I can’t believe we’re this far out.

  He thought back to General deViers’ briefing sessions. From Balkar, it was a short journey eastwards to the last known location of The Fortress of Arrogance. From there, the Mechanicus ship in orbit above the planet would be signalled. A recovery craft would be sent for the tank. Then it was back to Hadron base for extrication by the Navy. Throne above, things were looking up!

  Suddenly, with the thought of extrication, the lieutenant’s mind was yanked roughly back to Private Krausse, the driver trapped inside Cold Deliverance.

  Extrication impossible.

  Van Droi had tapped the message.

  Extrication frakking impossible!

  There had been no time to save Krausse, no time to wait while fuel and rations were burned up, no time to stop, hoping the orks wouldn’t happen across them as they tried to rescue one of their own. It would have put everyone at risk. Van Droi had been sure he was doing the right thing. Only now, suddenly, it seemed that there was time. But there was no life left to save.

  Van Droi had made that call. Weariness and the weight of his command hit him again like a sledgehammer, and he sat at the rear of the Vanquisher’s turret with his hands pressed tight to his face.

  By the blasted Eye of Terror!

  Absently, with that fraction of his awareness that wasn’t drowning in guilt, he heard Stromm’s voice again on the vox-link. The colonel confirmed the major general’s orders with the Sentinel pilot who was relaying them. Then Stromm contacted each of his officers and gave them his instructions.

  To van Droi, he said, “Damned good news, eh, lieutenant? After all we’ve been through.”

  “It certainly is, sir,” said van Droi. “My tanks are ready to move out on your command.”

  Stromm had served a long time in the Guard. He knew when an officer wasn’t telling him something. “You all right, van Droi? You sound a bit less ecstatic than I would’ve expected given the circ — Oh! The tank. I’m sorry, van Droi. In all the excitement…”

  “That’s all right, sir. Of course, I couldn’t be happier about making contact with the rest of the army group.”

  “Survivors?”

  “No, sir,” said van Droi wearily. “No survivors, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry, lieutenant. Of course, they’ll be honoured properly when we get to Balkar. I imagine there will be plenty of decorations after the campaign. Throne knows, our lads deserve them. We’ve had a devil of a time out here, van Droi. Good men lost. But we came through it, man. We came through. The confessors will organise a service for those that didn’t.”

  Van Droi knew they would, but it did nothing to comfort him. Once Stromm had signed off, he opened a link to his tank commanders on the company channel. There were only seven of them now, eight tanks left including his own.

  “I want a double column. Two fours. Foe-Breaker front left. Old Smashbones right. We roll east behind the colonel’s Chimeras. Keep your eyes open for trouble. You know the drill. I know you’re all tired, but we’re almost home. See it through.”

  When each of the tanks had confirmed and rumbled into position, he gave the order and they
all moved out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Balkar, like all of the old Imperial ruins out in the equatorial desert, was a fortified base built on a rocky upthrust that had endured the onslaught of the wind-borne sands. The orks had moved in as soon as the Imperial forces had retreated but, in all those years, they had done little to change the base other than to fill its streets with rusting junk. Several of the structures, mostly barracks buildings and concrete garages, had collapsed in on themselves under the weight of the sand that had accumulated on their broad roofs. Other structures had once been decorated with proud Imperial iconography, but the winds had eaten it away to almost nothing, sandblasting the exposed surfaces smooth. The orks had subsequently covered them in childishly rendered glyphs and impenetrable scrawls of alien gibberish.

  Much of the metal used in the construction of the base was flaking away. The rest, anything that the orks had thought to utilise for the modification of their strange war machines, had been stripped out, leaving bunkers without doors and barracks buildings without shutters.

  To anyone looking down from the air, the base would have appeared hexagonal in plan, though not symmetrical, designed with uneven sides to take full advantage of all the space afforded by the broad, flat rock underneath. There were a number of wells, cut straight down, very deep into the ground. Unfortunately for the 18th Army Group, they contained no water. They must have dried up long ago. The base’s former occupants — the great greenskin horde that Major General Killian’s men had fought so hard to eliminate — had been using them as latrines. Killian had ordered them sealed.

  It was the topic of water discipline that Colonel Vinnemann was discussing with his staff when a runner from Major General Bergen’s office interrupted, bringing him some rare good news. Vinnemann’s expression said it all as he sat listening, a mixture of disbelief and joy lighting his battle-scarred features. The look was mirrored on the faces of his staff officers.

  “Say that again, son,” he told the runner. The words had gushed out of the gasping lad’s mouth. Vinnemann wasn’t sure he had heard them correctly.