Gunheads(科幻战争)-第2章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


Operation　Thunderstorm　had　begun。
8
CHAPTER　ONE
Imperial　spaceships；　massive　and　ornate；　comparable　in　size　and　baroque　beauty　to　the　largest
cathedrals　of　Holy　Terra；　hung　together　in　the　infinite　dark。　They　had　slid　from　the　warp　almost
forty　days　earlier；　bisecting　the　orbits　of　the　outer　planets　on　trails　of　blazing　plasma　until　finally
closing　on　their　ultimate　goal。　That　goal　lay　somewhere　below；　on　the　world　that　spun　beneath　them；
a　world　that　glowed　bright　in　the　glare　of　the　system’s　harsh　sun。
Golgotha：　a　planet　shrouded　in　thick；　choking　cloud；　all　reds；　yellows　and　browns　that　swirled
and　bled　together　like　so　many　spilled　paints。　In　memoirs　dating　back　thirty…eight　years　to　the　last
Golgothan　War；　the　celebrated　Terraxian　Guardsman…poet；　Clavier　Michelos；　had　remarked　on　the
planet’s　ominous　beauty；　and　with　good　reason。　From　high　orbit；　at　least；　it　was　a　stunning　sight；　but
that　beauty　masked　an　uncompromising　nature；　for　Golgotha　was　not　a　world　that　welcomed　men。
Michelos　had　died　here；　captured　and　tortured　to　death　by　orks。　He　wasn’t　alone　in　that。　The　war
had　been　a　costly　and　embarrassing　disaster。　The　orks　had　crushed　everything　in　their　path；　and　even
Commissar　Yarrick；　the　lauded　Hero　of　Armageddon；　had　been　unable　to　turn　the　tide　of　battle。　He
left　Golgotha　in　bitter　defeat　with　very　few　survivors　at　his　side。
That　was　almost　four　decades　ago。　Yarrick；　now　an　old　man；　still　fought　for　the　glory　of　the
Imperium。　The　war　with　his　nemesis；　the　ork　warlord　Ghazghkull　Mag　Uruk　Thraka；　had　taken　him
back　to　Armageddon；　the　world　that　had　made　his　reputation；　while　Golgotha　remained　firmly　in　the
hands　of　the　enemy；　a　dark　stain　on　his　record　that　could　never　be　expunged。
So；　why　had　men　returned？　The　small　fleet　that　hung　above　the　orange　sphere　lacked　even　a
fraction　of　the　power　required　to　take　it　back　by　force；　but　that　was　not　their　mission；　not　this　time。
There　was　something　else　down　there　besides　orks；　something　important　that　had　been　lost　on
Golgotha　during　the　last　war；　something　that　the　Imperium　wanted　back。　It　was　a　holy　relic；　a
symbol　so　potent　that　it　might　turn　the　tide　of　Yarrick’s　new　war。　Its　name　was　The　Fortress　of
Arrogance。
The　fleet　sent　to　recover　it　was　a　mixed　force。　In　the　centre；　a　ship　far　larger　than　any　of　the
others　dominated　the　formation。　This　was　the　Scion　of　Tharsis；　a　Reclamator　craft　of　the　Adeptus
Mechanicus；　the　ancient　and　inscrutable　tech…priesthood　of　Mars　without　whom　none　of　the　ships
present　would　have　existed　at　all。　The　Scion　was　flanked　on　either　side　by　the　Imperial　Navy’s
Tyrant…class　heavy　cruisers；　the　Helicon　Star　and　the　Ganymede；　around　which　swarmed　myriad
smaller　escort　ships　and　armed　transports。　It　was　on　one　of　these　transports；　an　unassuming　craft
called　the　Hand　of　Radiance；　that　the　men　of　the　81st　Cadian　Armoured　Regiment；　known　less
formally　as　Rolling　Thunder；　prepared　for　war。
*　*　*
“Form　up；　you　greasy　pukes！”　roared　an　ugly；　skin…headed　sergeant　with　a　pockmarked　face。　“You
know　the　bloody　drill。　By　the　numbers；　damn　your　eyes！”
The　floor　of　the　starboard…side　hangar　clanged　with　the　sound　of　men　snapping　to　attention。　The
troopers　stood　in　formation；　company　by　company　from　the　first　to　the　tenth；　while　their　sergeants
prowled　back　and　forth　like　hungry　wolves；　eyes　sharp；　hunting　keenly　for　the　slightest　signs　of
sloppiness。　Hulking　drop…ships　sat　behind　the　ordered　ranks　of　men；　their　boarding　ramps　lowered；
internal　lights　glaring　yellow　inside　dark；　gunmetal　hulls。
9
A　loud；　hydraulic　hiss　sounded　on　the　right　of　the　massive　chamber；　and　a　thick　door　split　down
the　middle；　each　half　sliding　backwards　into　the　wall　with　a　cough　of　oily　steam。　The　metal　floor
rang　with　the　crisp；　pleasing　tattoo　of　dozens　of　booted　feet　marching　briskly　into　the　hangar。
“Officers　on　deck！”　yelled　another　of　the　sergeants。　Thick　veins　throbbed　at　his　temple　with　the
effort　of　projecting　his　voice　unaided　to　almost　two　thousand　men。
When　the　officers　had　halted　and　turned　to　face　the　assembled　troops；　the　oldest　of　the　sergeants
—　a　stocky　man　with　lumpy　scar…tissue　in　place　of　his　left　ear　—　strode　forwards　and　proudly
stated；　“All　men　present　and　accounted　for；　sir。　Vehicles　already　onboard；　lashed　and　locked。　Flight
and　tech…crews　ready　for　the　go。　Companies　one　to　ten　awaiting　permission　to　load。”
Colonel　Kochatkis　Vinnemann　stood　at　the　centre　of　the　group　of　officers；　hunched　as　ever；
leaning　heavily　on　his　cane；　but　resplendent　nonetheless　in　a　smart　uniform　of　deep　green　with
glittering　golden　epaulets。　Today　was　the　last　day　that　he　would　be　able　to　wear　the　regimental
colours　for　a　while。　The　duration　of　the　campaign　would　see　everyone　clothed　in　camouflaging
fatigues　of　rust…red。
Vinnemann　nodded　at　the　sergeant　in　front　of　him　and　was　about　to　issue　the　boarding　command
when　Captain　Immrich　—　tall；　dark　and　broad…shouldered　—　leaned　close　and　whispered　a　few
words　in　his　ear。　Vinnemann　frowned　a　little　at　first　but　finally　nodded　his　agreement。　He　stepped
forward；　accepted　a　vox…amp　receiver　from　the　adjutant　on　his　left；　held　the　mouthpiece　in　front　of
his　lips；　and　cleared　his　throat。　The　sound　echoed　back　at　him　from　the　vast　bulkheads。
“Those　of　you　with　me　long　enough　know　that　I　dislike　long　speeches；”　said　Vinnemann。
“Something　best　left　to　your　commissars　and　confessors；　I　think；　to　men　who　have　a　particular　talent
for　it。”
Commissar　Slayte；　the　regiment’s　widely　despised　political　officer；　dressed　as　ever　in　the　black
and　gold　of　his　office；　bowed　slightly　at　the　compliment。　Confessor　Friedrich；　on　the　other　hand；　a
flush…faced　priest　in　his　late　thirties；　merely　swayed　a　little　as　if　standing　in　a　strong　breeze　that　only
he　could　feel。
“However；”　continued　Colonel　Vinnemann；　“as　Captain　Immrich　has　rightly　reminded　me；　our
regiment　faces　something　unprecedented　in　its　history。　If　a　situation　ever　warranted　a　departure　from
my　typical　reticence；　it　is　this　one；　for　we　are　about　to　set　foot　on　a　world　firmly　and　completely　in
the　hands　of　the　hated　ork。”
It　was　Vinnemann’s　particular　habit　to　refer　to　the　old　foe　in　the　singular。　Some　of　the　men　did　a
pretty　good　impersonation　of　him；　though　never　with　any　malice。　There　was　tremendous　love　and
respect　for　the　old　colonel　among　those　who　had　served　under　him　for　any　length　of　time。　It　was
well　earned。　Those　men　whose　jibes　contained　an　edge　of　genuine　insult；　especially　those　that
mocked　his　physical　disability；　quickly　found　themselves　isolated；　cast　out　by　their　fellows。　Among
Imperial　Guardsmen；　such　exclusion　was　as　good　as　a　death　sentence。
Vinnemann’s　distinctive　posture　was　caused　by　his　augmetic　spine。　Twenty…four　years　earlier；
while　just　a　captain；　he　had　undergone　a　life…saving　augmentation　procedure　following　the
destruction　of　his　Vanquisher　battle　tank。　His　body　had　never　fully　accepted　the　implant。　Regular
injections　of　immunosuppressants　and　painkillers　eased　things　a　little；　but　not　much。　The　injury
should　have　killed　him；　and　so；　too；　the　subsequent　operation；　but　his　indomitable　spirit　had　kept
him　alive；　that　and　the　care　of　the　Medicae　nurse　he　later　married。　During　his　slow；　painful　recovery；
his　superiors　had　offered　him　the　option　of　an　honourable　discharge。　It　seemed　to　them　the　only
logical　choice。
Vinnemann　had　rejected　it　without　hesitation。　“A　rear　echelon　position；　then；”　they　had
suggested；　but　the　old　tanker　had　rejected　that；　too。　“My　duty；”　he　had　insisted；　“is　to　lead　my　men
from　the　front；　no　matter　what；　and；　so　long　as　I　am　able；　that　is　exactly　what　I　intend　to　do。”
Twelve　years　later；　he　had　risen　to　the　rank　of　colonel；　taking　command　of　the　entire　81st
Armoured　Regiment。
10
He　studied　them　now；　his　brave　troopers；　during　a　short　pause　in　his　speech。　A　slim　lieutenant　at
the　rear　coughed　quietly　behind　his　hand。　The　sound　was　magnified　in　the　relative　silence。
Vinnemann　drew　a　deep　breath。
“Some　of　us　have　fought　the　ork　before；”　he　continued；　“and　with　notable　success。　Our　victories
on　Phaegos　II；　Galamos　and　Indara　stand　us　in　good　stead；　though　many　of　you；　I　suppose；　had　yet
to　be　born　at　the　time　of　the　latter。　Still；　the　point　is　this：　we　know　the　ork。　We　know　that　together；
man　and　machine；　tanker　and　tank；　we　are　stronger　than　the　ork。　We　know　that　we　can　beat　the　ork。
We’ve　proved　it　time　after　time。”
He　found　himself　stunned　by　how　young　some　of　the　most　recent　reinforcements　looked　when
standing　next　to　their　more　experienced　peers。　By　the　blasted　Eye；　he　thought；　some　of　them　are
practically　children！　Was　I　ever　so　fresh…faced？
Thoughts　of　his　two　sons　bubbled　up　in　his　mind。　Both　were　serving　in　the　92nd　Infantry
Division　on　Armageddon。　They　had　grown　into　fine　soldiers。　Was　it　too　much　to　hope　for　their
safety？　Was　it　foolish　to　pray　for　them？　Millions　would　die　to　stop　the　foe　on　Armageddon；　tens　of
millions；　perhaps。　Yarrick’s　war　demanded　it。　The　very　heart　of　the　Imperium　was　at　stake。　Why
should　his　sons　be　spared　the　fate　of　their　comrades？　He　knew　that　glory；　victory　and　a　good　death
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；　fo