Gunheads(科幻战争)-第2部分

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were　the　best　he　could　ask　for　them。　It　was　all　that　most　good　Cadians　asked　for　themselves。
Besides；　were　the　men　before　him　not　also　his　sons？　That　was　how　he　saw　them　sometimes。　They
certainly　made　him　feel　just　as　proud。
“Could　General　deViers　be　any　more　fortunate　than　to　have　our　proud　regiment　roll　out　under
his　command？　I　hardly　think　so。　Yes；　I’ve　heard　the　mutterings　among　you。　I’ve　sensed　your　dark
mood。　Why　send　us　to　Golgotha；　you　still　wonder；　when　our　kin　are　so　pressed　on　Armageddon？
What　difference；　you　ask；　can　we　make　out　here　on　a　planet　untouched　by　the　Emperor’s　light？
Well；　let　me　tell　you　something。　Listen　closely；　now；　because　I　want　you　to　understand　it。　I　believe
in　this　operation！　Do　you　hear　me？　I　believe　in　it。　Our　success　will　make　a　difference　to　our
beleaguered　brothers　that　you　can　scarcely　imagine。　Our　triumphant　return　will　re…energise　them　as
nothing　else　can。　Those　of　you　who　doubt　it　will　understand　once　you　lay　eyes　on　the　prize。　Until
that　moment；　I　know　you’ll　do　whatever　it　takes；　give　your　every　bead　of　sweat；　your　last　drop　of
blood　if　necessary；　for　the　honour　and　tradition　of　our　proud　regiment；　for　the　glory　of　Cadia；　and
for　the　everlasting　dominion　of　the　God…Emperor　of　mankind。”
He　scanned　their　faces　for　signs　of　open　dissent　and　found　none。　Instead；　their　response　to　his
words　was　both　immediate　and　deafening。
“For　Cadia　and　the　Emperor！”　they　roared　and；　like　his　own　amplified　words；　the　sound　echoed
back　at　him　from　the　hangar　walls。
He　grinned　at　them；　eager　not　to　dwell　on　the　doubts　he　secretly　carried。　“Sergeant　Keppler；”　he
said；　“get　these　brave　soldiers　loaded　up！”
“Aye；　sir；”　said　the　old　sergeant　with　the　mutilated　ear；　and　he　threw　up　a　salute　that　was　so
sharp　it　could　have　cut　glass。　He　turned；　took　a　deep　breath；　and　roared　at　the　men；　“Right　you
maggots；　you　heard　the　colonel。　About　face！　Squad　leaders；　take　’em　in　nice　and　clean！”
Vinnemann　watched　them　proudly　as　they　marched　up　the　ramps　and　into　the　bellies　of　the
waiting　drop…ships；　each　company　to　a　ship　of　its　own。　Be　strong；　sons　of　Cadia；　he　thought；　now
more　than　ever。
He　turned　and　dismissed　his　officers　so　that　each　could　go　to　join　his　men。　Finally；　with　his
personal　staff　in　tow；　the　colonel　moved　off　to　board　his　own　shuttle。
The　hangar　air　began　vibrating　with　the　whine　of　powerful　engines　as　the　naval　flight…crews
began　warming　up　their　craft。　With　a　great　metallic　groan；　the　massive　bay　doors　slowly　opened
onto　space。　Orange　light　flooded　in；　reflected　from　the　planet　below。
After　seven　long　and　troubled　months　aboard　the　Hand　of　Radiance；　it　was　time；　at　last；　to　return
to　war。
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CHAPTER　TWO
Good　solid　ground；　thought　Sergeant　Oskar　Andreas　Wulfe。　Greenskins　or　not；　he　was　looking
forward　to　standing　on　good　solid　ground。　It　would　be　a　fine　thing　to　feel　dirt　and　rock　under　his
boot…heels　again；　the　first　time　in　far　too　long。　He　was　sick　of　living　day…to…day　on　this　damned　ship
with　its　maze　of　gloomy　corridors　and　its　endlessly　recycled　air。　With　thoughts　of　dunes　and
mountains　and　broad　open　plains；　he　marched　his　crew　up　the　boarding　ramp　and　into　the　drop…ship
that　would　ferry　them　down　to　the　surface。
The　trip　from　Palmeros　to　the　Golgothan　subsector　had　been　the　longest　unbroken　warp　journey
of　his　career；　and　plenty　of　tempers　had　frayed　under　the　strain；　not　least　his　own。　It　wasn’t　just　the
journey；　however。　Warp　travel　was　no　picnic；　but　it　didn’t　help　that　his　mind　was　still　wrestling　with
the　memories　of　his　last　days　on　Palmeros；　memories　that　often　woke　him　in　a　cold　sweat；　gripping
his　bunched　sheets　and　calling　out　the　name　of　a　dead　friend。
He　suspected　that　his　crew　was　more　bothered　by　this　than　they　let　on。　They　had　to　bunk　with
him；　after　all；　and　often　got　as　little　restful　sleep　as　he　did。　He　thought　he　detected　it　in　their　eyes
sometimes；　a　loss　of　confidence　in　him　where　once　it　had　been　unshakeable。　How　much　worse
would　matters　be；　he　wondered；　if　he　ever　told　them　the　truth　about　what　he　had　seen　in　the　canyon
that　day？　Much　worse。　It　didn’t　do　for　a　tank　commander　to　see　ghosts。　Those　who　reported　such
things　tended　to　go　missing　shortly　afterwards；　marched　off　by　whatever　Imperial　body　had
jurisdiction。　So　far；　the　only　man　Wulfe　had　confided　in　was　Confessor　Friedrich；　and　that　was　how
he　intended　to　keep　it。　Even　drunk　off　his　arse；　as　he　often　was；　the　confessor　was　a　man　to　be
trusted。
Wulfe　forced　his　mind　back　to　more　positive　territory。　It　would　be　good　to　see　a　sky　overhead
again；　instead　of　pitted　metal　bulkheads　veined　with　dripping　pipes　and　tangled　cables。　It　hardly
mattered　what　that　sky　looked　like；　just　so　long　as　it　was　wide　and　open　and　any　colour　but　the
lustreless　grey　of　starship　bulkheads。
Following　the　squad　in　front；　Wulfe　led　his　men　through　one　of　the　drop…ship’s　cargo　holds；
turning　his　head　to　look　at　the　tanks　and　halftracks　that　rested　there。　Beyond　them；　further　back　in
the　shadows；　sat　the　company’s　fuel　and　supply　trucks。　All　of　the　vehicles　were　covered　in　heavy
brown　tarpaulins；　lashed　down　with　thick　steel　cables　and　bolted　to　solid　fixtures　in　the　floor。　But；
even　with　her　bulk　hidden　under　a　tarp；　it　was　all　too　easy　for　Wulfe　to　mark　out　his　own　tank。　The
Leman　Russ　Last　Rites　II　boasted　a　Mars　Alpha　pattern　hull；　so　she　was　fractionally　longer　in　the
body　than　the　other　Leman　Russ。　She　was　an　old　girl；　and　badly　scarred　—　in　Wulfe’s　opinion；　one
of　the　shabbiest　tanks　he　had　ever　set　eyes　on。　Her　armour　plating　was　riveted　together；　rather　than
mould…cast；　and　her　turret　was　all　vertical　surfaces　just　begging　to　be　hit　with　armour…piercing　shells
or　rocket…propelled　grenades。　He　was　quite　certain　that　she　would　get　him　and　his　entire　crew　killed
during　their　first　engagement。　She　was　nothing　like　her　predecessor；　and　he　cursed　her　for　that。　He
remembered　seeing　her　for　the　first　time　and　wondering　if；　in　assigning　him　this　old　junker；　the
lieutenant　had　meant　to　punish　him　for　something。　Wulfe　had　thought　his　relationship　with
Lieutenant　van　Droi　perfectly　solid　up　to　then；　but　now　he　felt　he　had　cause　to　question　it。　To　make
things　worse；　some　of　the　other　sergeants　had　leapt　on　the　chance　to　rip　him　up　about　it。
“Don’t　get　too　far　ahead　of　us　all；　will　you？”　they　said。　“Let　us　know　if　you　need　help　pushing
her　up　a　dune。”
“What　does　she　run　on；　Wulfe？　Pedal　power？”
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“How　many　aurochs　does　it　take　to　pull　her？”
The　list　went　on。　Wulfe　scowled　over　at　the　covered　tank；　glad　she　was　cloaked　by　the　tarp　so　he
didn’t　have　to　look　at　her　ugly　hide。　He　quickly　turned　away。
The　squad　in　front　of　him；　Sergeant　Richter’s　crew；　stomped　up　a　narrow　metal　staircase　and
disappeared　from　view。　Wulfe　put　his　hand　on　the　guardrail　and　hoisted　himself　up　after　them；　steel
steps　ringing　under　his　polished　marching　boots。　His　men　clambered　up　behind　him；　right　at　his
back；　silent　except　for　the　gunner；　Holtz；　who　was　grumbling　unintelligibly。　Wulfe　didn’t　wonder
that　Holtz　was　uneasy；　though　the　man　was　apt　to　grumble　at　the　best　of　times。　Emerging　safely
from　the　warp　was　one　thing；　and　Wulfe’s　relief　was　genuine　enough；　but　every　man　in　the　regiment
knew　what　awaited　them　on　Golgotha。　Only　the　crazies　and　the　liars　—　meaning　most　of　the
commissioned　officers　—　professed　to　like　the　army　group’s　odds　of　success　here。　To　Wulfe’s
mind；　Operation　Thunderstorm　seemed　like　the　most　incredible　gamble。　Colonel　Vinnemann　had
done　his　level　best　to　instil　a　sense　of　purpose　and　honour　in　them；　of　course；　but　that　was　all　part　of
the　job。
An　entire　world　overrun　with　orks。　By　the　blasted　Eye！　Who　knew　how　many　of　the　filthy
buggers　there　would　be？
Without　realising　he　was　doing　it；　Wulfe　reached　up　to　brush　a　fingertip　over　the　long　horizontal
scar　at　his　throat。　Orks。　His　hatred　of　the　greenskins　was　as　strong　today　as　it　had　ever　been。
Probably　stronger；　in　fact。
A　doorway　led　into　one　of　the　passenger　holds　at　the　top　of　the　metal　staircase。　It　was　a　long
dark　space　barely　three　metres　across；　extending　to　the　left　and　right　like　a　tunnel。　Twin　rows　of　tiny
orange　guide…lights　lined　the　floor；　and　numbers　in　faded　white　paint　marked　the　walls。　Wulfe　and
his　men　soon　found　their　seats；　buckled　themselves　in；　and　reached　up　to　pull　metal　impact　frames
down　over　their　heads　and　shoulders。　The　frames　locked　into　place　with　a　loud　click。　It　was　a　sound
filled　with　significance；　with　a　distinct　finality。　Once　you　were　locked　in；　there　was　no　getting　off
this　ride。
Only　minutes　remained　until　the　drop。　Wulfe　felt　a　familiar　tightness　in　his　stomach。　He　glanced
up　and　down　the　compartment；　and　nodded　in　friendly　acknowledgement　to　Sergeant　Viess。
Viess；　only　recently　promoted；　had　been　Wulfe’s　gunner　for　some　years　and　remained　a　friend；
though　an　undeniable　distance　had　grown　between　them　since　he　had　been　given　his　stripes。　He　had
his　own　men　to　lead；　and　Holtz；　formerly　a　sponson　gunner；　had　taken　his　place　on　the　main　gun。
Wulfe　was　glad　for　Viess。　Most　men　in　the　regiment　aspired　to　commanding　their　own　tank。　He
missed　having　him　on　his　crew；　though。　Together；　they　had　notched　up　a　good　number　of　armourkills。
Once　the　last　squad　had　filed　in　to　the　compartment；　the　door　hissed　shut。　Almost　two　hundred
men　sat　in　the　compartment。　They　were　Gossefried’s　Gunheads；　the　81st　Armoured　Regiment’s　10th
Company。　Only　the　lieutenant　and　his　adjutant　were　absent；　seated　in　the　cockpit　with　the　dropship’s
flight　crew。　The　rest　sat　facing　their　fellows；　trading　jokes　and　nervous　banter　across　the
hold’s　narrow　length。　Corporal　Metzger；　Wulfe’s　driver；　sat　next　to　him；　typically　pensive；　with
Holtz　and　Siegler　—　the　latter　being　Wulfe’s　long…serving　loader　—　in　the　opposite　seats。
This　drop　was　different　from　the　last；　not　just　in　terms　of　the　nature　of　the　mission；　but　for　the
smaller　crew　with　which　Wulfe　was　rolling　out。　His　previous　tank　had　boasted　sponsons　on　either
side　of　her　hull；　two　protruding　compartments；　each　housing　a　belt…fed　heavy　bolter　that　made
messy　work　of　anything　foolish　enough　to　close　with　her。　She　had　been　an　awesome　war　machine；
utterly　unstoppable；　and　memories　of　abandoning　her　on　a　dark　highway　so　many　light…years　away
filled　Wulfe　with　genuine　longing　and　remorse。　He　had　mourned　her　loss　every　day　since　then；　but
what　choice　had　there　been？　Her　top　speed　hadn’t　been　nearly　enough。　Leaving　her　behind；　he　and
his　crew　had　boarded　a　much　faster　Chimera　APC；　and　the　lighter　machine’s　speed　had　saved　their
lives。　They　had　made　it　onto　the　last　lifter　into　orbit　just　before　the　planet　Palmeros　was　utterly
obliterated。
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Despite　the　pain　of　losing　his　beloved　tank；　Wulfe　knew　he　had　a　lot　to　be　thankful　for。　Billions
of　Imperial　civilians　had　not　been　so　lucky。
In　any　case；　the　new　machine　—　hah！　he　thought。　What　was　new　about　her？　—　lacked　the　same
potent　defences。　Her　flanks　were　practically　naked。　Her　side…armour　might　be　one　hundred　and　fifty
millimetres　of　solid　plasteel；　but　there　were　weapons　aplenty　in　the　hands　of　mankind’s　enemies　that
could　cut　through　it　like　butter。　An　attacker　only　had　to　close　the　gap。　Without　side　sponsons；　it
would　fall　to　Wulfe　to　cover　the　tank’s　blind　spots　from　his　cupola　high　atop　the　turret。　There　was　a
box…fed　heavy　stubber　there；　pintle…mounted　with　a　nice；　wide　arc　of　fire；　for　exactly　that　purpose。
He　knew　it　was　a　good　weapon；　but　he　still　lamented　the　absence　of　side　sponsons。
A　crackling　voice　sounded　from　speakers　set　in　the　ceiling。　“Bay　doors　open。　Locks　released。
Engines　engaged。　Activating　onboard　gravitational　systems　in　three；　two；　one…”
Wulfe　felt　his　stomach　lurch；　a　brief　moment　in　which　his　body　weight　doubled　as　the　grav…field
of　the　Hand　of　Radiance　and　the　drop…ship’s　field　overlapped。　Just　as　quickly；　the　feeling　was　gone；
and　the　drop…ship’s　onboard　gravity　became　the　only　force　pulling　him　into　his　seat。
“Bay　doors　cleared；”　reported　the　mechanical　voice　a　minute　later。　“Firing　thrusters。　Beginning
descent。　Breaching　thermosphere　in　ten；　nine…”
Wulfe　tuned　out　the　rest　of　the　count。
“What’s　a　thermosphere；　sarge？”　piped　a　nervous…sounding　trooper　a　dozen　seats　to　the　right。
“Stifle　it；　drop…virgin；”　barked　his　sergeant。　“How　would　I　know？　Do　I　look　like　a　cogboy　to
you？”
Wulfe　grinned。　New　meat；　he　thought。　This　was　the　first　drop　for　a　good　number　of　the　men。
The　18th　Army　Group’s　catastrophic　losses　on　Palmeros　had　left　it　at　less　than　half　strength。　Senior
cadets　from　the　Whiteshields　—　the　tough；　teenaged　Cadian　training　regiments　—　had　been　drafted
in　to　replenish　the　ranks；　but　most　of　those　had　been　posted　to　regiments　in　the　8th　and　12th
divisions。　After　promoting　suitable　men　from　the　tech…crews　and　support　squads；　the　Cadian　81st
had　to　make　up　the　rest　of　their　numbers　with　men　drafted　in　from　the　616th　Reserve　Regiment　—
men　who；　in　most　cases；　had　never　crewed　a　tank　in　their　lives。　Lieutenant　van　Droi　had　expressed
his　grave　concerns　about　this　in　private。　He　felt　that　most　of　the　new　men　didn’t　make　the　grade；　not
by　a　long　shot。　The　reserves　were　rarely　employed　at　the　front　lines；　tending　instead　to　be　used　for
garrisoning　duties　and　the　like。　Wulfe　knew　that　their　first　taste　of　front　line　action　would　sort　the
men　from　the　boys。
Thinking　about　who　made　the　grade　and　who　didn’t；　he　cast　an　involuntary　glance　along　the
opposite　row　of　seats　towards　a　man　on　his　far　left。
I’ve　got　my　eye　on　you；　squigshit；　he　thought。
The　speakers　crackled　to　life　again。　“Mesospheric　penetration　in　ten；　nine…”
“Sounds　dirty；　don’t　it？”　quipped　a　ruddy…faced　trooper　on　the　opposite　row。
“You’re　so　full　of　crap；　Garrel；”　said　the　young　man　next　to　him　with　a　mirthless　laugh。　He　tried
to　punch　his　comrade　playfully　on　the　arm；　but　the　bars　of　his　impact　frame　restricted　his　movement。
The　anxious　trooper　who’d　spoken　up　earlier　opened　his　mouth　to　speak　again；　but　he　didn’t　get
a　word　out　before　the　same　gruff　sergeant　cut　him　off。
“Go　on；　Vintners；”　he　barked；　“ask　me　what　a　mesosphere　is。　I　dare　you。”　Despite　his　manner；
there　was　an　unmistakable　tone　of　humour　in　the　sergeant’s　voice。　“You’ll　be　on　latrines　for　the
whole　frakking　op！”
Nervous　laughter　rippled　along　the　rows。　Vintners　turned　pale　and　clamped　his　mouth　shut。
All　this　was　mere　background　noise　to　Wulfe。　He　was　too　busy　watching　the　man　on　the　far　left；
studying　the　lines　and　angles　of　his　hawkish　face；　watching　the　way　he　moved　his　lips　as　he　talked
in　an　undertone　with　the　crewmen　seated　around　him。
His　name　was　Corporal　Voeder　Lenck；　twenty…eight　years　old　and　commander　of　the　Leman
Russ　Exterminator　New　Champion　of　Cerbera。　He　was　a　tall；　slim；　darkly　handsome　man；　all　poster14
boy　good　looks；　easy　smiles　and　warm　handshakes。　But　Wulfe　wasn’t　fooled；　not　for　a　second；　not
like　the　gang　of　doe…eyed　sycophants　that　had　surrounded　Lenck　since　the　moment　he　had
transferred　in。　Why　the　rookies　all　flocked　to　him；　Wulfe　hadn’t　figured　out　yet。　The　man　had　been　a
bloody　reserve；　for　Throne’s　sake。　What　was　there　to　admire？　Admittedly；　he　wasn’t　typical　of　the
newcomers。　He　had　some　prior　tank　experience；　for　a　start。　Perhaps　that　was　it：　a　combination　of
being　fresh　to　the　regiment；　like　the　rest　of　the　new　meat；　but　being　an　experienced　tanker　at　the
same　time。　It　was　as　good　a　guess　as　Wulfe　could　make。
The　records　showed　that　Lenck　had　been　a　sergeant　earlier　in　his　career；　but　something　had　gone
wrong。　There　had　been　a　trial；　a　court…martial。　He　had　been　locked　up　for　thirty　days　and　demoted　to
the　rank　of　corporal。　Only　the　commissioned　officers　knew　why　and；　so　far；　they　weren’t　telling；　but
Wulfe　planned　to　find　out　sooner　or　later。
The　day　he　and　Lenck　had　first　met　aboard　the　Hand　of　Radiance；　Wulfe　had　recognised　an　icy
cruelty　behind　the　man’s　purple…irised　eyes。　Lenck　hadn’t　done　anything　overt　to　induce　Wulfe’s
dislike；　not　so　far　anyway；　but　Wulfe　knew　it　would　come　sooner　or　later。　It　didn’t　help　that　he　was
the　spitting　image　of　someone　else；　a　convicted　Cadian　criminal　by　the　name　of　Victor　Dunst。　Dunst
and　his　gang　of　tattooed　cronies　had　once　tried　to　rob　Wulfe　in　the　under…streets　of　Kasr　Gehr。
Wulfe　had　been　a　Whiteshield　at　the　time；　just　a　teenage　cadet　on　leave　before　graduating　from
basic。　He　had　been　heavily　outnumbered　but；　like　so　many　Whiteshields；　his　belief　in　his
invincibility　was　so　complete　that　he　hadn’t　even　thought　to　run。　Instead；　he　had　told　the　gang　to
piss　off；　and　Dunst　had　decided　to　kill　him。　Only　the　chance　intervention　of　a　patrolling　Civitas
enforcer　squad　had　saved　Wulfe’s　life　that　day。　Dunst’s　knife　didn’t　get　more　than　two　centimetres
into　Wulfe’s　chest。　Wulfe　had　been　very　lucky。
As　Wulfe　looked　along　the　row；　Lenck　seemed　to　realise　that　he　was　being　watched。　He　didn’t
turn　his　head　or　shift　his　eyes；　he　just　seemed　to　sense　it。　Wulfe　saw　a　grin　creep　over　the　younger
man’s　face　and　felt　a　tremendous　desire　to　punch　him。　The　feeling　of　Lenck’s　bones　cracking　under
his　fist　would　be　supremely　satisfying；　he　imagined。　Wulfe　was　no　brawler；　not　like　some　of　the
men　he　knew；　but　he　was　no　slouch；　either。　He　was　pretty　sure　he　could　take　Lenck　if　it　ever　came
down　to　a　fair　fight；　though　Lenck　didn’t　seem　the　type　to　fight　fair。　Such　an　event　was　unlikely　to
occur；　of　course。　For　Lenck；　striking　Wulfe　would　constitute　a　capital　offence　due　to　the　difference
in　rank。　Still；　thought　Wulfe；　if　we　were　to　put　rank　aside…
The　ceiling　speakers　crackled　again。　“Particle　shields　holding　at　eighty　per　cent。　Entering
stratosphere　in　ten；　nine；　eight…”
Any　jokes　or　remarks　that　this　announcement　might　have　drawn　died　in　the　throats　of　the
troopers　as　the　drop…ship　began　shaking　and　juddering。　Most　of　the　drop…virgins　grimaced。　A　few
started　to　look　peaky；　as　if　they　might　begin　to　puke。
“Time　to　put　them　in；　gentlemen；”　said　Wulfe　to　his　crew。　He　reached　into　the　right　pocket　of
his　field　trousers　and　withdrew　a　small；　transparent　curve　of　hard　rubber。　It　was　a　gumshield；　the
kind　worn　by　troopers　during　hand…to…hand　combat　training。　With　a　nod；　Metzger；　Siegler　and　Holtz
drew　identical　items　from　their　pockets　and　fitted　them　securely　between　their　teeth。　All　along　the
facing　rows；　veteran　tankers　did　the　same　thing。　The　new　meat　looked　on　with　expressions　of　abject
horror。
“By　the　bloody　Eye！　Why　didn’t　anyone　tell　the　rest　of　us　to　bring　gumshields？”　demanded　a
round…faced　trooper　ten　seats　to　Wulfe’s　right。　He　was　the　newest　man　on　Sergeant　Rhaimes’　crew；
and　it　was　Rhaimes　—　seasoned　commander　of　the　Leman　Russ　Old　Smashbones　—　who　answered；
removing　his　gumshield　for　a　moment　to　do　so。
“Company　tradition；　bugfood；”　he　said。　He　grinned；　creasing　the　skin　around　the　deep　scar　that
ran　from　his　left　eye　to　his　left　ear。　Bugfood　was　his　personal　term　of　affection　for　the　new　guys　and；
whenever　he　said　it；　he　managed　to　make　it　sound　like　idiot　or　arsehole。　Recently；　a　lot　of　the
veterans　had　started　using　it；　and　not　just　in　10th　Company。　“You’re　still　a　drop…virgin　till　you　break
a　tooth　on　the　way　down。”
15
The　trooper　gaped　in　disbelief　for　a　moment　and　then　fished　in　his　pocket　for　something。　He
pulled　out　a　wadded　piece　of　rag；　the　type　of　cloth　used　to　shine　boots