Planetkill, page 21
It was Dessembra who voxed back, ‘They are jeopardising the success of our mission, sergeant. And so are you. I’m ordering you to run them down at once!’
The refugee column fell into utter chaos. People howled in terror. They began barging each other aside, desperate to flee the proximity of the war-machines. Animals brayed and kicked out at the people behind them. The old and weak were barrelled to the ground, begging for help as they were trampled to death. Even through the muffles of his headset and the roaring of engines, Wulfe could hear, too, the heart-rending cries of petrified children.
Steelhearted and the black Chimera were already following in Champion of Cerbera’s wake. More refugees fell under their treads. Last Rites alone stood unmoving, surrounding by a sea of frantic people. Now, however, broad spaces began to appear in the crowd as people pushed away. Wulfe could see the rockcrete surface of the highway clearing before him. He ordered his driver to get them off the road.
Only a few hours into the mission, Wulfe was already at loggerheads with the woman in command. At least the treads of his tank, like his hands, were unstained with the blood of the Emperor’s subjects… so far.
Evacuation Zone Sigma, Banphry, Vestiche Province, 4 hours earlier
Wulfe drew aside the heavy fabric of the entrance and stepped into Second-Lieutenant Gossefried van Droi’s command tent, keenly aware of how dishevelled he looked. Only moments ago, he’d been fast asleep in his bunk.
He cleared his throat, and the three men present turned to regard him.
‘Sergeant Wulfe reporting as ordered, sir,’ he said, throwing van Droi as sharp a salute as he could manage.
The second lieutenant snapped one back. He looked rough around the edges himself. Deep lines radiated from his eyes, coarse grey stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and there was an unlit blackleaf cigar in the corner of his mouth.
Bad news, then, thought Wulfe.
Van Droi only ever chewed unlit cigars when he was especially troubled.
‘Did we interrupt your beauty sleep, sergeant?’ asked van Droi. ‘When I call a briefing, I expect my men to be punctual.’
Wulfe winced.
Van Droi indicated a steaming pot on a low table in the corner and said, ‘Caffeine.’ It was an order, not an offer. Wulfe walked over to pour himself a cup while the other two sergeants turned back around in their chairs.
One of these men was Alexander Aries Kohl, broad-faced and flat-nosed, commander of Champion of Cerbera, and a notorious martinet. With six years more experience than Wulfe, he’d proven himself a tough, reliable tank commander on battlefields from here to Tyr, but his personality, or lack of one, had so far barred him from advancement.
Sergeant Mikahl Strieber, on the other hand, seated on Kohl’s right, was a hit with almost everyone in the 81st. Good-humoured and optimistic, the tall red-head took particular delight in anything that got under the skin of old Kohl. Some thought him reckless, but his survival suggested a certain talent, too.
Wulfe guessed he was somewhere between the two men; more experienced than Strieber and less detested than Kohl. Maybe that was why van Droi liked to dump so much crap on him.
The second lieutenant indicated a chair, and Wulfe sat, apologising for his tardiness. ‘Last Rites isn’t due to board until oh-nine-hundred, sir, so the crew and I had a few drinks before lights-out.’
‘Not a crime,’ said van Droi. ‘By the time you’ve heard me out, you’ll be needing a few more.’
Wulfe raised an inquiring eyebrow. His commanding officer sighed and perched himself on the edge of his desk. He took the damp cigar from his mouth, looked down at it and said, ‘You’re astute men, all of you, so you know I haven’t called you here for a smoke and a glass of joi. Tenth Company drew the short straw tonight, gentlemen, and when I say Tenth Company, I mean you.’
Wulfe felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.
Still staring hard at his cigar, van Droi continued. ‘Last Rites, Champion of Cerbera and Steelhearted are being refuelled and reloaded. Your crews are being ordered to prep for duty as we speak. They’ll be waiting for you at staging area six by the time we’re finished here. Foe-breaker and Old Smashbones will be sitting this one out. They’ve been under heavy repairs since the breakout at Sellers’ Gap. Given the losses we suffered there, your tanks have been chosen by default.’
‘You’re sending us back out?’ exploded Strieber. ‘You can’t be serious, sir!’
‘It’s not something I’m likely to joke about, sergeant,’ van Droi snapped. ‘I’ve made my opinion clear to Colonel Vinnemann, but the top brass are having it their way.’
Sergeant Kohl muttered darkly to himself.
Wulfe’s mouth had gone dry. This is a bad dream, he told himself. Wake up, Oskar. Wake up! He took a bitter swig of caffeine, gulped it down and said, ‘Last Rites can’t roll without a driver, sir. Corporal Borscht is still listed as critical. I checked on him myself about six hours ago.’
A few days earlier, Borscht had been bitten by some kind of local worm. He’d been in a coma ever since. His throat had swollen up like a watermelon, his limbs were turning black, and he smelled like rotting meat.
Van Droi nodded grimly. ‘I’ve taken care of it. Got you a replacement. It wasn’t easy on such short notice, so you’ll understand my choices were limited.’
The second lieutenant’s nested apology set Wulfe even further on edge. Before he could ask van Droi to elaborate, however, Strieber interrupted. ‘What’s it all about, sir? Why send us back out now? By midnight tonight, the whole bloody planet will be spacedust!’
The voice that answered was female and unfamiliar, and came from the entrance of the tent. ‘Time enough, then, to salvage some glory from this mess.’
Wulfe turned in his seat. A short, rotund woman in flowing white robes walked past him to stand beside Second Lieutenant van Droi.
‘Planetkill,’ she said, ‘will occur at exactly twenty-three forty-seven hours. Of course, with the Emperor’s blessing, gentlemen, we’ll all be far away by then.’
98 kilometres east of Banphry,Vestiche Province,
09.12 local (14 hours 35 minutes to Planetkill)
Last Rites sped east, treads gouging dark furrows in the earth, throwing grassy clods of dirt up behind her. Her driver, Metzger, was pushing her over the plains with everything she had. The Gold Road was out of sight now, hidden from view by the shallow hills to the north. Wulfe had ordered the hatches open for ventilation, but he wasn’t riding up in his cupola as he usually preferred. Instead, he was down in the turret basket, perched on his cracked leather command seat, cursing under his breath as he was lambasted by the voice on his headset.
‘If you ever put civilians ahead of our objective again,’ raged the sister superior through a crackle of static, ‘I’ll strip you of escort command. Sergeant Kohl has proven capable of grim necessities. I’m sure he’d be willing to take over.’
Wulfe wasn’t about to argue with her. He’d seen her papers. They bore all the relevant signatures and seals, some from individuals so high up the ladder he’d never heard of them. Exolon’s top brass had issued the woman absolute authority over the mission and, while she was smart enough to leave vehicular management in the hands of experienced tankers, she clearly wasn’t about to let something as trivial as human compassion jeopardise her success. Sergeant Kohl apparently felt the same.
‘Listen carefully, sergeant,’ Dessembra continued, ‘because I won’t be repeating this. While I admire your sense of morality, I warn you there’s no place for it on this mission. The life of a very important man depends on how quickly we reach Ghotenz and return. And all our lives depend on catching the last lifter out of Banphry, so do not test me again. Are we clear?’
Wulfe mentally blasted her with a string of insults, but he knew better than to verbalise them. ‘Understood, sister,’ he said, and broke the vox-link.
That black-hearted sow, he thought. What the hell was High Command thinking? And isn’t all human life supposed to be sacred to the Order of Serenity?
At the same time, however, he couldn’t deny a certain uncomfortable relief. Weighing duty against personal honour had always been difficult for him. While he’d wrestled with his conscience, Dessembra’s cold disregard for the lives of the refugees had put the mission back on track. Whether he liked it or not, ultimately, she’d been right.
Very well, he swore. It won’t happen again.
He’d stow his humanity for now. He could be stone-hearted, too, if necessary.
Keying the tank’s internal vox, he said, ‘Metzger, keep her running full ahead, eight degrees east-south-east. We’ll rejoin the highway south of Gormann’s Point. Shouldn’t be many refugees so far out. We’ll make some time up there.’
‘Aye, sir,’ replied the driver.
Wulfe rose from his seat and climbed into his cupola, immediately enjoying the warm wind on his face.
Last Rites rolled along at the head of the column. Twenty metres behind her, Champion of Cerbera followed, turret facing south-east. Kohl was in his cupola, but he didn’t return Wulfe’s nod.
Following Champion of Cerbera, the unmarked black Chimera purred along with an easy grace, capable of twice the speed of the Leman Russ tanks, but hobbled by the need for their protection.
Steelhearted brought up the rear, her massive cannon pointing south-west. Seeing Wulfe, Sergeant Strieber threw him a casual salute.
Wulfe did likewise then turned to survey the land ahead. The plains north of here were still regarded as safe zones. Naval reconnaissance put the nearest orks just to the south, in the province of Drenlunde. If the mission group were to encounter any greenskins, they’d come from there.
Wulfe was gazing at the low, tree-crested hills to his left when a nasal voice spoke through his headset. It was Metzger. ‘Could you check your panel, sir? The auspex is picking up a signal. Looks like a civilian SOS beacon about fifteen kilometres away, just north of our current heading.’
Wulfe ducked back down into the turret to check his station and found that Metzger was right. Someone was signalling for help.
His first instinct, he knew, was the wrong one. Even so, it took him a moment to overcome it. With an unpleasant twist in his gut, he voxed, ‘No detours, corporal. We don’t have time. Keep her at full ahead, please. Whoever they are, the Emperor will decide their fate.’
‘Aye, sir,’ replied Metzger, ‘full ahead.’
There was no hint of judgement in the man’s voice, but Wulfe heard it anyway.
Evacuation Zone Sigma, Banphry,Vestiche Province,
3.5 hours earlier
Wulfe knew something was wrong the moment he reached the staging area. Standing in a pool of electric lantern-light, Viess, Siegler, Holtz and Garver were huddled together, slightly stooped in the way of all long-serving tankers, whispering and passing a single lho-stick around. With the exception of Siegler, the set of their shoulders told Wulfe they were in a foul mood.
As Sergeants Kohl and Strieber left him to greet their own crews, Wulfe breathed in the smell of promethium fumes on the night air. The field was almost empty. The last few engineering tents were waiting to be taken down. And there, just beyond the final tent in the row, sat the shadowed forms of three hulking monsters. They belched oily smoke from their twin exhausts as they sat with their engines idling. To Wulfe’s eyes they were familiar, beautiful things. One, in particular, held his eye. He smiled as his gaze followed the sweep of her hull and the noble line of her powerful battle-cannon.
Last Rites.
A trio of robed figures, each grotesquely misshapen by the mechanical appendages that sprouted from their backs, performed final checks on her track assemblies and external fixtures.
Helmut Siegler was the first to spot his sergeant. He came racing over like a hyperactive puppy. After a brief, jittery salute, words began gushing out. ‘Viess says it isn’t right, sir,’ he panted. ‘Garver and Holtz won’t do it, either. They said they won’t ride with him, sir. The Eye is on him. That’s what they said, sir. The Eye!’
Wulfe blew out an exasperated breath and walked past his loader, who fell into step behind him. He stopped a few metres in front of his men and returned their stiff, sullen salutes.
Viess the gunner. Holtz and Garver, the sponson men. He’d known them for years – as good a crew as any when the fighting started, and just as troublesome when they were idle. ‘What’s all this crap about not riding with the new man?’ Wulfe demanded.
‘It ain’t right, sir,’ said Garver glancing at the others for support.
‘I heard that already,’ said Wulfe. ‘Let’s have some details.’
Holtz, the eldest of the three, took a step forward. ‘A man like that ain’t nothin’ but bad news, sarge. It’s wrong enough we’re going back out, but to have a cursed man on crew… You’ll be wanting him swapped out.’
Wulfe scowled. ‘Are you speaking for me now, Holtz? I don’t think so. And if you mean to complain about someone, you’ll furnish me with a bloody name first.’
Holtz tipped his head by way of apology, but his blue eyes continued to blaze. Once upon a time, those eyes had won him his share of female hearts. That was before so much of his face had ended up looking like hashed groxmeat. Anti-loyalists back on Modessa Prime had hit the tank’s left sponson with a shaped charge. Holtz had been inside. These days, the women he bedded fell into two categories – the charitable and the desperate – and Wulfe often found himself cutting the embittered man some slack.
Footsteps sounded on the grass and a nasal voice said, ‘The man they’re talking about is Corporal Amund Metzger, sir. It’s me.’
Wulfe turned to face a tall, skinny man with dark eyes and a long, curving nose. He was dressed in standard-issue tanker’s fatigues and, unlike the rest of Wulfe’s crew, who mostly smelled of oil, sweat and propellant powder, he smelled of Guard-issue soap.
‘Don’t be too hard on your men, sir,’ Metzger continued. ‘They’re not wrong. Hell, my own company wouldn’t have me.’
‘Lucky’ Metzger, thought Wulfe. Thanks a lot, van Droi.
Everyone in the regiment knew the story of ‘Lucky’ Metzger. He had a reputation for climbing out of burning tanks unscathed while everyone else roasted to death. Among the crews of the 81st, that made Metzger about as popular as crotch-pox. Just twelve days ago, he’d survived yet another tank fatality. Now the whole regiment, including officers who should have known better, believed that riding with Metzger was a death sentence. It had nothing to do with his driving ability, of course. He’d been considered exceptional by his instructors back on Cadia.
Unlike his crew, Wulfe knew curses for cudbear crap. Death claimed everyone sooner or later. All a man could hope to do was fight it off for as long as possible and sell his life dear. Only the Emperor Himself was immortal, after all.
All the same, his crew was spooked, and Wulfe knew he had to squash it right away. He glared at the new man. ‘Listen up, corporal. This so-called curse of yours is a load of bloody ball-rot. Everyone knows that if the turret takes a hit, nine times out of ten, the driver walks away. I’ve seen plenty of men crawl unharmed from burning tanks.’
Plenty, he admitted to himself, was stretching things a bit.
He pointed to his own tank and said, ‘That big beauty over there is Last Rites. Finest in the regiment. Thirty-eight confirmed tank-kills and plenty more besides. And if you take care of her, she’ll take care of you. That’s how it works. Give me any less than your best, I’ll have you up in front of “Crusher” Cortez on more charges than he has metal fingers.’ Wulfe turned to the rest of his crew. ‘That goes for all of you. The commissar isn’t nearly as forgiving as I am. Now get to your damned stations.’
Wulfe’s men were about to move off when the clanking of cast-iron treads made them stop. An unmarked black Chimera, workhorse troop-transporter of the Imperial Guard, ground to a halt near the waiting Leman Russ tanks. Its rear hatch opened, spilling orange light onto the dark ground, and disgorged three female figures clad in the long white robes of the Order of Serenity.
‘Women,’ gasped Viess. ‘And one of them looks good!’
‘They’re not women,’ barked Wulfe, ‘they’re Adeptus Sororitas, so don’t even think about it, Viess. I don’t need the hassle.’
Viess groaned and mumbled something euphemistic about firing his ‘gun’. Garver and Siegler chuckled. Holtz managed a grin. Metzger’s mouth barely twitched.
With Sister Superior Dessembra leading them, the women approached the crew. ‘Sergeant Wulfe,’ said Dessembra, ‘we should be underway as soon as possible, but perhaps a quick introduction. Just as a courtesy. I doubt you’ll need to communicate with my subordinates once we’re underway. My driver, Corporal Fichtner, will introduce himself via vox-link.’
Wulfe shrugged. ‘Then the courtesy is unnecessary, sister superior. But to show my respect for your order…’ Offering shallow bows to the two sister-acolytes, he said, ‘Sergeant Oskar Andreas Wulfe at your service, as are my crew, the men of the Leman Russ Last Rites.’
Dessembra’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She gestured to the tall, grim-faced woman on her right and said, ‘This is Sister Phenestra Urahlis.’
Wulfe smiled genially at the imposing acolyte, but her expression remained fixed like a mask.
‘And this,’ said Dessembra with a wave of her hand, ‘is Sister Ahzri Mellahd.’
Sister Mellahd smiled and gave a shallow curtsey. Her robes, cinched tight at the waist, accentuated a striking figure. She was young, curvaceous and excruciatingly pretty.
Viess took a step forward. ‘You must see my cannon, sister. It’s huge!’
Wulfe’s hand flashed out, clipping the gunner on the side of his head.
‘Ow!’
‘Get to your bloody stations, all of you,’ he growled. ‘Internal systems check. Four minutes.’
