The Gunheads hauled heavy steel chains from the stowage bins on the rear of each tank and worked hard to attach them to the towing pegs at the front and back of their machines.
“Twenty metres between each tank,” shouted van Droi. He wished he had a vox-amp handy. The bead he wore in his right ear linked him to his tank commanders, but the crews didn’t wear such advanced tech. They took their orders through their tanks’ intercom systems. There was no time for van Droi to return to Foe-Breaker and dig out a vox-amp now, though. The winds were really picking up. The men worked quickly despite their thirst and fatigue. Some struggled through bouts of coughing that doubled them over in pain and discomfort, but they fought through it to get the job done. It was just as well they did. In the few minutes it took to link all the tanks together, the storm had become incredibly fierce. Visibility dropped another ten metres. Then another. Then another. Van Droi could only just make out the red silhouette of the tanks to the front and rear of his own. The wind was buffeting him so hard that it almost pitched him from his feet as he reached up to climb back into his turret.
After wrestling his way up Foe-Breaker’s back, he dropped down into her basket, slamming and locking the hatch above him. Hitting the intercom, he said, “Are we all buttoned up, lads?”
“Tighter than a governor’s daughter, sir,” said Waller. He had been van Droi’s loader for more than ten years, a compact, ruddy-faced man, good at his work, but a truculent devil when he had a bit of drink in him.
“Right then,” said van Droi. “We wait for Stromm’s lot to finish, then roll forward nice and slow.”
Seated out of eyesight behind his crew, he allowed himself a small shake of the head. This is a bit of bloody madness, he thought. If it weren’t for the orks at our backs…
“Van Droi to Colonel Stromm,” he voxed. “Can you hear me, sir?”
“Not too well, van Droi,” said Stromm, “but go ahead.” The clarity of the transmission was terrible. The dust-storm had brought with it a shocking drop in the quality of short-range comms. If it got much worse, van Droi thought, they might lose comms altogether. That would ground them here completely until the storm passed.
“My crates are linked and ready. Awaiting your order to move out, sir.”
“Hold on for another minute, van Droi. The last of my lot are getting hooked together now. Can’t believe how bad it is out there. Throne help those poor lads in the soft-tops. I hope the extra tarps will be enough to protect them.”
Van Droi grimaced. He was worried too. It hadn’t been possible to squeeze everyone from the open-backed trucks and halftracks into sealed cabins and the troop compartments of the Chimeras, but they had done their best. As few men as possible were left to endure the storm in the less protected vehicles. They had been given as much extra cover as was available to protect them, but Van Droi had no idea just how much worse the storm was likely to get.
“I’m sure they’ll be all right, sir,” he said, managing to sound far more positive than he felt.
“One moment, lieutenant.”
There was a pause and a flicker of vox-board lights. Then the colonel returned. “The last of my machines has been linked up, van Droi. Have your tanks lead us out. Keep the speed to a steady ten kilometres per hour, no more, no less.”
“Ten it is, sir. Giving the order now.”
“Very good, Armour. Stromm, out.”
“You all ready for this?” van Droi asked his crew.
The half-hearted grunts that came back to him over the intercom spoke volumes about how his crew felt riding blind. There was no hiding their anxiety.
Van Droi flicked over to the company command channel and said, “Company Commander to all tanks. Confirm readiness to deploy.”
“Spear Leader confirms,” came the static-riddled response from Sergeant Rhaimes.
Spear One’s confirmation followed, then, Spear Two’s. So it went until all eight of van Droi’s surviving tank commanders had called in.
“Keep your crates absolutely steady at ten per hour. Stay on this heading. I don’t want any accidents. Cold Deliverance has point. Corporal Muller, lead us out.”
One by one, the tanks of 10th Company started to edge forward blindly, tow chains giving out metallic groans as they went taut.
The rumble of Foe-Breaker’s engine deepened, and she lurched forward gently as her gears caught, feeding power to the massive axle that turned her drive sprocket. The heavy, cog-like wheel turned, iron teeth pulling link after link towards it, driving the tank forward slowly and steadily. The tank directly in front of Foe-Breaker — Corporal Fuchs’ Rage Imperius — was practically invisible now. Van Droi checked the rear vision blocks and found that the tank behind — Corporal Kurtz’s The Adamantine — was just as difficult to see. The screech of grinding metal sounded over the howling wind and the rumble of the engine as hooks took the strain against towing pegs.
“Keep her real steady, won’t you, Nails?” said van Droi.
“Sure thing, sir,” replied the grizzled old driver. His voice was clear. The tank’s intercom system wasn’t affected by the storm in the same way the vox-link was. “As steady as Waller’s hands after a few bottles of the rough stuff.”
Van Droi frowned. That wasn’t very steady at all.
Lenck’s men were far more worried than he was, and they weren’t beyond showing it. As the New Champion rolled forward, they grumbled and griped on the intercom, snapping at each other, letting their nerves get the better of them. Lenck tuned them out.
As the storm intensified, gusts battering against his tank, rocking her as if she weighed far less than her sixty-three tonnes, he sat back in his command seat, idly playing with the cruelly serrated knife he kept in his boot. It was a non-regulation blade, officially forbidden, but it had saved his neck a few times back in the reserves, particularly when bigger men came looking for him, burning with anger, ready to pulp him for cheating them out of money or bedding their women. Most lost the will to fight after they’d been cut a few times.
Lenck rated himself with a blade.
He hadn’t needed to use his little equaliser since joining the 81st Armoured, but he was sure there would come a time. Sooner or later, someone would come looking for him with a mind to do some damage. He had a feeling it would be Sergeant Wulfe. Most of the men in 10th Company were younger than Lenck, recent reinforcements who looked up to him for one reason or another. It was something different for each, but Lenck could always find it and use it to his advantage. For some, it was his skill with women that they envied. They wanted to share in the secret of his success, not realising there was no secret; he was simply better than they were. For others, it was his ability to procure the things without which some men found Guard life unbearable, from extra smokes or booze all the way up to restricted meds. Before that damned drop-ship had ditched him on the red sands, Lenck had enjoyed a nice little arrangement with a certain medicae officer whose sinful appetites he had threatened to reveal to a member of the Ministorum. The man would have faced execution for sure. Throne knew where the bloody clown was now. Maybe he had made it down on another ship. Maybe he was dead. No matter. When Lenck got out of this mess — and he knew he would, for if he believed in anything, it was that he had been born lucky — he would find another source. Everyone could be bent to his will one way or another.
That thought brought him to the curious matter of Victor Dunst, and he felt a rare flash of irritation. Dunst, whoever he was, seemed to be the reason that Sergeant Wulfe had it in for him. Lenck wanted details, sure that the knowledge would give him the upper hand, but he had no idea how to get them. Wulfe’s crew seemed to dislike him just as much as their precious commander did, especially that bastard Holtz, the one with the mashed-up groxburger for a face.
“Ain’t you listening, Lenck?” growled Varnuss over the intercom.
“No, I’m not,” said Lenck, “but don’t let that stop you.”
The big loader turned to scowl, tattoos on his neck
and shoulders rippling as the muscles under them shifted, but he changed his mind when he saw the way Lenck was stroking his knife. He turned back to his station and muttered, “I said it’s getting worse out there, not better. Look through the vision blocks. It’s like night-time, only its all red. We shouldn’t be moving at all.”
“Least we’re not out in front like Cold Deliverance,” said Riesmann, chipping in. “Second in line suits me fine. I wouldn’t want to be on Muller’s crew for love nor money.”
“And that’s saying something,” Lenck quipped, “since you’ve always had so damned little of either. Relax, both of you. That’s an order. You don’t hear Hobbs complaining, do you?”
“He only stopped “cos you threatened to fix it so everyone in the army group thinks he’s a fruit,” replied Riesmann sourly.
“Right,” laughed Lenck, “and the same goes for you. Think of it like this: so long as we’re stuck in this storm, van Droi and that flag-waving fool of an infantry colonel have enough to worry about. We’re not out in front. Hobbs is doing all the driving. All we can do is sit back and ride it out.”
The others didn’t reply. They listened to the wind for a moment as it screamed around the edges of the tank. Lenck could hear the tow chains creaking. Riesmann and Varnuss glanced at each other nervously.
“What’re they saying on the vox?” Riesmann asked.
“Nothing,” Lenck replied.
“You sure? The lights are on. Someone’s talking.”
“It’s just interference,” said Lenck. He reached into one of the stowage bins and pulled out a green metal jerry can. It was much smaller than the ones they had been given to piss in. He unscrewed the cap, tipped the can to his mouth, and drank.
“Hey,” said Varnuss, “what’s that? If you’ve been holding back water…”
“It’s not water,” said Lenck smugly. “It’s a little something special I’ve been keeping aside.” He tossed his head. “Damn it goes down rough. Good kick though.”
Varnus and Riesmann half-turned. It was the most they could manage in the incredibly cramped turret basket. Riesmann sniffed the air and said, “That’s liquor. You’d better share it out, Lenck. We look after you, you look after us, remember?”
“Teah,” rumbled Varnuss, “that’s what you said, Lenck.”
“I know what I said, you dolts. Give me a bloody break. Would I have shown you at all if I didn’t intend to share?”
He lifted the jerrycan and handed it to Riesmann, who took it greedily and raised it to his lips. Before he could gulp any down, however, New Champion of Cerbera skidded forward with a sudden surge, and then stopped. Her front suspension strained, groaning as it was compressed to its limits while her rear lifted into the air. Then there was a sharp clang that shook the whole tank, and the front suspension sprang upwards again.
The men inside were thrown from their seats. Lenck just managed to avoid splitting his head wide open on the corner of one of the stowage bins. Varnuss wasn’t so lucky. Blood spilled from a deep cut in his crown.
Riesmann was thrown painfully against the manual traverse wheel, grunting as the metal handle dug into his side. He spilled Lenck’s liquor all over his fatigues.
“What the frak was that?” shouted Lenck. “Hobbs, what in the bloody warp just happened?”
Fear and shock raised the pitch of Hobbs’ voice as he replied over the intercom, “By the frakkin” Eye, Lenck. I think… I think we just lost Cold Deliverance.”
Wulfe had to strain his ears to make out the lieutenant’s voice as it said, “All tanks, halt! That’s an order. Stop where you are. Do not move an inch.” He didn’t waste any time.
“Dead stop, Metzger,” he snapped over the intercom.
Last Rites II ground to an immediate halt.
“What’s going on, sarge?” asked Holtz, pressing his eyes to the main gun’s scope.
“Quiet,” said Wulfe. He squinted with effort as he listened carefully to the voice on the vox-link. After a moment, he said, “It’s Cold Deliverance. She’s gone quiet. From the sounds of it, she dropped.”
“Into what?” asked Siegler, turning to stare at Wulfe.
“We won’t know till the storm’s passed,” said Holtz. “Will we?”
Wulfe was listening to the vox again. Then he said, “The New Champion called it in. From the sounds of it, the front tow peg snapped right off. Damned lucky she didn’t go over, too.”
“Or unlucky,” grumbled Holtz, “depending on how you look at it.”
Wulfe knew what he meant, but, if any of Muller’s crew were still alive, it was just as well Lenck’s tank hadn’t gone over.
“What’s van Droi saying?” asked Siegler nervously.
Wulfe listened for a another moment. He shook his head miserably as he answered, “Nothing we can do. So long as the storm continues at this intensity, we can’t move a bloody muscle. Muller and his boys will need to wait it out like the rest of us.”
“But they’ll need medical attention!” piped Siegler.
“I know that, Sig,” snapped Wulfe, “but look outside the tank, damn it. You think we can help them in this?”
Siegler looked down at his hands, obviously upset, and Wulfe felt immediately contrite. He leaned forward and patted the loader’s broad, powerful shoulder.
“Sorry, Sig,” he said. “I know you’re just worried about them. I am, too.”
Warp-damn it all, he thought. We can’t keep taking knocks like this. Where in the blasted Eye are the rest of the army group?
Forcing calm into his voice, he told his crew, “Let’s keep it together. Gunheads never give up, remember? We keep fighting. It’s what we do.”
Siegler looked slightly mollified. He said, “Maybe Borscht’s ghost will help us again.”
Wulfe’s blood turned to ice-water.
“What did you just say?”
“Damn it, Siegler,” Holtz hissed. “I frakking told you about that.”
Siegler seemed to realise the gravity of the mistake he had just made. His eyes flashed from Wulfe to Holtz in a panic. “Sorry, Holtz! It just came out.”
Wulfe turned to Holtz. “Explain yourself, corporal. And that’s not a request. It’s an order.”
Holtz shook his head and sighed. “What did you expect, sarge? Did you think we were too stupid to put it together? That canyon on Palmeros, you losing it and stopping the tank for no reason. Then Strieber’s lads getting hamstrung by that landmine. And there was the medicae report. Old Borscht died at almost the exact moment you started hearing a voice on the intercom that no one else could.”
Wulfe slumped in his chair.
“You knew all this time?” he muttered. “Why the hell didn’t you put in for a transfer? Your sergeant thinks he saw a ghost, for Throne’s sake. Metzger, did you know about this?”
The driver answered in a sullen tone, “Afraid so, sarge. It was your warp-dreams mostly. You did a lot of shouting in your sleep while we were between systems.”
Wulfe was dumbfounded.
“We don’t think you’ve lost it,” said Siegler.
“Right,” said Holtz. “In fact, we were pissed off that you didn’t tell us yourself. I mean, the ghost didn’t just save you. It saved all of us. We could have prayed for Borscht’s soul together. Viess took it pretty badly. Said you should have trusted us more.”
Wulfe saw how foolish he had been to think they wouldn’t put two and two together. “I couldn’t tell you the truth. I wasn’t sure it was the truth myself. I still haven’t come to terms with it. Not really. If it ever got out… I don’t want van Droi to think I’ve lost it. I don’t want to lose my command.”
“You really have lost it if you think the lieutenant doesn’t already suspect the truth,” said Holtz. “I mean, he never really pushed for a full account, did he? He just accepted that groxshit report you submitted. No questions asked.”
Wulfe thought about that. It was true. He had been too relieved at the time to question the lieutenant’s easy accep
tance of the report.
“Who else knows?” he asked.
Holtz shrugged. “No one but us, Viess, and probably van Droi.”
“It has to stay that way,” said Wulfe. “You all know how well it would go down with the commissars.”
“You gonna tell us what actually happened then?” asked Holtz, hoping to bargain.
Wulfe didn’t get the chance to respond. The vox-board on his left started blinking. It was the company command channel.
“Sword Leader here, sir,” said Wulfe. “Go ahead.”
He listened to the lieutenant’s transmission. It crackled with static, but he noted how much the vox-signal had improved in the last few minutes. Then he toggled back over to the intercom system.
“Well?” Holtz asked.
“The storm’s clearing,” said Wulfe. “Van Droi wants all vehicles checked for damage. I’m going up front. It’s time to find out what happened to Muller and his men.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wind was still howling, and the air dragged at his clothes and hurled sand at him with stinging force, but Gossefried van Droi knew he couldn’t wait any longer. If there were men still alive in Corporal Muller’s tank, they would need extrication and medical attention as soon as possible. Now if he could just find the bloody thing.
“Here, sir!” yelled a trooper barely visible as a shadow up ahead. The wind snatched at the man’s words, but van Droi could just make them out. He hurried over.
“Over here!” said the man as van Droi closed. Others had heard and gathered towards him. “Careful!” he told them. “There’s a sheer drop.”
Van Droi halted at the man’s side and, peering through his goggles, read the name strip above the left breast pocket of his fatigues. It said Brunner, one of Richter’s crew.
“Show me, Brunner,” said van Droi. Brunner moved forward carefully for a couple of metres, guiding van Droi. Then he pointed down towards the area in front of his feet. Van Droi moved level with him and looked down to find himself standing right on the edge of a sheer drop.
[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads Page 15
