Gunheads(科幻战争)-第3章

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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　f