Planetkill, page 23
We can’t keep this up, thought Wulfe. Strieber, you idiot. If you hadn’t hamstrung yourself….
But Strieber’s tank was hamstrung, and Wulfe was quickly realising that this battle couldn’t be won. The mission clock kept ticking. There just wasn’t time to fight this one out. And Strieber couldn’t hope to re-tread his tank under fire. Last Rites, Champion of Cerbera and the black Chimera had to break through now.
They had to leave Steelhearted behind.
Wulfe saw another armoured half-track, overloaded with roaring ork infantry, break from the circle and make straight towards his tank. Metzger fired a blast from the lascannon, but the truck’s thick front armour soaked it up. Wulfe called out to Viess and the gunner swung the turret around with no time to spare.
‘She’s lit,’ shouted Siegler.
Viess didn’t hesitate. His left foot stamped on the firing pedal. Last Rites bounced on her suspension as her battle-cannon spat its deadly payload straight into the driver’s cab of the enemy machine.
A flash. A boom. An earthshaking explosion at point-blank range. Metallic clattering sounded on the roof of the tank as a shower of burning junk and body parts rained down.
‘Good shot,’ voxed Metzger with obvious relief.
‘Great shot,’ Viess corrected.
Wulfe was more concerned with the dense cloud of black smoke that was rolling over them from the blazing frame of the ruined enemy vehicle. ‘We can’t see a blasted thing now. They’ll be coming straight for us. Sponson gunners, stay sharp!’
He used the plural out of habit, and the loss of Garver suddenly stung him. They hadn’t been particularly close, not like he and Borscht, but the sponson gunner had been crew. Love them or hate them, crew was family.
Dessembra’s voice sounded in Wulfe’s ears. ‘We can’t stay here. Move out, now!’
‘We must thin them out more,’ Wulfe voxed back. Adrenaline was surging through him, making his blood sing. ‘At least enough to give Strieber a fighting chance.’
‘Priorities, sergeant,’ hissed Dessembra. ‘There’s nothing you can do for him. Look to your rear. We have to go at once!’
Wulfe checked the rear-facing vision-blocks and felt his battle-rush bleed off in an instant. It was obvious now. The bikes and buggies were just a diversion, intended to harry the tanks and slow them down while the real firepower closed off the canyon at either end. Grinding its way south-east along the road was a loose formation of ork war-machines – massive, heavily armoured and bristling with fat-barrelled cannon.
Wulfe was filled with rage as he looked at them – at least half of the enemy armour had been built from the looted carcasses of fallen Imperial machines. The foul xenos had mutilated and desecrated them.
Under thick plates of armour bolted on at all angles, he saw the familiar forms of a Basilisk mobile-artillery platform, three Chimera transports, and a disfigured Leman Russ. Other vehicles in the formation seemed entirely built from scratch to some maniacal alien design.
‘By the blasted Eye!’ he spat. Demonstrating impressive aptitude for their kind, the orks had managed to outflank him.
The canyon shook with a ripple of ork cannon fire. ‘Incoming!’ shouted Wulfe. Explosive shells rained down on the highway. The resulting detonations sent up great clouds of dirt and debris, but little else. The ork cannonade was falling far short of its target, but that wouldn’t be the case for much longer.
‘Emperor above!’ voxed Sergeant Kohl. ‘They’re fielding heavy artillery!’
‘We break through now,’ voxed Wulfe, ‘or we’re dead men.’
Strieber was almost screaming over the vox. ‘You can’t be serious, Wulfe. You can’t possibly leave us here. You can’t!’
Wulfe felt sick to his stomach as he answered. ‘I’m sorry, Strieber. We’re out of options.’
‘My tank, my crew – we’re Gunheads, damn you! Don’t you run from this fight. Don’t you turn away from us, you rotten bastard!’
There was another rumble of thunder from the ork cannons. The impact blasts were much closer this time. Last Rites was showered with dirt. The enemy armour continued to zero in.
Wulfe spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Lead us out, Metzger. Full ahead. Keep her off the highway. There’ll be other mines there. Siegler, load her up. Armour-piercing. Viess, get ready to break a hole in them. They’ll not stop us here!’
‘Throne blast you, Wulfe!’ screeched Strieber.
‘I’m sorry, Strieber. I truly am. But you must see that there’s no other way. Keep firing. Keep fighting. Help us break through, and I promise the regiment will remember and honour your sacrifice. It’s all I can offer you now.’
Last Rites lurched into motion just before another volley of heavy shells shook the canyon floor. With a sudden convulsion of dirt and rock, a great shell-crater appeared where she’d stood only a moment before. The ork armour was now in range, and still the bikes and buggies raced forward with insane abandon, uselessly spraying the Imperial tanks with volleys of stubber-fire.
In subdued tones, Strieber voxed, ‘Good luck then, Wulfe. We’ll fight on for as long as we can. I… I hope you make it back to Banphry.’
Viess shouted ‘Brace!’ and fired the tank’s main gun. Three hundred metres away, a bastardized ork Chimera was violently peeled apart. Beside Siegler, the cannon’s breech slid back, dumping the empty shell-casing in the brass-catcher on the floor. With servitor-like efficiency, the loader slid a fresh armour-piercing shell into the breech, yanked the lever, and shouted, ‘Lit!’
Metzger shifted the tank up into third gear, accelerating out past the crippled Steelhearted. Viess swung the turret left, zeroing in on a bulky ork battlewagon. He adjusted for elevation, compensated for the tank’s forward motion, prayed to the Emperor for a clean kill, and fired. Last Rites skewed to the right with the force of the cannon’s recoil, but didn’t slow. The round slashed brightly though the air, then buried itself deep in the body of the ork machine. It must have pierced the battlewagon’s fuel tanks, because the vehicle was blown so high it flipped onto its roof. Flaming wreckage and charred bodies littered the land and roaring fires blazed from its twisted metal carcass.
Champion of Cerbera and the black Chimera followed close behind Last Rites. Wulfe saw a tongue of fire flash out from Kohl’s battle-cannon. The ork-modified Leman Russ on the far left rolled to a stop, smoke billowing from a large hole in its turret armour. A moment later, flames erupted from inside. Burning alien bodies began tumbling out of the vehicle’s hatches, but it was too late for them. The roasted greenskin crew twitched, then lay still on the sand.
‘Keep firing,’ ordered Wulfe. ‘We’re almost through.’
They roared past the chugging ork tanks, narrowly dodging a fusillade of high-explosive shells and rockets. Viess fired directly into the nearest, blowing the entire front section up into the air in a fiery spin. Kohl’s tank spat again and crippled another with a shot that shredded its right track-assembly. The black Chimera was firing constantly, but her multilaser could do little damage to the enemy’s heavy armour. Instead, Dessembra targeted a large, open-topped truck and managed to slaughter a score of ork infantry.
Then they were through. The canyon lay behind them and open lands stretched out ahead.
The heavy ork machines turned to follow, but they were far slower than the well-oiled Imperial tanks. Only the surviving bikes and buggies had the speed to give chase. They charged forward in pursuit, many of them forgetting the mines that their own warband had laid on the highway surface. Those that weren’t blown to pieces closed the gap quickly, but their weapons were inadequate. As Last Rites, Champion of Cerbera and the black Chimera sped away, Wulfe ordered Viess to turn the turret and pick off their lightly-armoured pursuers with the co-axial autocannon.
Wulfe noticed a blinking light on his vox-board. It was Kohl. He was calling on a closed channel. Whatever he had to say, it wasn’t for Dessembra’s ears.
Wulfe opened the link. ‘What is it, sergeant?’
‘I’m going back,’ said Kohl.
‘You’re what?’
‘Think about it, Wulfe. The orks will chase us all the way to Ghotenz unless they have a fight to hold them here.’ There was a pause. ‘Besides, I’ve got blinking lights all over the place. We took a big one on the rear decking. The cooling system’s almost out and so is the extractor. We can break down halfway to the objective, or we can turn back and buy you some time. I’d rather go out fighting, if it’s all the same to you. Maybe we can help Strieber and his crew go out in style.’
Wulfe didn’t know how to respond. He felt hollow.
‘Get those damned women to Ghotenz,’ Kohl voxed. ‘Complete the mission for the honour of the regiment, if nothing else. You can still make it off-world if you don’t mess about.’
Wulfe wished he could believe it. He’d stopped looking at his chronometer. It only offered bad news. The orks had cost them so much, and not just in terms of time. A voice in his head told him to follow Kohl’s example, to die honourably alongside his fellow Gunheads. But another told him that the honour of the regiment had to come first. He had to see the mission through.
‘What do I tell Dessembra?’ he asked Kohl.
‘The truth. I’ll give those green bastards plenty to do, by the Throne. They won’t be missing you.’
Honour and sacrifice. Wulfe saw that he’d been misjudging Kohl for years, blinded to the man’s nobility by his icy manner. Whatever Kohl’s flaws, he was a true soldier and a man of uncompromising bravery.
If I survive this mess, Wulfe promised himself, I’ll make sure van Droi puts Kohl and Strieber up for the Medallion Crimson. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Kohl didn’t wait for any kind of approval. Through the rear vision-blocks, Wulfe saw Champion of Cerbera peel off and swing back around towards the canyon. Soon, she was lost in her own dust cloud.
Last Rites and the black Chimera raced on in the other direction. Dessembra was hailing Wulfe on the mission channel and, reluctantly, he opened the link.
‘I demand to know what’s going on! Why won’t Sergeant Kohl answer me?’
Wulfe didn’t bother to keep the tiredness and frustration from his voice as he replied, ‘Sergeant Kohl is ensuring our escape. His tank is badly damaged. He has decided to give his life and the lives of his crew for the success of this mission.’
Dessembra paused. ‘That’s… acceptable,’ she said. ‘Let’s take advantage of it.’
Wulfe couldn’t contain his contempt any longer. ‘Listen to me, Sororitas,’ he hissed over the vox. ‘Whoever we’re supposed to rescue at Ghotenz had better be a bloody saint reborn, because you and your damned superiors have a hell of a lot to answer for. Do you hear me?’
He cut the connection before she could respond.
33 kilometres north-west of Ghotenz, East Vestiche,
15.09 local (8 hours 38 minutes to Planetkill)
With the clock driving her hard, Last Rites churned up the surface of the highway, but not so fast that Wulfe could outrun his guilt and anger. His thoughts were on the men he’d left behind. The absence of Garver’s voice, in particular, pained him as he knew it must pain the rest of his crew.
He was still shaken, too, by his vision of old Borscht. Since the battle in the canyon, Viess had been pressing for an explanation. How had he known to stop the tank? What had he seen from his cupola? Whose voice had he heard?
The others added their own questions now. Wulfe wished they’d let it go, but they wouldn’t. In the end, he exploded at them, ordering them to shut their mouths and concentrate on the job in hand. The mention of Commissar Cortez was enough to put an end to it, at least temporarily.
Wulfe didn’t grudge them their curiosity. It was only natural. But he couldn’t reconcile himself with what he’d seen and heard. Borscht was in a hospital bed back in Banphry. There were no two ways about it. On the other hand, Wulfe wasn’t about to concede insanity, either.
Metzger’s voice sounded over his headset, announcing their proximity to the primary mission objective. Ghotenz was less than an hour away. That helped Wulfe to centre his thoughts a little.
It was mid-afternoon now, and the air inside the turret was stiflingly hot. Wulfe ordered all the hatches open, making an immediate difference. He rode up in the cupola and, as Last Rites and the black Chimera approached the low hills that sheltered the town, he watched his tank’s shadow gradually lengthen on the road in front of him as the sun moved ever westwards.
Only eight hours left until the first massive impact shook this world. In the global firestorm, every living thing would be blasted to ash. It would be a quick, merciful death for most, but it was no soldier’s death. There was no glory in it.
‘There’s something on the road up ahead, sir,’ reported Metzger.
Wulfe scanned the highway and spotted the object in question. Metzger had good eyes. There was something approaching, large and dark, but indistinct. As the two Imperial machines sped closer to it, the shape resolved itself into the form of a great, shaggy boviath, three metres tall at its massive, hunched shoulders and just as broad. Six curving black horns framed its leathery face. It dragged a large cart, filled with people, up the highway towards them. Wulfe counted twenty passengers, most of them adults.
Last Rites pulled up beside the cart and Wulfe ordered its driver to halt. The cart’s driver shouted something to his beast and, with a deep, resonating moan, the boviath slowed to a stop. Every man, woman and child in the cart turned their eyes towards Wulfe, but it was a tall, ugly woman in the gaudy robes of the Palmerosi merchant class who addressed him.
‘You’ve come, then,’ she said. ‘You’ve come to stop it.’
Wulfe locked eyes with her. ‘To stop what, udoche?’ As was proper here, he used the local term for a woman one doesn’t wish to court. A short, bearded man seated beside her, presumably her husband, nodded his approval.
‘The madness, of course,’ answered the woman. ‘Ghotenz is in utter chaos. The riots. The killings. We were lucky to get out alive.’ At these words, some of the men in the cart patted old civilian-model laslocks.
So the townsfolk are rioting, thought Wulfe. Great!
‘Thank you for your warning, udoche,’ he said. ‘We’ll do what we can. But where are you going?’
‘We’re going to evacuate. We’ve heard of vast ships at Banphry and intend to buy our passage off-world.’
Just for a moment, Wulfe considered telling them the truth. They’d never make it to Banphry. Even if they had time, even if there were no orks on the road ahead, no amount of money would help them. They were doomed. But perhaps it was kinder to let their hopes carry them to the end.
‘Be careful on the highway,’ he told them. ‘There may be greenskins in Lugo’s Ditch.’
‘I’ve yet to see one of these green-kin,’ said the woman. ‘But the pamphlets say loud shouting is weapon enough against them.’ She jabbed her thumb at a barrel-chested man in the back of the cart. ‘Brudegar has the loudest voice in Ghotenz. He’ll drive the aliens from our path.’
Wulfe gave an involuntary shake of his head. This kind of fatal ignorance was the Imperial propaganda machine at its worst. Citizens rarely knew the danger orks represented until they were bearing down on them roaring ‘Waaagh!’ and all the shouting in the Imperium wouldn’t do a damned thing.
Conscious of the black Chimera idling impatiently behind him, Wulfe waved the locals on, and the cart-driver cracked his whip. The massive boviath brayed and began hauling its burden off up the highway, and the Imperial vehicles resumed their journey.
Black smoke could be seen now, rising into the afternoon sky from just beyond the next hill. Only a few kilometres separated them from their objective.
Riots, the woman had said. And killings.
Wulfe steeled himself, thinking that perhaps the least pleasant phase of this whole fiasco might yet lie ahead.
Ghotenz, East Vestiche,
16.02 local (7 hours 45 minutes to Planetkill)
He was right.
Ghotenz, when he saw it, was a town lost to anarchy. Bloated corpses lay strewn about the base of the old-fashioned curtain wall, rotting in the afternoon heat. Flocks of floating maldrothids, indigenous carrion-feeders, had descended from the sky to gorge themselves on the reeking dead. These strange creatures floated three metres above the ground, plucking soft gobbets of human flesh from the bodies below. Their tentacles, each tipped with a sharp beak, lifted morsels of meat to obscene pink mouths while fat flies buzzed around them.
The spectacle was stomach-churning, and so was the smell. Fighting the urge to vomit, Wulfe thumbed his laspistol’s safety off, took aim, and fired into the nearest flock.
He struck one of the maldrothids dead-centre, his shot igniting the creature’s internal gases. Its sac-like body exploded with a pop.
Others nearby immediately began pushing off from the ground with their long tentacles. They rose into the air to drift away in search of a safer meal.
‘By the Throne,’ voxed Holtz from his sponson. ‘They’re foul, unholy things!’
Outside the gatehouse, his back resting against a stone wall, there sat an old, sun-browned man with a wounded leg. Beside him lay a battered laslock. Judging by the number of empty green bottles surrounding him, he was about the business of drinking himself to death.
As the mighty form of Last Rites loomed over him, the man reached drunkenly for his weapon, missed it twice, and gave up. ‘Wha’dya want, stranger?’ he asked, squinting up at Wulfe. ‘Have y’come here to die with the folks the Emp’ror forsook?’
Wulfe scowled down at him. ‘Watch your tongue, citizen. The Emperor only forsakes traitors and heretics.’
The old man made a rude noise and resumed his drinking.
