Gunheads(科幻战争)-第14部分

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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　hot　desert　air　as　it　whipped　at　his　collar。　Adrenaline　surged　through
him；　familiar　and　welcome。　Two　and　a　half　decades　of　this；　with　combat　experience　spanning　a
dozen　contested　worlds；　and　still　it　thrilled　him　like　nothing　else　ever　could。　He　would　never　tire　of
it；　never。
In　lethal　range；　he　pulled　the　heavy　bolter’s　trigger　back　and　loosed　a　flood　of　explosive　shells。
The　noise　was　deafening；　even　with　his　ear…protectors　firmly　in　place。　The　recoil　was　wicked；　too；
despite　much　of　it　being　absorbed　by　the　pintle…mount。　The　gun　kicked　hard　in　his　hands；　pouring
spent　cartridges　from　its　ejector　like　brass　rain。
He　strafed　the　orks　in　front　of　him　as　their　return　fire　danced　and　sparked　on　the　thick　front
armour　of　his　tank。　Dozens　were　struck；　bolts　punching　deep　into　meaty　bodies　before　detonating　a
fraction　of　a　second　later　with　sickening；　yet　satisfying　effect。
All　along　the　line；　his　tank　commanders　were　doing　the　same；　manning　the　heavy　stubbers　and
bolters　that　graced　the　lip　of　each　cupola。　Those　few　tanks　with　sponson…mounted　weapons
chattered　and　blazed　even　louder　than　the　others。　Hull…mounted　weapons；　too；　spat　deadly　torrents
into　the　enemy　force；　leaving　the　orks　nowhere　to　run　to　escape　the　slaughter。
Van　Droi　didn’t　shout　or　growl　or　laugh　madly　like　some　men　did　while　they　fired　on　the　foe。
That　was　for　youngsters　and　fools；　in　his　opinion。　Instead；　he　let　go　of　everything；　losing　his　sense
of　self；　becoming　part　of　a　kind　of　gestalt　entity　that　encompassed　the　tank　and　her　entire　crew。　The
fighting　always　seemed　to　go　so　smoothly　when　this　happened；　as　if　each　man　instinctively　knew
what　needed　to　be　done　without　having　to　ask。　The　mark　of　a　good　crew；　he　thought。　No。　An
exceptional　one。
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A　sudden　crackle　of　static　on　his　intercom　yanked　van　Droi　from　his　almost　trance…like　state。
The　gruff　voice　of　his　loader　sounded　in　his　ear。　“Vox…panel’s　flashing　down　here；　sir。　Looks　like
you’ve　got　a　call　coming　in　from　one　of　the　footsloggers。”
Van　Droi　picke