Gunheads(科幻战争)-第11部分

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dust　on　the　contacts；　dust　clogging　the　fuel　lines。　Clean　the　dust　out　and　you　were　fine；　good　to　go。　It
just　took　a　little　work；　a　few　minutes’　attention。　Siemens　and　his　crew　had　been　dead　men　from　the
moment　it　happened。　They　never　stood　a　chance。
It　could　have　happened　to　any　of　them。　Last　Rites　II　could　have　stalled　just　as　easily。　He　knew
that。　It　was　a　cruel　thing　that　had　happened　to　Siemens；　but　Wulfe　couldn’t　deny　a　guilty　relief。　His
crew　was　alive。　He　was　alive。
His　footsteps　took　him　towards　the　wreckage　of　Frontline　Crusader；　and　he　stopped　just　a　few
metres　from　her。　She　was　nothing　but　a　black　husk　now。　Her　machine…spirit　was　gone。　She　was　a
corpse　like　the　countless　bodies　that　surrounded　her。　Thankfully；　someone　had　removed　Siemens’
remains　from　the　turret。　Wulfe　hoped　the　bodies　of　the　men　inside　had　been　removed；　too。　Throne
help　the　support　crew　who　had　taken　care　of　that。　It　was　a　miserable　business。　Wulfe　had　seen　some
terrible　things　in　his　time：　turret　baskets　painted　red　ent　caked　in　bone　fragments
and　gore；　blackened　bodies　fused　together　by　flame　so　that　you　couldn’t　tell　where　one　man　ended
and　another　began。　Little　wonder　that　infantrymen　sometimes　referred　to　tanks　as　“steel　coffins”。
Years　ago；　Confessor　Friedrich　had　taken　it　on　himself　to　deal　with　that　kind　of　mess　as　often　as
possible；　working　quickly；　quietly；　and　without　solicitation　or　complaint。　No　one　had　asked　him　to
take　on　such　a　burden；　but　it　wasn’t　right；　he　said；　for　tank　men　to　have　to　see　such　things。　Wulfe
hoped　the　confessor　had　got　down　safely　with　the　rest　of　the　regiment。　He　was　a　good　man。　Given
the　horrors　he　put　himself　through；　it　was　no　wonder　he　drank　so　much。
Moving　closer　to　the　black　husk　of　the　tank；　Wulfe　saw　again　the　two　great　gouges　in　her　side。
The　armour　plating　had　melted　around　the　wounds；　creating　a　jutting　lip　of　metal　under　each。　He
stretched　out　a　hand　and　found　that　the　metal　was　cool　to　the　touch。
Walking　around　to　her　other　side；　he　found　another　hole。　She　had　been　hit　simultaneously　on
both　flanks　with　three　separate　impacts。　The　weapons　that　had　killed　her　had　been　rocket…propelled
grenades　with　shaped　charges。　The　implications　were　grim。　Over　more　than　two　decades　of　battle；
Wulfe　had　faced　the　full　gamut　of　antitank　weapons；　from　magnetic　mines　to　man…portable
lascannons。　He　had　seen　shaped　charges　employed　by　armies　of　rebels　and　heretics　all　too　often；　but
he　had　never　seen　orks　field　them。　He　had　seen　them　use　simple　rockets　sometimes；　but　this　was
different。　Here　was　a　weapon　that；　with　a　jet　of　molten　copper；　made　a　mockery　of　armour　up　to　two
hundred　millimetres　thick。
From　now　on；　he　and　the　other　tank　commanders　would　have　to　be　extra　wary。　The　orks　had
always　been　dangerous　at　close　quarters；　especially　to　infantry。　Now　they　were　just　as　dangerous　to
tanks。
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Leaving　the　wreckage　of　Frontline　Crusader　behind　him；　he　started　walking　towards　one　of　the
wrecked　ork　artillery　pieces　that　van　Droi’s　Vanquisher　had　taken　out　at　long　range。　Ten　metres
away；　he　stopped　and　stared　at　it；　noting　the　bodies　of　the　greenskin　crew　that　lay　around　its
shredded　tracks。　They　were　little　more　than　heaps　of　smoking　bone　and　gristle。　Even　before　it　had
been　turned　into　burning　junk；　the　machine　had　been　an　ugly　thing。　It　was　often　hard　to　believe　that
these　ork　vehicles　could　function　at　all。　Its　massive　gun　was　ruptured；　peeled　back　like　the　skin　of　a
fruit；　ragged　metal　ends　twisted　outwards　from　a　blast　within。　Wulfe　supposed　a　round　had　exploded
in　the　barrel　when　the　turret　had　been　struck。　What　remained　of　the　track　assemblies　showed　them　to
be　huge；　almost　as　wide　as　Wulfe　was　tall；　and　cruelly　spiked；　though　they　hardly　needed　to　be
given　the　nature　of　the　terrain。　Flat；　open　desert　was　ideal　for　treaded　machines。　Wulfe　knew　that
adding　spikes　was　just　something　orks　tended　to　do。　There　were　other　examples　nearby；　including
suits　of　body　armour　adorned　in　a　similar　fashion。　Orks　built　everything　that　way：　big；　heavy；　spiky
and　loud。　Laying　waste　to　their　misbegotten　creations　was　a　duty　Wulfe　relished。
“Showed　the　bastards　this　time；　didn’t　we？”　said　a　rasping　voice　behind　him。
Wulfe　turned　to　see　a　Kasrkin　storm　trooper　crouching　on　the　sand　nearby；　leaning　over　a
lifeless　greenskin；　tugging　hard　on　a　pair　of　metal　pliers　that　were　clamped　around　one　of　the　dead
monster’s　jutting　tusks。　The　Kasrkin　had　removed　his　helmet；　laying　it　beside　him　on　the　sand　while
he　worked。　Clearly；　the　stench　from　the　ork　bodies　didn’t　bother　him　much。　He　was　younger　than
Wulfe；　though　the　profusion　of　criss…crossing　scars　that　marked　his　hard　face　added　a　few　years。　His
skin　was　swarthy　and　his　hair　so　blond　it　was　almost　white。　A　south…hiver；　then；　a　Kasr　Derth　man；
or　Kasr　Viklas；　maybe。　Back　on　Cadia；　men　from　the　north　and　south　didn’t　always　get　on；　but　the
friction　usually　vanished　the　moment　they　got　off…world。　Cadians　tended　to　stick　together　in　the　end；
whichever　hive　they　originally　came　from。
“I　reckon　we　did；”　Wulfe　replied。
The　Kasrkin　didn’t　look　up。　He　yanked　hard　on　his　pliers；　and　the　ork　tooth　came　loose　with　a
spurt　of　thick　red　blood。　He　transferred　the　pliers　to　his　clean　hand　and　shook　red　droplets　onto　the
sand；　muttering　an　oath。
“Which　one　is　yours　then？”　he　asked。
“Sorry？”
“Which　tank？”
“Last　Rites　II。　She’s　a　standard　Leman　Russ。”
“Is　that　right？”　asked　the　Kasrkin；　not　looking　up。　“What　number？”　He　fixed　his　pliers　to　the
dead　ork’s　other　tusk　and　began　working　them　backwards　and　forwards；　trying　to　free　the　roots　from
the　massive　jawbone。
“Nine…two…one；”　said　Wulfe；　slightly　suspicious　of　the　soldier’s　interest。　Kasrkin　weren’t　known
to　be　garrulous。　Conversation　with　them　was　rare。
“Nine…two…one；”　the　storm　trooper　repeated　between　grunts。　The　corpse’s　remaining　tusk　was
putting　up　a　bit　of　a　struggle。　“Yeah；　I　saw　you。　Carried　some　of　our　wounded　out；　right？”
There　was　a　sharp　cracking　sound。　Wulfe　winced　as　he　saw　the　tusk　come　free　with　a　gush　of
crimson。　Grinning；　the　Kasrkin　held　up　his　prize　so　that　Wulfe　could　see　it；　white　as　bone；　as　long　as
a　man’s　middle　finger；　and　tapering　to　a　nasty　point。　He　dropped　the　excised　tooth　into　a　darkly
stained　canvas　bag　by　his　right　knee；　and　said；　“I　saw　that　one　over　there　brew　up。　He　was　your
mate；　was　he？　No　way　to　go；　burning　up　like　that　in　a　big　tin　box。”
Right；　thought　Wulfe　bitterly；　thanks　for　that。　“They　were　good　men。　They’ll　be　with　the
Emperor　now。”
The　Kasrkin　didn’t　speak。　He　picked　up　his　bag　of　teeth；　rose　to　his　feet；　and　moved　to　the　next
greenskin　carcass。
Wulfe　didn’t　need　to　ask　why　the　soldier　was　pulling　teeth。　He　had　seen　it　done　before。　Some
said　that　the　orks　were　superstitious　and　that　finding　their　dead　kin　with　tusks　removed　put　a　terrible
fear　into　them。　He　doubted　that。　Fear　wasn’t　something　orks　seemed　prone　to。　On　the　other　hand；　he
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knew　troopers　who　traded　the　tusks　for　packets　of　smokes　and　bottles　of　alcohol。　There　was　usually
at　least　one　man　in　a　regiment　who　could　fashion　them　into　charms　or　trinkets。　Sometimes；
depending　on　the　planet；　civilian　traders　would　offer　a　high　price　for　them。　It　was　illegal；　of　course；
under　the　alien　artefact　laws。　Commissar　Slayte　had　executed　two　men　for　it　a　few　years　back。
Repeat　offenders。　Rather　than　shoot　them；　he　had　chosen　to　snap　their　necks。　It　hadn’t　helped　his
popularity　much。
The　Kasrkin　was　focused　on　his　morbid　dentistry；　and　Wulfe　decided　to　head　back　to　his　crew。
Maybe　van　Droi　had　new　orders　for　them。　The　sooner　they　left；　the　better。
Without　saying　another　word　to　the　Kasrkin；　he　turned　and　began　walking；　weaving　his　way
between　the　heaped　corpses；　but　he　hadn’t　gone　ten　metres　when　he　heard　a　shout。
“Hey！　Nine…two…one！”
Wulfe　turned。
“Souvenir！”　called　the　Kasrkin；　and　he　threw　a　shining　object　into　the　air。　It　curved　towards
Wulfe；　who　reached　out　a　hand　and　caught　it。　Opening　his　fingers；　he　saw　a　long；　curving　tusk　with
four　pointed　roots。　It　was　still　sticky　with　blood。
He　looked　up；　expecting　some　explanation；　but　the　Kasrkin　was　already　moving　off　towards
another　corpse；　happily　humming　a　tune。
Wulfe　rubbed　the　ork　tooth　clean　on　his　rust…coloured　fatigues；　stuffed　it　into　his　thigh　pocket；
and　moved　off。　The　muted　glow　of　the　sun　was　nearing　the　western　horizon。　There　was　perhaps
another　hour　before　nightfall。　He　hoped　van　Droi　had　a　plan。　Then　again；　he　thought；　maybe　the
lieutenant　was　no　longer　in　charge。
Voeder　Lenck　was　lying　back；　relaxing　on　one　of　his　tank’s　track…guards　after　a　good　smoke；　when
Sergeant　Wulfe　walked　by。　The　rest　of　the　New　Champion’s　crew　were　sitting　on　the　sand；　playing
cards　and　passing　around　a　lho…stick　that　contained　a　few　ingredients　which　were　not　exactly
standard。
Lenck　heard　the　sergeant’s　footsteps　in　the　sand　as　he　approached　and　raised　one　eyelid。　Here
we　go；　he　thought。　The　uptight　prick　won’t　be　able　to　help　himself。
Sure　enough；　the　sergeant’s　nose　crinkled　and　he　stopped　dead　in　his　tracks；　looking　down　at　the
gambling　crewmen。　With　their　senses　dulled　by　the　smoky　narcotic；　and　with　the　game　absorbing
their　full　attention；　they　didn’t　even　notice　him。
“Haha！　Frak　you；　Varnuss；”　said　a　jubilant　Private　Riesmann。　“That’s　twice　I’ve　had　you　with
the　same　damned　hand。　Heretic’s　gotta　pay　up；　you　big　grox’s　arse。”
Private　Varnuss；　a　thick…necked；　low…browed　man　with　a　shock　of　bright　orange　hair；　growled
and　said；　“If　I　find　out　you’re　cheatin’；　Riesmann；　I’m　gonna　bite　your　nose　off　and　spit　it　in　your
face。”
Despite　the　threat；　he　thrust　a　big　hand　inside　his　fatigues　and　drew　out　two　vials　of　clear　liquid。
With　a　dark　look；　he　passed　them　to　Riesmann；　who　accepted　them　with　a　smug　grin；　pocketed
them；　and　began　to　shuffle　the　cards　again。
“You　do　realise；　gentlemen；”　said　Wulfe　sharply；　“that　the　game　of　Heretic　is　banned　by
Imperial　edict。”　The　three　men　seated　on　the　ground　gave　a　start　and　jumped　to　their　feet；　scattering
cards　everywhere。　The　lho…stick　fell　to　the　sand　where　it　continued　to　burn；　lacing　the　air　with　its
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