It was just as well that the bulk of the 18th Army Group would be moving out soon. Nothing cleared the mind like going into battle.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was still early, but the day was already uncomfortably hot. The Golgothan sky was lighter than Lenck had ever seen it. The chief medicae liaison issued a warning; all personnel at Balkar should stay in the shadows as much as possible until further notification. But it was difficult to follow the Imperial Medicae’s advice when Lieutenant van Droi had ordered all crews to run maintenance details. Still, Lenck did his best. He slouched with his back against the New Champion, taking shelter in her shadow while his crew griped and whined and ran the necessary checks.
Since daylight had broken over the base, Balkar had been abuzz with activity. Word hadn’t reached him why this should be, but it wasn’t hard to guess. They’d be moving out again soon. The final leg of Operation Thunderstorm would commence shortly.
Fine with me, thought Lenck. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get off this blasted ball of dirt. If the next deployment doesn’t take us somewhere populated, I’ll kill someone.
A scowling Varnuss stuck his head around the rear corner of the tank and said, “We’ve finished with the headlamps.”
Riesmann and Hobbs appeared beside Varnuss, both wearing murderous looks that told how much they hated menial work.
“Congratulations,” said Lenck. “You can start oiling the treads, then. Shouldn’t take long with three of you.”
“Sod off,” spat Hobbs. “Why don’t you get off your arse and pitch in?”
Lenck lifted an eyebrow and gazed at his driver coldly. “Because I’m the one that keeps you lot in extra smokes and booze. Earn it.”
Hobbs spat on the ground and disappeared around the corner of the tank shaking his head and muttering. Lenck got to his feet and dusted himself off.
“I’m going for a wander,” he said.
“Where?” asked Varnuss.
“A little place called none-of-your-frakking-business, that’s where. Just have the treads done by the time I get back, all right? Throne knows when van Droi might show up for an inspection or something.”
A few hundred yards away, in the south-east corner of Staging Area Four, Wulfe and his crew were likewise engaged with running basic maintenance. Van Droi required all his crews to be able to undertake basic field repairs and the like. If there were problems the crews couldn’t handle, the tech-crews took care of them. If it was something even they couldn’t manage, the enginseers and their mindless, half-human servitors took over.
“Make sure they’re locked down tight, Sig,” said Wulfe, pointing at the spare track links that Siegler was fixing to the armoured sides of the turret. At the rear of the turret, Beans was working, fatigues soaked in sweat as he packed and sealed the stowage boxes that extended backwards from the turret bustle.
Metzger was at the front of the tank, seated in his station with the hatch open, running checks on the remote control system he used to operate the hull-mounted lascannon. He had already checked everything else he was responsible for, working with a wordless efficiency that Wulfe appreciated.
It was their first day with Beans on crew, but the new gunner seemed to be fitting in well enough. Early days, of course, and Wulfe was yet to see how Beans handled the main gun, but he worked without complaint despite the heat and heavy lifting. He may have found Metzger a little cold — the driver took a long time to warm up to people and, even then, he was far from talkative — but Siegler had taken a shine to him. He laughed loudly at even the worst of Beans’ jokes. Wulfe cracked the odd smile himself at how bad they were. The one about the two-headed whore on Emperor’s Day had been going around since Wulfe’s days as a Whiteshield. It hadn’t been funny then, either.
Footsteps approaching from the right made Wulfe turn, and a smile spread over his face. A man in simple brown robes was approaching, a heavy, gold-leafed, leather-bound copy of the Imperial Creed swinging from a bronze chain at his belt.
“Confessor!”
The priest smiled back, came to a stop beside Wulfe, and stretched out a hand. “Damned good to see you, sergeant. I prayed you would make it back to the flock. It seems that the Emperor was listening.”
Wulfe had the sudden impression that Confessor Friedrich had been about to add “for a bloody change” before he stopped himself.
“I think you might be right, confessor,” said Wulfe. “It certainly seemed like a miracle when we heard the voice of that Sentinel pilot. I doubt even van Droi believed we would actually make it out of the deep desert alive.”
The priest nodded. “I heard about Siemens and Muller, Throne rest them. I’ve already had their crews listed for remembrance at the next honours service.”
Wulfe shuddered as he recalled Siemens’ limp body burning atop the turret, but he said, “They died doing their duty, confessor. I hear Golgotha hasn’t exactly been a sightseeing trip for the rest of the army group.”
“Then you heard right. The things I’ve seen… Sometimes I think the Guiding Light of all Mankind is testing me, sergeant.”
“Maybe He’s testing all of us.”
A look of pain crossed the confessor’s face. “Aye, only dead men are free of that. I pulled ten bodies out of a brewed up Chimera yesterday. You couldn’t tell one man from the other. Ten shrivelled black mannequins. Two of them fell apart in my hands as I was trying to lift them out. For them, at least, the test is over.”
Wulfe nodded, his face mirroring the priest’s sadness.
Confessor Friedrich raised a hand to Wulfe’s elbow and drew him away from Last Rites II. “Let’s talk where others cannot hear, Oskar. Just for a moment. I would like to know of your spiritual health.”
They stopped in the shadows at the back of an empty Thirty-Sixer, and Confessor Friedrich took a quick look around to make sure they were alone.
“Tell me,” he said, “are you still troubled by your memories of Lugo’s Ditch? I had hoped that redeployment might give you a new perspective on what you saw there. Perhaps your nightmares have receded?”
Wulfe held the priest’s gaze. “I haven’t been sleeping enough to judge, confessor. We’ve been on the move night and day. I slept well enough last night, but I was exhausted. I think perhaps the worst of the dreams are behind me. It may be that you’re right. The mission might be crowding the memories out a bit.”
“I would have your mind at ease, my friend, but forgetting your experience completely would be a mistake. We’ve already talked of the positive. You’ve seen something that others wish desperately to see. You’ve had proof of that which lies beyond death. Does that still give you no comfort?”
“I’ve told you, confessor. His eyes were so hollow. He did not look like a man restored. On the journey here to Balkar, my crew confessed that they had guessed the truth. If any weight has been lifted from me, it’s that I no longer need to hide it from them. But can you imagine what others would say?”
“If they knew you had seen a ghost?”
“It sounds like bloody nonsense when you say it aloud. I think I’d rather believe I was mad.”
“I don’t think you are, but believe that if it helps. There are those who say even Yarrick is mad, driven beyond obsession. Many of the Imperium’s heroes would be judged mad by the standards of normal men. It’s no bad thing to be different,” he grinned. “To a degree.”
“That’s some choice, confessor, mad or haunted.” Wulfe went silent for a moment as other ghosts rose in his mind. “If you had seen Siemens…”
The priest closed his eyes and bowed his head. “It doesn’t get easier.”
“Sorry,” said Wulfe. “You’ve seen more than your share of horrors. I didn’t mean… I wish I had your fortitude. Why do you do it? Clearing the tanks of bodies is a job for the support crews. Why do you continue to torture yourself?”
Confessor Friedrich gazed off into space. “How could I let those boys face such horrors, Wulfe, knowing that they’
ll crew tanks themselves one day? They shouldn’t have to see the likes of that. They shouldn’t have to know how bad it gets before the end. And neither should you.”
“The orks didn’t give me much choice.”
They both thought about that for a silent moment.
Changing tack suddenly, the priest said, “You heard that General deViers has arrived, yes?”
Wulfe shook his head. “I didn’t know. I thought the officers would have had us all lined up to greet him. He likes a big reception.”
“He does, but between them, the major generals decided that preparations for deployment took priority. If deViers wants his forces rolling out before sundown, he’ll have to do without the usual pomp this time.”
“He flew in?”
The confessor nodded. “Touched down just west of the outer wall about three hours ago. He arrived on a Valkyrie transport escorted by four Vulcan gunships. It seems Commodore Galbraithe was as good as his word regarding the close support he promised.”
“Five birds?” asked Wulfe. “Not exactly a major contribution.”
“Better than four,” said the priest with a wink. “Anyway, I expect you’ll be rolling out very soon, Wulfe. That’s why I came to see you. May I bless you and your crew?”
“You’re not rolling out with us, confessor?”
“Not this time. The regiment has many sick in the field hospital here. You heard about Markus Rhaimes, of course. I’m staying to offer last rites to those who need it. But I’m sure your expedition will be over quickly. You’ll find The Fortress of Arrogance and return. I know you will.”
Wulfe wished he shared the priest’s confidence. “I think my crew would appreciate a blessing, confessor. We need all the help we can get.”
“Excellent,” said the priest. Together, he and Wulfe walked back towards Last Rites II.
Squatting in the shadow of a nearby Chimera, grinning from ear to ear, Lenck watched them go. “Gotcha!” he muttered.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two hours after Confessor Friedrich had bid them farewell, the crew of Last Rites II were nearing completion of their final checks. Together, Siegler and Beans went over every single track link, checking and oiling the heavy iron pins that held them together. Metzger tightened the latches that held the tow cables, entrenching tools, fire axe, bolt cutters and numerous other essentials in place on the tank’s hull.
Wulfe, not content to supervise, checked each of the vision blocks and their spares for cracks before turning his attention to the vox-caster. He cycled through each of the listed channels that Exolon would be using in the field until he was satisfied that he could tune into any of them at the flip of a toggle. Finishing this, he took off his headset and sat back in his command seat.
Damn, it’s hot, he thought. But, once we’re under way, the wind should cool us a bit.
It was only now, with his hearing unhindered by the headset’s mufflers, that he heard raised voices outside.
Recognising them at once, he leapt up from his seat and hauled himself through the top hatch. From his cupola, he looked down to the left and saw Metzger and Siegler standing off against Lenck and his crew. Beans stood off to one side, shuffling anxiously.
“What the frak is going on here?” Wulfe shouted down at Lenck as he climbed from the cupola, and then leapt from the track-guard to the ground. “What the hell do you want, Lenck?”
“An apology for starters, sergeant,” said Lenck. “My lads and I were just on our way back from the supply depot when your brain-addled idiot of a loader walked right into us and spilled half our coolant.” He gestured at two jerrycans lying on their side in the sand.
“Siegler?” said Wulfe.
“Groxshit, sarge,” replied the loader. “They were walking by and started in on our tank.”
“That’s right,” said Metzger, eyes locked on Hobbs, who stood directly in front of him, shoulders loose, ready to lunge forward. “The bastards were at it.”
Wulfe had never seen Metzger like this before. He looked unusually dangerous, as tall and rangy as ever, but with teeth bared in a snarl, long arms ready to lash out. He looked more like a soldier at that moment than at any other time in the months Wulfe had known him. This wasn’t the time or place for him to prove his boxing skills, though. Brawling would mean the lash if Crusher found out.
“Lenck,” said Wulfe in a growl, “get your mongrels away from here before something happens that you’ll regret.”
The big one, Varnuss, stepped to Lenck’s side, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. Wulfe glimpsed ganger tattoos under the collar of his tunic. Was he just posturing, wondered Wulfe, or was he really stupid enough to make trouble with a senior man? Both possibilities seemed equally credible at that moment.
Posturing or not, it was only when Lenck put out a hand and stopped Varnuss from advancing that the big man seemed to reconsider.
“Come on, you lot,” Lenck told his crew in mock exasperation. “Looks like we’d better go back to the depot and get some more coolant.”
Muttering and cursing, the crew of the New Champion turned and fell in behind Lenck as he stalked off. After a few paces, however, Lenck stopped and turned. He pointed at Siegler, though his eyes were locked on Wulfe’s as he said, “With respect, sergeant, you might want to keep your pet moron on a leash in future.”
Wulfe felt something snap inside him. He bolted straight at Lenck and grabbed him roughly by the collar, hauling him up on his tiptoes. Other hands immediately tried to free Lenck, tugging at Wulfe’s wrists in vain, trying to break a grip that was like solid steel.
“What’re you going to do?” Lenck sneered, looking down his nose at Wulfe without a hint of worry. “You know the regs.”
Wulfe growled. “I ought to rip your bloody tongue out, you piece of garbage.”
“But you know you’d pay for it,” said Lenck.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Lenck. It doesn’t go both ways. I could beat you to within an inch of your life, and no commissar could touch me for it.”
Lenck’s eyes narrowed. His voice became a hiss. “I wasn’t talking about commissars.”
There was a sudden shout from atop Last Rites II. It was Beans.
“Good morning, commissar! How are you?”
Wulfe turned and saw a dark figure emerge from between two tanks about a hundred metres away. His grip automatically loosened on Lenck’s collar and the younger man wrenched himself away.
When Wulfe turned around to face Lenck again, the corporal was smiling sardonically.
“I’m sure we’ll have a chance to pick this up again sometime, sergeant,” he said. “In the meantime, my crew has work to do. Excuse us.”
Wulfe watched them go, fists clenched white at his sides. How far would I have gone? he asked himself. Would I have killed him? Could I have stopped myself? He remembered the panic he had felt as Victor Dunst’s gang had restrained him all those years ago on Cadia. He winced as he recalled the pain of Dunst’s knife being pushed into his torso. He heard the laughter of the gangers, laughter that turned to curses when they heard the siren of the Civitas patrol car.
Lenck’s crew cast filthy looks back at him over their shoulders as they went, all of them but Lenck.
He’s not Dunst, Wulfe told himself. For Throne’s sake, he’s not Dunst.
When Lenck was about twenty-five metres away, he turned back towards Wulfe without breaking stride and called out to him. Just five words. Five little words. But they hit Wulfe like a flurry of bolter shells that detonated in his mind.
Wulfe was struck motionless. He saw Lenck laugh, then turn around and lead his men off between two rows of Chimeras.
A hard, sharp voice at his shoulder woke Wulfe from his paralysis. “What’s going on, sergeant?”
Wulfe turned to meet the icy stare of Commissar Slayte, his eyes glittering in the shadow of the brim of his black cap.
“Not sure what you mean, commissar,” said Wulfe readying to move off towards his tank
. The commissar moved faster. Wulfe felt a heavy mechanical hand grasp his upper arm.
Crusher turned his eyes in the direction Lenck and his men had taken, but they were gone from view. After a pause, he leaned in towards Wulfe and said, “You’ve been away from your vox-set, so maybe you haven’t heard, but Colonel Vinnemann has ordered the regiment to muster at the east gate. We leave Balkar in fifteen minutes. Make sure your people are ready, Sergeant Wulfe. I’ll make a very memorable example of anyone that isn’t.”
Wulfe looked down at the perfectly-machined, black metal hand. “We’ll be ready, commissar.”
“Make sure of it,” said Crusher. There was the slightest whirring of gears as he released the sergeant. Then he walked off, taking his threats to other ears.
Wulfe’s crew was looking at him wordlessly as he marched past them.
“Get to your stations, all of you,” he said gruffly. “We’re moving out in fifteen.”
Siegler, Beans and Metzger leapt to comply, warned off asking questions by the dark look on Wulfe’s face. As always, Wulfe was the last one in.
As he swung his legs over the lip of his hatch, he thought about Lenck’s parting words. They had frozen his blood. As he dropped into his command seat, those five words rang in his ears. Did they mean what he thought they meant?
Five little words, each one rocking him like a cannon shell.
[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads Page 20
