Gunheads(科幻战争)-第21章

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intoxicating　fumes。
“Sergeant　Wulfe；　sir；”　stammered　Private　Hobbs；　the　shortest　of　the　men。　“Wasn’t　playing　no
Heretic；　sir。　Just　a　harmless　game　of…　er…”
Wulfe　ignored　him。　He　stepped　forward；　bent　down；　and　picked　up　the　burning　lho…stick。
Sniffing　it；　he　said；　“Do　I　frakking　look　like　I　was　born　yesterday；　Hobbs？”　He　held　the　lho…stick　up
in　front　of　the　little　man’s　face。　“This　groxshit　addles　the　brain；　which　would　explain　why　you’d
think　you　could　lie　to　me　and　get　away　with　it。”
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Lenck　opened　both　eyes　now；　turned　his　head　in　Sergeant　Wulfe’s　direction；　and；　with　an
exaggerated　sigh；　slid　down　from　the　side　of　the　New　Champion。　Time　to　see　if　saving　the
sergeant’s　life　was　a　mistake　or　not；　he　thought。　“My　fault；　sergeant。　My　fault。　Sorry。”
Wulfe’s　eyes　narrowed。　“You’re　accepting　full　responsibility　for　this；　corporal？　I　find　that　hard
to　believe。”
Lenck’s　shirt　had　been　tied　around　his　narrow　waist　while　he　rested；　but　now　he　pulled　it　up；
shrugging　into　the　sleeves　and　buttoning　it　over　his　chest。　His　dog　tags　clinked　together　as　he　did　so。
“I　taught　them　a　new　game　while　we　were　still　in　the　Empyrean；　sir。　S’called…　er…　Ship…shape。
Yeah；　that’s　the　one。　Isn’t　that　right；　lads？　It’s　a　good　game　is　Ship…shape。　I’ll　admit；　though；
sergeant；　it　does　look　a　lot　like　Heretic　to　the　untrained　eye。　I　can　understand　you　figuring　one　for
the　other。”
Wulfe　glared。　“Really；　Lenck？　Because　I　could　have　sworn　I　heard　Riesmann　say　something
about　the　heretic　having　to　pay　up。　But　let’s　just　say　I　believe　you。　What　do　you　have　to　say　about
this！”　For　the　second　time；　he　raised　the　dubious　lho…stick。
“Ah；　now　that　one’s　not　down　to　me；　sergeant；”　said　Lenck　amiably。　“No。　That　there　was　given
to　us　by　one　of　Colonel　Stromm’s　lot。　I　thought　there　was　something　funny　about　it；　to　be　honest。
Didn’t　I　say　so；　lads？　Not　like　a　bloody　footslogger　to　go　sharing　his　sticks　with　us　tankers；　is　it；
sergeant？　Suspicious　bit　of　generosity；　that。　I　told　them　not　to　smoke　it；　but　it　wasn’t　an　order　or
anything。”
“And　did　this　mysterious　footslogger　give　you　his　name？　Or　any　more　of　his　smokes？　Well？”
Lenck　shook　his　head；　unblinking；　never　breaking　eye　contact　with　his　squadron　leader。　“Just　the
one；　sergeant。　Honest。　Look；　you　can　have　it　if　you　want。　Not　my　business　if　you　like　a　little　smoke
now　and　then。”
He　watched　Wulfe’s　face　change　colour　and　knew　he　was　stepping　dangerously　close　to　the　line；
but　he　had　to　know　how　far　he　could　push　things　now　that　this　man；　who　clearly　hated　him；　owed
him　his　life。
Wulfe　dropped　the　lho…stick　and　ground　it　into　the　sand　with　his　boot。
Private　Riesmann　winced　miserably。
Wulfe　stepped　in　close　to　Lenck　and；　in　hushed　tones；　said；　“You　thought　about　it；　didn’t　you；
corporal？　Earlier　today？”
“Thought　about　what；　sergeant？”　Lenck　replied　innocently。
“Don’t　play　the　fool。　I　saw　it　in　your　eyes　after　you　killed　that　ork。　Thought　about　putting　a　few
rounds　in　me；　didn’t　you？　Dangerous　weapons；　heavy　stubbers。　They　kick　like　an　auroch。　Not　hard
for　a　few　rounds　to　go　wide　in　the　heat　of　battle。　Who　knows？　The　others　might　have　believed　you。”
Lenck　blinked；　feigning　a　look　of　horror。　Matching　his　voice　to　the　low　level　of　the　sergeant’s；
he　said；　“You’re　off　your　damned　nut；　Wulfe。　I　shouldn’t　be　surprised。　You’ve　had　it　in　for　me　since
the　day　I　joined　this　regiment。　Damned　if　I　know　why。　An　inferiority　complex；　maybe？　The　only
thing　I　shot　today　was　orks；　a　lot　of　them。　But；　if　you　want　to　tell　me　what　your　bloody　problem　is；
I’m　all　ears。　If　not…”
Wulfe　stepped　back；　fists　clenched；　and　Lenck　readied　himself　to　dodge　a　punch；　but　the
growling　sergeant　didn’t　swing。　Instead；　he　said　one　word。　“Dunst。”
“What？”　asked　Lenck。
“Does　the　name　Dunst　mean　anything　to　you；　corporal？　Victor　Dunst。”
The　sergeant　was　clearly　expecting　some　kind　of　reaction；　but　the　name　meant　absolutely
nothing　to　Lenck。　He　shrugged　and　said；　“Should　it？”
Wulfe　stared　back。　After　a　moment；　the　cold　rage　in　his　eyes　seemed　to　dim；　and　he　said；　“No；　I
suppose　not。　Throne；　Dunst　would　be　twice　your　age　by　now。”
Lenck　stared　back。　This　bastard　has　a　screw　loose；　he　thought。　Rattling　around　inside　a　tank　for
so　long　has　damaged　the　man’s　brain。　He’s　no　better　than　that　idiot　loader　of　his。
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“I’ll　forget　what　I　saw　here　just　this　once；”　said　Wulfe；　“because　of　what　happened　today。　But
now　we’re　square。　Got　it？　You　and　your　men　had　better　shape　the　hell　up；　Lenck。　Maybe　life　was　a
bit　more　relaxed　in　the　frakking　reserves；　but　let　me　tell　you　something　about　Gossefried’s
Gunheads。　We　do　our　duty。　We　work　for　our　chops。　Start　toeing　the　line　or；　Throne　help　me；　I’ll
make　it　my　personal　mission　to　help　you　regret　it。”
The　sergeant　kept　his　eyes　locked　with　Lenck’s；　as　if　daring　him　to　say　something　smart；　but；　if
Wulfe　had　been　hoping　to　see　fear　in　them；　he　was　out　of　luck。　Lenck　stared　back　with　a　barely
suppressed　grin。　“You’re　an　example　to　us　all；　sergeant。　Gentlemen；”　he　called　to　his　crew。　“Thank
the　sergeant　for　putting　you　straight　and　saving　you　from　the　potential　dangerous　of　suspicious　gifts
and　unsanctioned　card　games。”
As　one　and　without　any　trace　of　sincerity；　Lenck’s　crew　shouted；　“Thank　you；　Sergeant　Wulfe！”
Wulfe’s　gaze　didn’t　shift。　“And　you；　corporal？”　he　asked。
“Me；　sergeant？”　said　Lenck；　overplaying　the　innocent。　“I　was　asleep　on　the　tank。　I　wasn’t
playing　cards；　and　I’ve　never　smoked　a　lho…stick　in　my　life；　laced　or　otherwise。　That’s　the
Emperor’s　own　truth；　I　swear。”
Wulfe　sneered；　but　he　apparently　had　nothing　more　to　say。　He　turned　and　stalked　off；　fists　still
clenched　at　his　side。
Lenck　watched　the　sergeant’s　back　receding　for　a　moment；　wondering　who　in　the　warp　this
Victor　Dunst　was；　and　thinking　that　it　might　be　useful　to　find　out。
He　drew　a　lho…stick　from　the　breast　pocket　of　his　shirt　and　flipped　it　into　the　air；　catching　it
between　his　lips。　Then　he　pulled　a　lighter　from　another　pocket；　lit　the　end　of　his　smoke；　and　drew　in
a　deep；　pungent　lungful。
“Have　a　nice　day；　Sergeant　Arsehole；”　he　said　and　turned　to　join　the　next　hand　of　cards。
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CHAPTER　EIGHT
The　low　clouds　overhead　flickered　like　broken　lamps；　such　was　the　intensity　of　the　fighting　outside
the　walls　of　Karavassa。
“Watch　those　gullies　to　the　south…east；”　yelled　Bergen　into　the　tiny　microphone　of　his　vox…bead。
“Don’t　let　them　flank　those　armour　companies　on　the　right！”
Basilisk　mobile　artillery　pieces　boomed　all　around　his　Chimera　APC；　vomiting　clouds　of　black
smoke　into　the　air　with　every　ear…splitting　shot。　Through　his　field　glasses；　the　major　general　watched
great　spouts　of　fire　and　sand　burst　upwards　wherever　the　massive　shells　struck。　Currently；　they　were
wreaking　terrible　destruction　on　the　ork　foot　soldiers。
The　10th　Armoured　Division　had　reached　the　rocky　hills　around　the　former　Imperial　outpost　an
hour　after　dawn。　It　was　the　eleventh　day　since　planetfall；　and　Bergen’s　forces　were　running　two
whole　days　behind　General　deViers’　demanding　mission　schedule。　The　conditions　on　Golgotha　were
beyond　frustrating。　Hour　after　hour；　his　forces　had　been　forced　to　interrupt　their　journey　eastward　to
facilitate　repairs。　The　damned　dust　was　playing　havoc　with　the　Imperial　machines。　It　wasn’t　doing
the　men　much　good　either。　Dozens　were　sick。　Bergen　had　developed　a　scratchy　cough　himself；　and
his　spit　was　tinged　with　red。
When　10th　Division　had　left　Hadron　base　six　days　ago；　the　major　general　had　been　unsettled　by
the　last…minute　addition　of　Tech…Adept　Armadron　among　their　number。　To　his　knowledge；　no　one　in
the　18th　Army　Group　had　petitioned　the　Adeptus　Mechanicus　for　such　an　honour。　Bergen　took　it　as
another　indicator　of　the　hidden　agenda　he　was　convinced　they　were　following。　So　far；　nothing
Armadron　had　said　in　their　limited　conversations　had　managed　to　convince　him　otherwise。　The　techpriest
insisted　that　his　superior　had　ordered　him　to　accompany　Bergen’s　division　purely　out　of
concern　for　their　success。　Groxshit。　The　Machine　Cult　had　manoeuvred　Imperial　forces　here；　and
sooner　or　later；　Bergen　intended　to　find　out　why。　Even　so；　Bergen　had　cause　to　be　glad　of
Armadron’s　attendance。　Despite　his　unsettling　presence；　the　tech…adept　had　proved　to　be　a　particular
asset。　He　was　a　member　of　the　priesthood’s　technicus　arm　and；　working　closely　with　senior
enginseer　Aurien；　he　had　done　much　to　keep　the　tank　columns　moving。　Without　his　tireless　efforts
and　expertise；　Bergen　doubted　his　division　would　have　made　it　here　for　many　more　days　yet。　That
would　really　have　given　old　deViers　something　to　rage　about。
Despite　being　fraught　with　problems；　the　journey　here　was　still　the　easy　part。　Now　that　they　had
engaged　the　orks　—　whole　regiments　rushing　forward　to　clash　with　them　as　they　poured　from　the
outpost’s　towering　iron　gates　—　the　damned　dust　was　proving　just　as　problematic　in　battle　as　it　had
been　on　the　move。　Since　the　fighting　had　begun；　a　number　of　Colonel　Vinnemann’s　tanks　had　been
forced　to　fight　from　static　positions；　immobilised　early　in　the　assault　by　engine　stalls。　The　fines
penetrated　everything。　If　the　brave　crews　of　the　Atlas　recovery　tanks　hadn’t　risked　enemy　fire　to　pull
those　tanks　out；　the　crews　would　have　died　where　they　sat。
Squinting　through　his　magnoculars；　Bergen　saw　greenskin　reinforcements　pushing　and　jostling
in　their　eagerness　to　join　the　fray。
“Get　some　fire　on　the　main　gates；”　he　voxed　to　his　artillery　commander。　“Hit　them　while　they’re
bunched　up。　But　don’t　damage　the　superstructure！　Remember；　we　need　to　take　the　outpost　intact。”
His　division　had　been　unable　to　surprise　the　orks；　but　then；　he　hadn’t　really　expected　to。　The
thick　sandstone　watchtowers　of　Karavassa　had　a　commanding　view　from　their　seat　on　the　basalt
bluff　up　ahead。　It　wasn’t　the　towers　that　had　raised　the　alarm　first；　however。　His　armour　columns
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had　been　sighted　when　they　were　still　about　thirty　kilometres　out　from　the　target。　Ork　bike　patrols
had　been　roaming　the　area；　their　powerful　headlamps　throwing　broad　cones　of　light　out　into　the
darkness。　Some　of　these　patrols　had　roared　out　from　between　high　dunes　and　almost　run　into　the
leadi