[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  “By the bloody Throne!” exclaimed Beans.

  “You can say that again,” Metzger replied.

  “Siegler,” said Wulfe, still unable to blink. “High-explosive. Load her up. Beans, draw a bead on that thing and make it fast. You can’t miss.”

  To the left and right, other turrets were already turning. Surely together, thought Wulfe, with all our firepower combined, we’ll be able to put the bastard down.

  It was Lieutenant Keissler, recently appointed second-in-command of the regiment, who was the first to issue the fire command. Flame licked out from the muzzle of his tank, The Damascine. The first shell struck the beast’s armour-plated shoulder with a burst of fire and smoke. The squiggoth made an angry rumbling noise deep in its throat and turned to face Keissler’s tank full on. It wasn’t even scratched.

  “Frak,” muttered Wulfe. “That’s just made it angry.”

  Over the intercom, he said, “Metzger, get ready to run. You understand?”

  “Already ahead of you, sarge,” replied the driver. He began rotating the hull away from the squiggoth, rolling one tread forward, the other one back.

  “Beans,” said Wulfe. “Hit it somewhere soft.”

  “Belly shot,” said Beans. “I think I can get one under the skirts of the howdah.”

  Other tanks began blasting away. Most of the shells struck the howdah, and the orks onboard began firing back with rockets and heavy stubbers. Their aim was terrible. Bullets stitched the dirt. The rockets corkscrewed and exploded harmlessly in the air.

  Then the howdah’s gigantic main gun fired.

  The sound made the squiggoth buck and rear, throwing off most of its passengers. They plummeted, hit the sand hard, and lay there, twisted and unmoving.

  A Destroyer on Wulfe’s left was suddenly swallowed in a great ball of fire. Tiny metal pieces rained down on Last Rites II.

  “Frak,” exclaimed Metzger over the intercom. “We have to move.”

  The other tanks were pounding it, but the squiggoth wasn’t even bleeding.

  It clawed at the dirt, preparing to charge.

  “What are you waiting for, Beans?” Wulfe demanded. “Fire!”

  “Brace!” shouted Beans.

  Last Rites II kicked and sent a glowing round towards the squiggoth’s belly.

  There was a burst of fire. The monster brayed. When the smoke cleared, its belly scales were blackened, but undamaged.

  That damned thing’s skin must be thicker than our bloody hull, thought Wulfe.

  The squiggoth had had more than enough of the tanks. With another deep bellow, it lumbered towards them, kicking ork huts and squig pens out of its way, trampling everything unlucky enough to get in its path. For the most part, this meant squigs, orks and gretchin, but one of the tanks from Lieutenant Czurloch’s 3rd Company wasn’t quick enough.

  It had stalled.

  As Last Rites II accelerated away, Wulfe looked back to see the unlucky tank and its crew crushed almost flat by a massive clawed foot.

  “That thing must weigh a thousand tonnes!” he exclaimed.

  Tanks were scattering in every direction, and officers started shouting over the vox, trying to keep their companies together, to maintain some kind of discipline. Turrets turned to fire back at the enraged beast, but shot after shot burst on its armour, only serving to enrage it further.

  Immrich’s urgent voice cut across all the panicked chatter. “Listen up, tankers. Switch to armour-piercing. High-ex isn’t doing a damned thing. And try to draw it onto the rear ork lines. It’s mad as hell. We can use that to our advantage.”

  Wulfe took half a second to survey the rest of the battlefield. Much of it was obscured by dust and smoke, but what he could see was an absolute maelstrom, the fighting insanely fierce in every quarter.

  Once Immrich had dropped the link, van Droi’s voice came through.

  “You heard the captain, Gunheads,” he voxed. “Stick together. Follow 1st Company’s lead. And keep firing, for Throne’s sake.”

  “That idiot captain is going to get us all killed, lieutenant,” said a voice that made Wulfe scowl. “We should scatter. Think about it. The minute we crash back into the rear ork lines, our speed’ll drop by half. That big beast will stomp us.”

  “Do as you’re bloody told, Lenck,” van Droi barked back. “That’s an order!”

  Wulfe cursed. He could picture Lenck’s snide face. That piece of crap! He would put his own survival first every damned time. Maybe van Droi would see that now.

  Wulfe looked out and saw that the giant squiggoth was giving chase. The ground shook. Every footfall was like a miniature earthquake.

  Last Rites II bounced and swayed as she crashed over the orks’ backs, Metzger keeping her speed as high as he could.

  “Armour-piercing up the spout, sarge,” reported Siegler. “Locked and lit.”

  “Line her up, Beans,” said Wulfe. “You’ll have to fire on the move. Just do your best.”

  Beans didn’t answer. He was concentrating hard.

  “Brace!” he shouted.

  The tank kicked. The turret basket filled with smoke.

  “What are they playing at?” demanded General deViers. “I want that damned thing killed this instant!”

  A wind had picked up, dragging the smoke and dust away from the battlefield, improving visibility with each passing moment.

  Brave men were fighting for their lives all around his Chimera, but it was the squiggoth that held the general’s eye. It was the biggest threat on the battlefield, and that made it the biggest threat to his success. He saw his chances for victory thinning. Already, the beast had crushed or kicked apart eight of the Imperial machines, and Captain Immrich was leading the damned thing back towards the Cadian lines. What in blazes was he thinking?

  “Gruber,” he yelled at his adjutant, “get me Bergen on the vox, right now!”

  Something explosive hit the side of his Chimera and set her rocking on her suspension. He heard the rattle of stubber-fire as it struck her glacis plate like a hard rain.

  “Nothing to worry about, general,” his driver shouted. “No breach. No warnings lights on the board.”

  “Bergen here,” said a crackling voice in deViers’ ear. “Go ahead.”

  “What the devil are your tankers playing at, Gerard? If they lead that monster back towards us, it’ll run rampage through our infantry. We’ll be slaughtered wholesale.”

  “Captain Immrich knows what he’s doing, sir,” replied Bergen icily. “Right now, the beast is out of control. They’re baiting it. They’ve got it charging straight over the orks. It’s killing hundreds of them, as I’m sure you can see for yourself.”

  “I’ve seen eight of our tanks get crushed by the bloody thing. Tell me again that your damned Captain Immrich knows what he’s doing. I want it killed right now. We’ve already knocked out most of their vehicles. Let’s turn the infantry battle around and win this. What about their air support?”

  “Dealt with, sir. Killian moved his missile teams forward with the Tyrok Fusiliers and took them out. All hostile birds are down. Is there anything else, sir?”

  DeViers didn’t like Bergen’s tone. It was dismissive. Did he think he was leading this offensive? If the man lived through today, deViers planned to give him one hell of a dressing down. He had been too easy on Gerard Bergen up to now, too eager to believe they were on the same page.

  It was increasingly clear to him that they were not.

  “Just tell Immrich to kill that damned monster,” he said, and shut off the link. “Gruber, get me Sennesdiar. I have to speak with him immediately.”

  Seconds later, the voice of the magos said, “I am listening, general.”

  “Make sure you are,” said deViers. “I want you to send that damned beacon of yours up. Code in our coordinates. Get that Mechanicus lifter down here, and tell your people to load her up with fighters, bombers, tanks… anything they can send us. Anything at all. We can win this fight if we just get some kind
of edge.”

  “Negative,” Sennesdiar replied.

  DeViers exploded. “Negative? What the hell do you mean by that? Do as I say.”

  “General, as I have already stated, I am not part of the Departmento Munitorum command structure. I alone have the authority to decide when the beacon will be released. I will not call down a Mechanicus craft while there is still a significant threat to its safety. This battle is not yet won.”

  “Don’t you have eyes, you fool?” said deViers. “My men are fighting for their lives. Now send the damned beacon up or I’ll have you shot for obstructing an Imperial operation.”

  “Eliminate the squiggoth and all static defences, general,” said Sennesdiar plainly. “Purge any remaining forces from the settlement up ahead. Find the warboss. When you have achieved these things, the beacon shall be launched. Not before.”

  DeViers heard the tell-tale click of the vox-link being cut from the other end.

  “Gruber,” he yelled, “get me Gerard Bergen again.”

  Four tanks, they were all that remained of Gossefried van Droi’s 10th Company: his own Foe-Breaker, Wulfe’s Last Rites II, Viess’ Steelhearted II, and Lenck’s Exterminator, New Champion of Cerbera.

  Of these, only Lenck’s was firing on anything other than the giant squiggoth. His crate’s twin-linked heavy bolters were outstanding anti-infantry weapons, and they had helped cut a bloody path of carnage through the ork ranks, but they were little use against something like the insane behemoth that was chasing him. Instead, Lenck ordered Riesmann to concentrate on keeping the way clear with a torrent of fire. There was no way he was getting trampled to death like those other idiots.

  Damn that stupid Immrich for ordering them back into the middle of the horde. Not only was it slowing them down, putting them in reach of the squiggoth’s tusks and feet, but six tanks from the 2nd, 4th and 7th Companies had been slapped with magnetic mines that blew them to tiny, spinning pieces. Other tanks were struggling through the press of bodies with dozens of orks on top of them, all yanking hard at the hatches and hammering at the vision blocks with the butts of their blades. All the weight of those hangers-on slowed the tanks to a crawl. As Lenck watched, the squiggoth thundered forward, crushing one and knocking two others onto their backs. Broken ork bodies flew in every direction. In the wake of the beast’s rampage, however, more orks immediately moved in on the upturned machines. They began trying to cut their way through belly armour with chainaxes and blowtorches, desperate to get at the helpless men inside.

  Lenck grimaced. It wasn’t that he cared for his fellow tankers per se, but he imagined that it might not be long until New Champion was on her back like that. He definitely wasn’t ready to die. Most of the dolts around him thought it was an honour to die for a so-called God-Emperor they had never even seen, or to die for a planet that had sacrificed them to a life of war in that same. Emperor’s name. Not Lenck. He still had scores to settle. He enjoyed being Voeder Lenck far too much to give it up on some foolish notion of honour and duty.

  It wasn’t his destiny to die here. He knew he would make it through.

  Part of him hoped Wulfe would make it, too.

  Wulfe watched two massive, ugly, scar-faced orks climb up onto the outside of his turret and start hacking at it with their axes. Futile, of course, but he knew how lucky he was that neither of them appeared to be carrying explosives or a burner. All he could do was tell Metzger to keep the old girl moving and pray they wouldn’t get tagged with something nasty.

  Beans was firing back at the squiggoth, but it was hard to aim with all the jouncing around. With armour-piercing rounds, he had managed to wound the beast twice, hitting it both times in the thick muscles of its front right leg.

  Now a third sound punched through its skin and buried deep, causing the creature to scream and rear up on its hind legs, towering like a Titan over the battlefield. Even the orks turned and gaped.

  It was at that very moment, with the monster’s belly exposed to the tanks below, that a long yellow muzzle flame erupted from the end of Foe-Breaker’s Vanquisher cannon. The special high-velocity armour-piercing shell lanced straight into the monster’s heart.

  With a scream that hurt Wulfe’s ears even through his baffles, the squiggoth collapsed sideways, tumbling heavily to the ground, crushing hundreds of orks and throwing out a great ring-shaped cloud of dust. The impact shook the entire crater, knocking foot soldiers on both sides from their feet.

  Wulfe’s tank was filled with cheering and whooping. The vox erupted with similar noises.

  “Hell of a shot, sir!” Wulfe voxed. “Give old Bullseye a slap on the back from me.”

  The squiggoth was not dead yet. Few things smaller than a Titan could have killed such a beast outright, certainly not a Vanquisher tank. As the dust cleared, Wulfe could see the slow rise and fall of its belly. It was still breathing, but it was desperately weakened and pinned to the ground by the weight of the massive howdah on its back.

  It wouldn’t be getting back to its feet. Ever. Its death would be long and slow.

  It was too much for the orks.

  Bad enough that the squiggoth had rampaged through their ranks, leaving so many of them as little more than red smears on the battlefield; now, they saw the Cadian tanks put it out of the fight, and their morale shattered like glass. Those at the rear broke ranks first, fleeing back towards the settlement, dropping heavy guns and blades on the blood-soaked sand.

  The Cadian officers recognised this for exactly what it was: the shift that signalled victory. They rallied their troops, pressed their advantage, and surged forward. Those orks that did not flee suddenly found themselves facing a resurgent foe. Without the overwhelming numbers at their back, they were lost. Their charred bodies fell to the sand, and the Cadians charged over them.

  General deViers felt that the Emperor must surely be watching him at that moment. His destiny had not abandoned him. His legacy, his immortality, was within reach.

  “Forward, Cadians,” he voxed, “in the name of the Emperor. This day is ours!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Cadian artillery moved up to join the rest of the expedition force, and began pounding the ork settlement to rusting rubble. This was something for which the orks no longer had an answer. Thousands died taking shelter in their pathetic corrugated huts and barracks. Thousands more were crushed and killed when the Basilisks turned their muzzles towards the ork foundries and levelled them. It was only when General deViers received an emergency vox-call from Magos Sennesdiar that the shelling abruptly stopped.

  “What the devil are you doing, sir?” asked Major General Rennkamp on the vox. “We’ve got them right where we want them. Keep shelling.”

  “Damn it, no!” snapped deViers. “I want our tanks and Chimeras to move in. Each vehicle is to have infantry support. I want them to sweep each street, each building, and converge on the far side. That’s how we’re going to do this.”

  “With respect, sir,” voxed Major General Killian, “that’s bloody nonsense. The orks will have retreated to their fallback positions. They’ll be dug-in. You’re sending our boys straight into a death trap. I agree with Aaron. We have to pound them to nothing with the Basilisks and then send the infantry in to mop up. Anything else is just—”

  “Enough!” snapped deViers. “I’ve already executed one officer today. Will I have to repeat that action? I will not risk destroying The Fortress of Arrogance. We go in with tanks and troops. We’ve already beaten them, by Throne. They won’t put up much more of a fight. I want our tanks up front, is that clear? Bergen?”

  “Clear, sir,” voxed Bergen. There was no mistaking the tone of exhausted resignation in his voice. His armour had just won a great victory. The Basilisks could have made it complete. However, if the damned tech-priests weren’t lying for once, the most famous and sacred Baneblade battle tank in the entire Imperium was somewhere up ahead. It might be buried under a frak-load of rusting junk, but the general clearly believed
it was there, and not one man present would be leaving Golgotha until it was retrieved.

  From a pre-expedition total of over one hundred, only twenty-six tanks remained in the ranks of the 81st Armoured Regiment. They moved slowly and deliberately through the twisting, junk-filled streets of the ork camp, halting frequently to blast apart ramshackle towers and barracks buildings from which ork rockets and stubber-fire stabbed out. Vox-chatter was terse, betraying the Cadians’ anxiety. No one liked moving through the narrow lanes. The shaky metal buildings on either side looked ready to topple at any second. Their construction was almost laughable. Beams and girders stuck out at every angle. Most of the corrugated metal walls looked set to tear away on the next wind. It was a wonder any of them stood at all.

  Again and again, the Cadians found themselves boxed in. Huge armoured orks, some of them almost three metres tall, poured out from shadowed corners in a frenzy, screaming oaths in their foul xenos tongue, bloodstained blades and hammers held high above their heads. The tallest were so dark-skinned they were almost black, and they fought with ferocity of a different magnitude altogether. It took twice as much fire to put them down as it did to slay the other members of the squads they led.

  If not for the tanks and their crews providing hard cover and fire support to the footsloggers, any progress at all through the settlement would have been impossible. There were too many damned bottlenecks. The Cadian armour made all the difference, but it wasn’t long before van Droi started hearing voxed reports of tanks being lost.

  The fourth such loss was Steelhearted II.

  Captain Immrich had assigned Viess and his crate as armour support to a company of Colonel Pruscht’s 116th Lasgunners. They were purging an avenue half a kilometre north of van Droi’s position when rockets had shredded the tank’s left tread, rooting her to the spot. The infantry had immediately moved forward to return fire, only to be cut down by ork heavy weapon teams perched on the nearby roofs. Then the ork foot soldiers had poured in, dragging Viess and his crew out of their hatches and hacking them to pieces on the street.