Gunheads(科幻战争)-第8部分

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man！”
Kassel　plucked　the　mouthpiece　of　his　back…mounted　vox…caster　from　the　clip　on　his　belt；　barked
out　the　colonel’s　orders　in　a　clear；　authoritative　voice　and　waited　for　confirmation。　He　needn’t　have
bothered。　The　turret…gunners　atop　the　crumpled　drop…ship　were　already　traversing　their　turrets　to
zero　in　on　several　massive　ork　machines　—　self…propelled　guns　that　were　emerging　from　a　dust
cloud　about　fifteen　hundred　metres　away。　The　SPGs　had　short；　fat　barrels　that　sacrificed　accuracy
for　a　higher　explosive　payload。　Their　construction　appeared　so　slapdash　they　looked　as　likely　to
blow　themselves　apart　as　to　flatten　their　enemies。　By　rights；　they　shouldn’t　have　worked　at　all；　but；
as　ever　with　greenskin　machines；　their　performance　defied　their　appearance。　With　great　coughs　of
flame　and　ground…shaking　booms；　they　launched　another　deadly　salvo；　this　time　aimed　squarely　at
the　las…turrets　that　had　begun　to　open　fire　on　them。
Most　of　the　heavy　artillery　shells　went　wide　of　the　mark；　whining　straight　past　the　wreck　and
exploding　in　the　sand　on　the　far　side。　Most；　but　not　all。　Two　struck　the　hull；　packed　with　so　much
explosive　that；　between　them；　they　ripped　the　super　structure　apart。　The　pressure　wave　that　sped　out
from　the　twin　blasts　pulverised　the　turrets　and　the　men　inside　them。
Stromm　stood　gaping　for　a　split　second　at　the　terrible　destruction；　and　then　shielded　his　head　as　a
shower　of　burning　debris　cascaded　towards　him。　By　the　Emperor’s　grace；　neither　he　nor　Kassel　were
struck；　but　a　young　trooper　on　the　right　fell　without　screaming；　his　head　caved　in　by　a　turnip…sized
chunk　of　heavy　armaplas。
“Try　to　raise　them；”　Stromm　yelled　at　Kassel；　already　knowing　in　his　heart　that　it　was　futile。
Kassel　tried。　Nothing。
“Again；　Hans。　We　can’t　lose　them　now。　If　they　can’t　knock　out　those　SPGs　we　won’t　last
another　minute！”
“Nothing；”　said　Kassel。　He　tried　a　third　time　with　the　same　result。　“They’re　gone；　sir。”
“For　Throne’s　sake！　The　next　bloody　salvo　will　do　for　us。　Can’t　we　get　any　of　our　heavy
weapons　on　them？　What　about　our　mortar　teams？　They’re　all　we　have　left　that　doesn’t　need　line　of
sight。”
Kassel　immediately　tried　to　raise　the　mortar　teams　on　the　vox；　but　there　was　no　reply；　just
hissing　static　and　the　sure　knowledge　that　more　men　had　died。
“Sir；　we　need　to　get　you　away　from　here。　Those　green…skin　gun…crews　won’t　take　long　to　reload。
We　should　get　you　into　one　of　the　Chimeras。　The　Kasrkin　might　be　able　to　open　a　corridor。”
“If　you　suggest　that　to　me　ever　again；　Hans；　I’ll　pistol…whip　you。　Do　you　hear　me？　You　should
know　better　by　now。　I’ve　never　run　from　a　field　of　battle　in　my　life。”
“I…　Sorry；　sir。”
“Sod　your　apologies；　man。　Just　keep　shooting。　We’ll　make　a　proper　accounting　of　ourselves
before　the　end。　Get　the　word　out。　The　Fighting　98th　makes　its　last　stand　for　the　honour　of　Cadia！”
“The　Fighting　98th　forever；　sir！”　said　Kassel；　thrusting　out　his　chest。　Determination　replaced　the
fear　in　his　eyes。　If　they　were　to　die；　it　would　be　as　only　Cadian　men　could　die；　strong　and　true；　and
unrelenting　to　the　very　last。　The　Emperor　would　welcome　their　souls　to　his　glorious　hall。　Their
places　at　his　table　would　be　assured。
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The　outer　defences　were　swarming　with　xenos；　all　jostling　for　a　chance　to　revel　in　the　slaughter
of　Stromm’s　men。　They　pushed　and　shoved　each　other　for　better　position；　desperate　to　claim　more
kills　than　their　fellows。　They　were　so　frantic　with　battle…lust　that　savage　brawls　began　to　break　out
here　and　there　among　their　ranks。　Stromm　saw　one　of　the　beasts　—　spike…helmed　and　heavily
armoured；　its　dark　skin　textured　like　burned　steak　—　turn　to　a　marginally　smaller　monstrosity　on　its
right　and　begin　wrestling　with　it；　trying　to　prise　a　large　axe　from　its　grasp。　The　smaller　ork　resisted
until　the　larger　rammed　the　point　of　a　huge；　rust…pitted　knife　right　into　its　belly　and　unzipped　it　from
sternum　to　crotch。　Thick　blood　poured　out；　followed　by　a　tumble　of　looping　intestines　that　glistened
pink　as　they　slid　out　onto　the　sand。　Then；　with　the　newly　won　axe　in　hand；　the　big　one　bellowed　a
battle　cry　and　continued　its　advance；　eager　to　enter　close…quarters　combat　where　it　could　engage　in
bloody　slaughter。
It　took　six　men　firing　lasguns　at　close　range　to　put　that　bastard　down。
By　Terra；　thought　Stromm；　they’re　insane！　Death　means　nothing　to　them。　Whether　we　have　men
like　Yarrick　or　not　—　whether　we　had　a　thousand　Yarricks；　a　million　even　—　how　can　humanity
hope　to　hold　back　the　savage　tide？
In　Stromm’s　earpiece；　the　vox…chatter　from　his　surviving　platoon　leaders　had　degenerated　into　a
cacophony　of　panicked　shouts。　The　gap　was　closing　ever　further。　Once　the　fighting　went　hand…tohand；
it　would　be　over　for　the　Cadians。　Nothing　could　save　them　then。
“We’re　losing　the　inner　defences。　The　bolter…nests　are　being　overrun！”
“What　do　we　do？　Fall　back　to　the　drop…ship？　They’re　hammering　it　with　artillery！”
“I　need　heavy　weapons　support　on　our　right　flank；　warp　damn　it！　Get　me　mortars。　Get　me　a
heavy　bolter。　Anything！”
Stromm　heard　the　words　as　if　from　a　great　distance。　A　strange　and　unexpected　sense　of　calm　had
descended　on　him。　All　around；　the　air　was　churning　with　noise　and　heat；　whining　bullets　and
cracking　las…fire；　but；　in　his　mind；　everything　was　supremely　clear。　The　end　of　his　lifelong　duty　to
the　Emperor　was　at　hand。
One　more　time；　he　allowed　his　thoughts　to　return　to　his　family　up　there　on　The　Incandescent；
and　said　a　silent　prayer　to　the　Emperor：
May　my　wife　remember　me　proudly；　and　may　our　son’s　achievements　exceed　my　own。　To　the
Emperor’s　side；　I　commend　the　souls　of　my　men；　and　I　ask　Saint　Josmane　to　be　our　guide。
“Hans；”　he　said；　“the　regimental　banner。”
“It’s　here；　sir。”
“Then　unfurl　it；　soldier；　and　give　it　to　me。”
“At　once；　sir；”　said　Kassel；　and　leapt　to　the　task。
Stromm　holstered　his　smoking　hellpistol　and　accepted　the　heavy　banner　from　his　adjutant。
Gripping　its　haft　with　both　hands；　he　stepped　forward；　calling　to　his　men　as　he　waved　it　majestically
in　the　hot；　dusty　afternoon　air。
“Rally　to　me；　Cadians；”　he　shouted　over　the　din　of　battle。　“Rally　to　me；　troopers！　No　more
falling　back。　Here　and　now；　we　make　our　stand！”
The　banner　was　a　striking　icon　of　gold　and　red。　The　pillared　symbol　of　the　Cadian　gate
dominated　its　centre　and；　on　either　side　of　it；　the　image　of　a　grinning　skull　held　a　single　stalk　of
wheat　between　its　teeth。　The　wheat…stalk　symbolised　the　regiment’s　glorious　victory　at　Ruzarch
Fields　during　the　infamous　Battle　of　Vogen　nearly　half　a　century　before。　Had　the　regiment　survived
General　deViers’　Golgothan　expedition；　another　symbol　of　honour　would　have　been　added：　a
stylised　cloud　and　lightning　bolt。
The　men　close　enough　to　hear　his　voice　turned　to　see　their　colonel　standing　there；　the　banner
snapping　and　fluttering　as　he　waved　it　over　his　head。　He　looked　like　an　image　from　a　propaganda
poster；　and　their　spirits　burned　with　fresh　pride。　Stromm　could　see　it　as　he　looked　into　their　eyes。　He
saw　the　fires　of　determination　surging　there；　the　will　to　die　fighting。
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“Honour　and　glory！”　shouted　a　sergeant　off　to　the　right。
“Honour　and　glory！”　bellowed　his　squad。
Something　changed　in　the　air；　building　up　like　a　massive　electrical　charge。　Even　the　wounded
seemed　suddenly　whole　again；　though　their　bodies　still　bled。　They　turned　from　the　sight　of　their
colonel　and　his　banner；　raised　lasgun　stocks　to　armoured　shoulders；　and　met　the　orks　with　renewed
ferocity；　determined　to　dispatch　as　many　of　the　slavering　beasts　as　possible　before　they　were
overcome　for　good。
Push　through　your　pain；　Stromm　willed　them。　Just　a　bit　further；　a　bit　longer　so　we　know　the
Emperor’s　eyes　are　on　us。
Only　a　few　hundred　metres；　now；　until　the　orks　were　in　among　them。　Mere　moments　until　the
fighting　became　hand…to…hand。　At　that　range；　the　greenskins’　massive　physiologies　would　allow
them　to　rip　through　the　Cadians　like　wet　paper。　Only　the　mighty　Kasrkin　storm　troopers；　of　which
Stromm　had　started　with　a　single　company　and　now　had　less　than　three　full　platoons；　had　any
chance　in　close　quarters；　and；　even　then；　not　much　of　one。
“Fix　bayonets；”　ordered　Stromm。　Kassel　repeated　the　order　over　the　vox。　He　might　as　well　have
said　“get　ready　to　die”。　Against　orks；　it　was　essentially　the　same　thing。
The　call　was　taken　up　by　officers　and　sergeants　all　along　the　line　as　the　gap　shrank　to　forty
metres；　then　thirty。　Las…fire　blazed　out　in　a　last；　desperate　bid　to　make　a　difference　before　the　clash
of　blade　on　blade。　Plenty　of　orks　went　down；　struck　in　the　face　with　lethal；　short…range　blasts。　But；　if
this　bought　the　Cadians　any　time　at　all；　it　was　mere　seconds。
The　ork　artillery　was　rolling　forward；　too；　unable　to　fire　on　the　Cadians　now　that　their　own
infantry　had　closed　the　gap。　The　greenskin　gunnery　crews；　in　the　manner　of　all　their　race；　were
desperate　to　get　closer　to　the　centre　of　the　murder；　to　stain　their　hands　with　the　blood　of　dying　men。
For　this；　they　kept　their　machines　rolling　in。
Twenty　metres　from　Stromm；　a　massive　ork　with　a　broken　tusk　hacked　one　trooper　to　the　ground
with　its　cleaver；　shoved　roughly　past　another；　and　raced　directly　forwards。　It　was　coming　straight　for
the　colonel；　attracted　by　the　bright；　snapping　banner　above　his　head。　As　it　closed；　it　raised　its
massive　stubber　with　a　single　hand　and　fired　a　burst　that　caught　the　colonel　on　the　right　shoulder。
His　tough　armaplas　body…armour　was　enough　to　deflect　the　shot；　but　the　impact　threw　him　from　his
feet。　He　landed　on　the　red　sand　with　a　grunt。　The　force　of　the　bullet’s　impact　had　broken　his　arm；
and　the　banner　fell　from　his　hands。
Lieutenant　Kassel　moved　in　a　blur；　catching　the　banner　as　it　fell；　hoisting　it　high；　desperate　not
to　dishonour　the　regiment　by　allowing　its　sanctified　cloth　to　touch　the　ground。　He　stabbed　the　base
of　the　haft　into　the　sand；　braced　it　with　one　hand；　and　crouched　by　his　colonel；　yelling　his　name。
“Are　you　alive；　sir？　Speak　to　me；　colonel！　Please！”
Groaning　in　agony　and　clutching　his　shattered　arm；　Stromm　rolled；　and；　with　Kassel’s　eager　aid；
struggled　to　his　feet。　He　looked　around　to　see　men　forming　a　defensive　line　around　him；　fighting
back　desperately　with　bayonets；　pistols；　sharpened　entrenching　tools　—　anything　they　had　to　hand
—　against　the　massive　chipped　axes　and　cleavers　of　the　orks。
“For　Cadia！”　Stromm　roared；　leaving　Kassel　with　the　banner　and　drawing　his　hellpistol　again；
this　time　with　his　left　hand。
“For　Cadia！”　his　men　roared　back。
They　fought　with　everything　they　had；　but　the　air　suddenly　filled　once　again　with　the　deafening
boom　of　big　guns。　Stromm　tensed；　guessing　the　ork　artillery　crews　had　decided　to　fire　after　all；
whether　they　killed　their　foul　kin　or　not。　He　girded　himself　for　the　explosive　blast　that　would　bring
an　end　to　his　life　any　second　now。
Any　second…
But　it　never　came。　There　was　no　ear…splitting　whistle　overhead。
“Armour！”　cried　one　of　his　platoon　leaders　over　the　vox…net。　“In　Terra’s　Holy　Name！”
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“They’re　fielding　tanks；　too？”　asked　another。
“No；”　snapped　the　first。　“Not　the　blasted　orks；　man！　Imperial　tanks！　Leman　Russ　battle　tanks
inbound　from　the　west！”
Stromm　heard　a　second　stutter　of　booming　fire　and　this　time；　to　his　utter　astonishment；　a　mob　of
orks　pressing　in　on　the　left　flank　vanished；　consumed　by　a　great　fountain　of　dirt　and　flame。
“Their　artillery！”　voxed　another　platoon　leader。　“The　ork　SPGs　are　burning。　All　of　them。
Junked！”
Another　sharp　stutter　sounded　from　the　west；　announcing　death　for　more　of　the　foe。　The　horde
was　being　blasted　apart；　knots　of　them　disappearing　in　fountains　of　dust；　raining　back　to　earth　as
burnt　and　bloody　pieces。　Those　that　weren’t　killed　outright　by　the　high…explosive　shells　were
horribly　maimed　by　flying　shrapnel。　They　went　down　screaming　and　roaring　as　tank　fire　continued
to　scythe　into　their　ranks。
Even　those　orks　engaged　in　close…quarters　combat　couldn’t　help　themselves。　The　sounds　of
cannon　fire　reached　them　through　their　battle…lust。　For　just　a　second；　they　turned　their　heads　towards
the　source；　and　Stromm’s　fighters　pressed　their　momentary　advantage；　downing　scores　of　them；
forging　a　gap　across　which　they　could　once　more　employ　their　lasrifles　and　surviving　heavy
weapons。　The　Kasrkin　platoons　took　this　opportunity　to　press　in　from　the　right；　shifting　closer　to
Colonel　Stromm；　the　better　to　protect　him　and　react　faster　to　his　needs。
Through　the　space　that　had　opened；　Stromm　could　see　the　cause　of　his　company’s　unexpected
respite。　There；　on　the　western　flank；　a　great　dust　cloud　rose；　churning　up　from　the　desert　floor。　At　its
head；　ten　Cadian　tanks　charged　forward　in　an　assault　wedge。　Behind　them；　barely　visible　in　their
dusty　wake；　came　a　line　of　Heracles　halftracks　filled　to　the　brim　with　men　and　supply　crates。　It
looked　like　an　entire　armoured　company。　For　a　moment；　Stromm　thought　he　was　dreaming。
“Colonel；”　yelled　Kassel　excitedly；　“there’s　an　urgent　message　coming　through　from…　say
again…　roger　that…　from　a　Lieutenant　van　Droi；　sir。”
“Van　Droi？”　said　Stromm。　He　didn’t　recognise　the　name。　Most　of　Exolon’s　armour　was　with
10th　Division。　He　and　his　men　were　with　the　8th。　“Well；　don’t　keep　it　to　yourself；　Hans。　What’s　the
message？”
Kassel　beamed。
“To　dig　in；　sir。　Van　Droi　says　the　Gunheads　are　here。”
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CHAPTER　SIX
Gossefried’s　Gunheads　roared　forward；　guns　booming　like　thunder；　far　more　than　simple
promethium　fuelling　their　charge。　Disgust；　hatred；　the　desire　for　revenge；　all　of　these　things　and
more　filled　the　hearts　of　the　men　inside　the　massive；　rumbling　war　machines　as　they　surged　on；
desperate　to　cut　the　foe　down　before　it　was　too　late　for　their　fellow　Guardsmen。
For　Gossefried　van　Droi；　the　survival　of　the　embattled　Cadian　infantrymen　was　paramount。　Here
at　last；　after　days　travelling　through　the　desert　without　any　sign　whatsoever　that　others　had　survived
planetfall；　he　had　found　welcome　confirmation　that　his　Gunheads　were　not　alone。　Someone　else　had
survived　and；　right　now；　that　meant　everything　in　the　world　to　him。　But　they　wouldn’t　survive　much
longer　if　they　didn’t　get　the　aid　they　so　desperately　needed。
It　would　be　a　close　thing。　He　could　see　that　from　his　cupola。　Colonel　Stromm’s　footsloggers
were　on　their　last　legs。　That　much　was　all　too　clear；　despite　the　dust　and　black　smoke　that　shrouded
the　chaos　of　the　battlefield。
“Spread　out；”　van　Droi　ordered　his　tank　commanders　over　the　vox。　“Keep　your　main　guns
blazing。　I　want　secondary　weapons　on　those　hostiles　as　soon　as　you　make　range。　Don’t　spare　the
treads！　Our　brother　Cadians　are　dying　out　there！”
A　stutter　of　cannon　fire　from　the　tanks　on　either　side　was　answer　enough　for　him。　Up　ahead；　still
more　than　a　kilometre　away；　but　closer　with　every　passing　second；　pillars　of　sand　and　gore　burst　into
the　air。　Firing　on　the　move　meant　a　big　trade…off　in　accuracy　for　the　gunners；　but；　given　the　sheer
number　of　gargantuan　brown…bodies　in　front　of　them；　they　could　afford　to　be　sloppy。　What　they
couldn’t　afford　to　be　was　slow。
No　fear　of　that。　Their　engines　roared；　spewing　thick　black　fumes　out　behind　them；　powering　the
sixty…tonne　war　machines　forward　over　the　sand　with　surprising　speed。　Between　the　noise　of　his
engine　and　the　booming　of　his　powerful　main　gun；　van　Droi　could　hear　nothing　at　all　of　the　fighting
around　the　crashed　drop…ship。　He　didn’t　need　to　hear　it　to　know　how　badly　it　was　going。　As　his
tanks　crossed　the　one　kilometre　line；　he　gripped　the　pintle…mounted　heavy　bolter　in　front　of　him　and
made　ready　to　open　fire。　Much　of　the　mad　alien　horde　had　turned　its　aggression　towards　the　tanks；
knowing　they　posed　a　far　greater；　more　immediate　threat　than　the　infantry；　and　a　better　fight。　His
eyes　picked　out　the　biggest　orks；　long…tusked；　black…skinned　abominations　wearing　huge　suits　of
armour　and　carrying　ludicrously　oversized　blades。　He　saw　them　throw　back　their　heads　to　bellow
battle　cries　as　they　readied　the　rest　of　the　horde　to　charge。
Bring　it　on；　you　godless　freaks；　thought　van　Droi。　You　don’t　stand　a　frakker’s　chance　in　hell
against　my　10th　Company。
“Break　them　wide　open；　Gunheads；”　he　called　over　the　company　command　channel。　“Sword；
Hammer；　move　into　line　formation。　Rhaimes；　take　your　squadron　out　on　the　left　flank。　Angle　in　on
their　rear。　Wulfe；　Richter；　move　your　squadrons　straight　up。　Keep　the　pressure　on。　Not　one　of　those
alien　bastards　survives。　No　runners。”
“Spear　Leader　to　company　command；”　replied　Sergeant　Rhaimes。　“Read　you　loud　and　clear；　sir。
We’ll　make　them　wish　they’d　never　crawled　out　of　the　dirt。”
“Sword　Leader　to　command；”　voxed　Sergeant　Wulfe。　“Moving　into　formation。”
Sergeant　Richter　was　the　last　to　vox　in。　“Hammer　Squadron　confirming；　sir。　Moving　up　now。”
Van　Droi　looked　to　either　side　and　saw　his　tanks　fan　out　to　form　a　broad　fighting　line　abreast　of
his　machine。　Old　Smashbones；　The　Rage　Imperius　and　The　Adamantine　pressed　left；　bearing　north45
east　so　that　they　could　swing　in　on　the　greenskin　flanks　and　funnel　them　into　the　killing　zone。　As
van　Droi　watched；　flame　and　smoke　licked　out　from　their　barrels　and　the　air　shook　with　the　sound　of
exploding　propellant。
On　the　right；　the　tanks　of　Spear　and　Hammer　squadrons　were　also　keeping　the　pressure　on。　Not
all　of　them　were　fitted　with　standard　battle　cannon；　of　course。　Van　Droi’s　company　was　a　mixed
force；　glad　to　make　do　with　whatever　machines　it　could　get　its　hands　on。　As　he　always　impressed　on
the　new　meat；　what　the　Gunheads　lacked　in　uniformity；　they　made　up　in　versatility。　Who　gave　a
flying　damn　if　some　of　the　other　company　commanders　sneered？　Czurloch　and　Brismund　were　the
worst　for　it；　those　stuck…up　pricks。　Let　them　have　their　nice；　ordered　companies　of　identical
machines。　Specialise　too　much　in　one　thing；　van　Droi　knew；　and　you’d　be　properly　stuffed　when
some　bastard　suddenly　changed　the　rules。
That　didn’t　happen　to　his　Gunheads。
His　machine；　Foe…Breaker；　was　a　rare　and　highly　prized　Leman　Russ　Vanquisher　from　the
forges　of　Ryza。　She　was　hundreds　of　years　old　—　the　saints　alone　knew　how　many　kills　she’d　made
since　her　inception　—　but　she　still　excelled　at　taking　out　enemy　machines　with　her　120mm　smoothbore
cannon　and　its　highly　specialised；　armour…piercing　sabot　rounds。　No　other　Leman　Russ　could
fire　as　far　and　as　accurately；　and　van　Droi　conscientiously　prayed　to　her　machine…spirit　every　single
day；　making　obeisance　in　the　form　of　litanies　approved　by　the　regimental　enginseers。
All　this　love　and　attention　was　repaid　tenfold　in　her　performance。　She　had　added　another
armour…kill　to　her　tally　today　when　van　Droi’s　gunner；　“Bullseye”　Dietz；　had　lit　up　one　of　the　ugly
ork　artillery　pieces　like　a　bonfire。　It　was　still　gushing　red　flame　and　thick　black　smoke　into　the　sky。
Dietz　hadn’t　let　up；　either。　Van　Droi’s　loader　—　a　grumpy　little　short…arse　by　the　name　of　Waller　—
was　still　slamming　high…explosive　shells　into　the　main　gun’s　breech　with　all　the　speed　he　could
manage；　and　Dietz　wasn’t　wasting　them。　Every　time　the　gun　belched；　scores　of　orks　disintegrated；
turned　into　a　downpour　of　red　rain　that　muddied　the　desert　sand。
Seconds　now；　thought　van　Droi；　his　finger　beginning　to　squeeze　gently　on　the　heavy　bolter’s
trigger。　Just　a　few　more　seconds。
He　revelled　in　the　rush　of　ho