As he listened to Bussmann, Bergen found himself wondering if The Fortress of Arrogance might not be the thing the aliens were trying to protect. Had they known all along that the Imperium would come back to Golgotha to collect it? Had they planned and built the wall knowing that the fight would come to them?
Bussmann reported large amounts of artillery present on the parapets. Some of the barrels he had seen extending out from between the wall’s teeth were unnervingly broad, chambered for rounds of such size they might have been more at home on the prow of an interstellar battleship.
That’s it then, thought Bergen. They must still be here. There’s no way the greenskins would leave weapons like that behind. By the blasted Eye, we’ve got a fight on our hands.
It had been impossible for Bussmann to gauge the thickness of the wall and how well it would stand up to the weaponry of the 18th Army Group, but it certainly looked like it could take a beating. On the other hand, some of the plates were rusting, and orks rarely built anything with consistent strength throughout. There would be irregularities in the structure that Exolon could exploit if only they could find them.
The question was, would they have the chance? Bussmann had spotted numerous hinged plates set in the wall at apparently random points. A few of them had fallen off, their bolts having rusted, revealing the nature of the others. They were firing ports, and the cannon they hid were massive.
At the end of his report, Sergeant Bussmann cast a somewhat anxious glance at Colonel Marrenburg. Then he took a deep breath and said, “In my opinion, sirs, a direct frontal assault on the ork wall will result in very heavy losses. If it were up to me—”
“Sergeant,” snapped Marrenburg, cutting Bussmann off. “You will restrict yourself to answering direct questions.”
Bussmann flushed and an angry look stole across his face, but he said, “I apologise if I spoke out of turn, sir.”
General deViers cleared his throat and addressed the sergeant. “We’ll overlook it this time, sergeant, but think on this: without hardship there can be no glory. Show me something worth doing that doesn’t have its price.”
Bergen wanted to roll his eyes, and, judging by the sergeant’s sudden look of disbelief, Bussmann felt the same. Before the scout could dig himself a deeper hole, however, Bergen jumped in and said, “Thank you very much for your report, sergeant. Your service today has been noted. Unless the general wishes to ask anything else…”
DeViers shook his head.
“In that case,” continued Bergen, “you’re dismissed.”
Bussmann snapped out a sharp salute, turned, and marched out into the light of day.
“We need to focus on the gates,” said Killian. “From his report, it sounds like they’re hinged to open outwards. They’re far too big to ram open anyway. How in the blasted warp are we going to breach them?”
It was Colonel Vinnemann, hunched in his chair like some kind of cathedral gargoyle, who answered. “We all know orks. Chances are, when they see us coming, they’ll open the gates and start spilling out like rats from a burning building. We can fight our way through if we don’t give them a chance to close the gates again.”
Bergen caught General deViers looking over at the disfigured form of Vinnemann with an expression of barely concealed distaste, and, for the first time since leaving Hadron Base, he felt a sudden powerful resurgence in his contempt for the old general.
“And if they don’t come spilling out?” asked a dark-skinned colonel by the name of Meyers. He was tall and thin, vulture-like, and one of his eyes was a white orb without a hint of iris or pupil. He was one of Killian’s men.
Colonel Vinnemann smiled his crooked smile and said, “Then Angel of the Apocalypse will have to roll up and knock on their door.”
Bergen scanned the faces of the men seated in the tent and saw a few smiling at Vinnemann’s remark, but the atmosphere was still heavy. No one had really expected this. They weren’t prepared for any kind of extended siege. They were hundreds of kilometres from their forward base, and if they entered any kind of stalemate with the orks, their supply lines would be extremely vulnerable. If the orks had any kind of air power, bombing Red Gorge would cut the expeditionary force off from all contact with Balkar. The intelligence guiding the mission had been sketchy from the beginning — a patchwork of Mechanicus probe data, military maps dating back forty years, and Officio Strategos guesswork — but Bergen had never been so sharply aware of the entire mission’s freewheeling, underpinned nature as he was right now.
“So, a full frontal assault,” said Killian unenthusiastically. “We’ll be naked, mind you. All our machines racing forwards across open ground… If the Emperor isn’t watching over us, it’ll be a bloody massacre at mid-range. You all heard what Bussmann said about the number of cannon on the wall.”
“I think we can discount much of that,” said a scowling deViers. “Half of the time, ork weaponry doesn’t even work.”
“And the other half,” said Rennkamp, his eyes flashing, “it rips our boys apart.”
DeViers looked suddenly furious, on the verge of throwing one of his rages, but the sheer number of men present and their quiet, concentrated manner seemed enough to quell the outburst before it got started.
That was close, thought Bergen. Rennkamp and Killian are really letting loose on him. Fine with me, but I’m not sure the colonels need to see it.
Bergen didn’t disagree with his peers. They had merely voiced the thoughts that had been circling in his own head all this time. Here they all were, after so many days crossing bare sand and rock, chasing a relic that, in all likelihood, no longer existed, and before them was the last and greatest obstacle they would face. Beyond that towering wall of iron and steel, in a rocky valley somewhere at the foot of the Ishawar range, lay the end of this nightmare. Yarrick’s tank would either be there or it wouldn’t. In either case, breaking through the wall would bring a close to this whole endeavour. They could pull out. They could head for Armageddon, where the fighting really mattered.
“I say we do it,” said Bergen, suddenly committed. Every eye in the room turned towards him. “A full frontal assault, hammering them with everything we have. If we concentrate our efforts on a small enough section, I think we can pull it off. I think we can break through.”
“Knew you’d see it my way,” said a delighted deViers, leaning across in his chair to slap Bergen on the shoulder.
Bergen fought not to flinch away from the general’s hand.
What choice have I got? he thought bitterly. Throne forgive me if I want a quick end to this. It’s your fault we’re here at all, you glory-hunting old bastard. By the Emperor, I hope this is the last time I serve under you. With a bit of luck, it’ll be the last time anyone does.
“Colonel Vinnemann, you’ll lead the vanguard,” said deViers. “I want your Shadowsword right up front, primed and ready. If the orks do rush out as expected, you will pull back to a safer distance and offer fire support under Major General Bergen’s directions. But if the greenskins decide to play it safe, I want you ready to show them the Emperor’s wrath. Understood?”
“You pick the gate, sir,” said Vinnemann, “and my old girl will peel it apart. You’ll see.”
Bergen felt he had to speak. He faced Vinnemann, but his words were for deViers. “What the noble colonel is not telling you, general, is that such a shot will leave his tank utterly stationary for long seconds both before and after firing. The Angel of the Apocalypse will draw heavy enemy fire during that time.”
Vinnemann actually looked hurt, as if he thought Bergen was criticising him and his tank.
“She has more armour than any other machine in the army group,” he said defensively. “She can shrug off whatever they throw at us. Besides,” he added matter-of-factly, “if things get too heavy, we’ll pop smoke.”
Bergen frowned.
“Then it’s decided,” said General deViers, eager to move on. With two fingers, he tapped a sheet of crumpled parc
hment he had laid out on a small table in front of him. It was the map Marrenburg’s scout had drawn. “Now listen carefully, all of you. We’ll be attacking this gate here. It’s more isolated than the others, which will give us more time to react to any flanking manoeuvres. I expect they’ll send troops out from a number of the nearest gates once we’ve engaged. Anyway, this is our target and I’m designating it point alpha. With the exception of Colonel Vinnemann, all officers ranked major or higher will stay behind this area here.” With a finger, he drew an imaginary line across the map where he believed the ork artillery would be unable to strike. “I don’t imagine the orks have anything that can reach quite this far out. I’ll be coordinating the attack personally from my Chimera. Rennkamp, Killian, Bergen, you’ll relay my orders to your respective divisions from your own vehicles.”
“Understood, sir,” said Killian.
Bergen didn’t speak. He noticed a fresh gleam that had crept into the general’s eyes.
“Then let’s disperse, gentlemen,” deViers told the colonels in the tent. “Prepare for the assault. Your divisional commanders will have more specifics for you within the hour. Dismissed.”
The regimental leaders saluted, turned, and marched out of the tent. Bergen considered following Vinnemann out for a private word, but deViers said, “You three stay a while longer. I want your input on formations.”
What did Vinnemann think he was doing? Bergen wondered. When the orks spotted Angel of the Apocalypse sitting out there on the sand, they would hit her with everything they had. She was one hell of a target, easily three times the size of the vehicles that would be escorting her, and, just like at Karavassa, she would be utterly immobile while her capacitors charged for firing. The blast from her Volcano cannon would draw every ork eye on the wall to her, and after the shot, the crew would need valuable seconds to switch the generator back over to power the treads again. Seconds counted for everything when the shells were falling all around you. Popping smoke would only help shield the Angel of the Apocalypse if the wind stayed low. If it picked up, it would blow the cover straight off of her.
Vinnemann knew all this, of course. He just wasn’t about to let any of it stop him doing his duty. Bergen wondered if perhaps the colonel’s pain had become too much for him after all these years. Was the man growing impatient for an honourable death? Throne, thought Bergen, I hope it’s not that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The chaos of battle erupted the moment the orks spotted them. The wall was manned, as General deViers had known it would be. In fact, there were many thousands of greenskins on it, a huge garrison force, and they leapt to man their long-guns as soon as they noticed the approaching dust cloud of the speeding Cadian armour.
The tanks of the 81st Armoured Regiment moved in loose formation, a broad fighting line with van Droi’s Gunheads on the far right flank. Captain Immrich’s 1st Company ran escort to Colonel Vinnemann’s massive Shadowsword.
It was midday, searing hot, and the thick, muddy sky churned and roiled above the battlefield.
“Charge!” yelled van Droi to his tank commanders over the vox.
The Gunheads roared towards the wall, tearing up the ground that lay between them and their foes. The entire strength of Vinnemann’s regiment was being thrown at the wall in one massive surge: ten companies of Imperial tanks, though no company could boast of being at full strength. Every single one had taken losses on the journey east. They were still a force to be reckoned with, however, still something special to see as they tore across the sand. Bursts of black smoke announced heavy firing from the parapets, and the hot desert air filled with deep booming thunder. Great black-rimmed craters began appearing in the sand where the first artillery rounds struck. The orks could hammer the Cadians from this distance with impunity, and the constant barrage soon claimed its first victims. Three of Lieutenant Keissler’s 2nd Company tanks were torn apart by tremendous explosions. They were the first of many to fall. Keissler rallied his surviving crews, keeping them in the line.
The men that died at least died quickly. The ork shells were huge and heavy, packed with devastating amounts of explosive. The tanks they struck were smashed apart by the blasts. There was no brewing up, no burning alive in steel coffins, just a sudden, brutal end. Three black husks, barely recognisable as Leman Russ tanks, sat pouring out smoke while other tanks surged past them to continue the push.
The orks had found their range, and Colonel Vinnemann ordered all companies to fan out. Bunching together, with the full weight of the ork defences raining down on them, was suicide.
There was still some way to go before the Cadians entered effective firing range. Even in Golgotha’s gravity, a standard Leman Russ battle cannon could take out targets at a distance of over two kilometres but the ork artillery was pounding them from twice that. Closing the gap at speed was paramount.
Like her sister tanks, Last Rites II roared over the low dunes with all her hatches closed. Wulfe sat in the rear of the turret basket, peering through the vision blocks that ringed the rim of his cupola, shouting instructions to his crew. “That’s it, Metzger. Keep her speed up.”
Looking left along the Cadian line, he saw van Droi’s Foe-Breaker to his immediate right. Beyond her, scores of other tanks raced forwards. It was quite a sight. Suddenly, bright light stabbed at his eyes and he grunted in pain. When he opened them again, he was glad to see van Droi’s tank still at his side. He turned to look behind and saw a burning black wreck. Someone else had been hit. Thick black smoke poured outwards and upwards.
That could have been us, thought Wulfe.
Metzger was squeezing every bit of speed he could from the old girl, pushing her forward at full tilt, her engine roaring like a mad carnotaur, her suspension bouncing and juddering, tossing the men in the turret basket around like dolls. There were more flashes of light, more bone-shaking booms. Wulfe saw two more wrecks drop from the Cadian line, fountains of dirt and rock exploding on all sides as the greenskins continued to rain shells on the rapidly advancing Imperial force. Van Droi’s Vanquisher had pulled ahead. Wulfe saw her swerve violently to one side, just missing a huge pillar of fire and dust that geysered upwards into the air. Van Droi’s driver, Nalzigg, really was good, thought Wulfe. Foe-Breaker had escaped destruction by a hair’s breadth. Metzger must have seen it too. A second later, he swerved to avoid ditching Last Rites II into the crater caused by the explosion.
Beans banged his head on the metal housing of his gun scope. “Damn it!”
“Watch yourself,” shouted Wulfe over the cacophony of battle. “Keep your eyes pressed to the scope’s padding.”
Even over the intercom, it was difficult to hear each other. The artillery fire, explosions and engine noise were deafening.
“I want this crate ready to fire the moment we make range,” said Wulfe. “High explosives. We’ve got to take out those wall-guns so the infantry don’t get minced following us in.”
Up ahead and to the left, some of the tanks from the other companies had pressed forward into firing range, and their guns began to answer the orks’. The tanks were travelling too fast to fire with any real accuracy, but Wulfe saw bright blossoms of fire burst into life as shells hit the wall. It didn’t look like they were very effective. The orks’ answering barrage, however, managed to destroy a number of tanks from the 5th and 8th Companies.
“By the frakking Eye!” spat Wulfe. “How can we expect to hit anything in a full sprint? Who conceived this bloody plan?”
Metzger spoke over the intercom. “We just made range!”
“Beans,” said Wulfe, “line her up on one of those wall-guns. The bigger the better.”
“Got one,” said Beans. “Halfway up the wall on our two o’clock. How about it? The gun-port to the upper left of the central gate, sarge?”
Wulfe scanned the wall and found it. It was one of the biggest barrels visible. A good target. The muzzle was so damned wide a man could have sat comfortably inside it.
“Ni
ce,” said Wulfe. “Siegler, high-explosive. Beans, zero in. It’ll be a tough shot. We’ll have to fire on the move.”
“I can do it, sarge,” said Beans.
Siegler slammed a shell into the battle cannon’s breech, yanked the locking lever and yelled, “She’s lit!”
“Metzger,” said Wulfe, “drop her down into third but, for Throne’s sake, keep us moving. Steady as you can.”
“Aye, sir,” said Metzger.
Last Rites II slowed abruptly, and the tanks on either side began to pull further away from her.
Wulfe barely noticed. His eyes were locked to the target. When he felt that Metzger had her steady in third, he called, “Fire!”
“Brace,” shouted Beans, and he stamped on the firing pedal with his right foot. Last Rites II rocked backwards with the blast. Three plumes of fire burst from her cannon, one from the mouth of the barrel and one from each of the apertures in either side of the muzzle brake.
The turret basket filled with the coppery stink of spent fyceline propellant. Wulfe didn’t give it a thought. He was watching the ork wall-cannon. A fraction of a second after Last Rites II spat her shell, a yellow ball of fire burst into existence just below the wall-cannon’s firing port. Pieces of burning metal showered the sand at the foot of the wall. Black smoke moved on the breeze. When it cleared, Wulfe saw…
Frak!
“It’s a miss,” he reported to the crew. “Metzger! Floor it! Take her back up to full speed. We have to keep moving.”
He took his eyes away from the vision blocks for a second and saw Beans hammering a fist onto his thigh.
“Damn it!” shouted the youngster. “By the blasted Eye.”
Wulfe leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. “Beat yourself up later, son. Right now, I want another shot lined up. Siegler? High-ex. Now!”
The loader didn’t waste any time confirming. He rammed another shell home, yanked the locking lever and shouted, “Lit, sarge!”
[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads Page 22
