open outwards. They’re far too big to ram open anyway. How in the blasted warp are we going to
breach them?”
It was Colonel Vinnemann, hunched in his chair like some kind of cathedral gargoyle, who
answered. “We all know orks. Chances are, when they see us coming, they’ll open the gates and
start spilling out like rats from a burning building. We can fight our way through if we don’t give
them a chance to close the gates again.”
Bergen caught General deViers looking over at the disfigured form of Vinnemann with an
expression of barely concealed distaste, and, for the first time since leaving Hadron Base, he felt a
sudden powerful resurgence in his contempt for the old general.
“And if they don’t come spilling out?” asked a dark-skinned colonel by the name of Meyers. He
was tall and thin, vulture-like, and one of his eyes was a white orb without a hint of iris or pupil. He
was one of Killian’s men.
Colonel Vinnemann smiled his crooked smile and said, “Then Angel of the Apocalypse will have
to roll up and knock on their door.”
Bergen scanned the faces of the men seated in the tent and saw a few smiling at Vinnemann’s
remark, but the atmosphere was still heavy. No one had really expected this. They weren’t prepared
for any kind of extended siege. They were hundreds of kilometres from their forward base, and if
they entered any kind of stalemate with the orks, their supply lines would be extremely vulnerable.
If the orks had any kind of air power, bombing Red Gorge would cut the expeditionary force off
from all contact with Balkar. The intelligence guiding the mission had been sketchy from the
beginning — a patchwork of Mechanicus probe data, military maps dating back forty years, and
Officio Strategos guesswork — but Bergen had never been so sharply aware of the entire mission’s
freewheeling, underpinned nature as he was right now.
“So, a full frontal assault,” said Killian unenthusiastically. “We’ll be naked, mind you. All our
machines racing forwards across open ground… If the Emperor isn’t watching over us, it’ll be a
bloody massacre at mid-range. You all heard what Bussmann said about the number of cannon on
the wall.”
“I think we can discount much of that,” said a scowling deViers. “Half of the time, ork
weaponry doesn’t even work.”
“And the other half,” said Rennkamp, his eyes flashing, “it rips our boys apart.”
DeViers looked suddenly furious, on the verge of throwing one of his rages, but the sheer
number of men present and their quiet, concentrated manner seemed enough to quell the outburst
before it got started.
That was close, thought Bergen. Rennkamp and Killian are really letting loose on him. Fine with
me, but I’m not sure the colonels need to see it.
Bergen didn’t disagree with his peers. They had merely voiced the thoughts that had been
circling in his own head all this time. Here they all were, after so many days crossing bare sand and
rock, chasing a relic that, in all likelihood, no longer existed, and before them was the last and
greatest obstacle they would face. Beyond that towering wall of iron and steel, in a rocky valley
somewhere at the foot of the Ishawar range, lay the end of this nightmare. Yarrick’s tank would
either be there or it wouldn’t. In either case, breaking through the wall would bring a close to this
whole endeavour. They could pull out. They could head for Armageddon, where the fighting really
mattered.
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“I say we do it,” said Bergen, suddenly committed. Every eye in the room turned towards him.
“A full frontal assault, hammering them with everything we have. If we concentrate our efforts on a
small enough section, I think we can pull it off. I think we can break through.”
“Knew you’d see it my way,” said a delighted deViers, leaning across in his chair to slap Bergen
on the shoulder.
Bergen fought not to flinch away from the general’s hand.
What choice have I got? he thought bitterly. Throne forgive me if I want a quick end to this. It’s
your fault we’re here at all, you glory-hunting old bastard. By the Emperor, I hope this is the last
time I serve under you. With a bit of luck, it’ll be the last time anyone does.
“Colonel Vinnemann, you’ll lead the vanguard,” said deViers. “I want your Shadowsword right
up front, primed and ready. If the orks do rush out as expected, you will pull back to a safer distance
and offer fire support under Major General Bergen’s directions. But if the greenskins decide to play
it safe, I want you ready to show them the Emperor’s wrath. Understood?”
“You pick the gate, sir,” said Vinnemann, “and my old girl will peel it apart. You’ll see.”
Bergen felt he had to speak. He faced Vinnemann, but his words were for deViers. “What the
noble colonel is not telling you, general, is that such a shot will leave his tank utterly stationary for
long seconds both before and after firing. The Angel of the Apocalypse will draw heavy enemy fire
during that time.”
Vinnemann actually looked hurt, as if he thought Bergen was criticising him and his tank.
“She has more armour than any other machine in the army group,” he said defensively. “She can
shrug off whatever they throw at us. Besides,” he added matter-of-factly, “if things get too heavy,
we’ll pop smoke.”
Bergen frowned.
“Then it’s decided,” said General deViers, eager to move on. With two fingers, he tapped a sheet
of crumpled parchment he had laid out on a small table in front of him. It was the map Marrenburg’s
scout had drawn. “Now listen carefully, all of you. We’ll be attacking this gate here. It’s more
isolated than the others, which will give us more time to react to any flanking manoeuvres. I expect
they’ll send troops out from a number of the nearest gates once we’ve engaged. Anyway, this is our
target and I’m designating it point alpha. With the exception of Colonel Vinnemann, all officers
ranked major or higher will stay behind this area here.” With a finger, he drew an imaginary line
across the map where he believed the ork artillery would be unable to strike. “I don’t imagine the
orks have anything that can reach quite this far out. I’ll be coordinating the attack personally from
my Chimera. Rennkamp, Killian, Bergen, you’ll relay my orders to your respective divisions from
your own vehicles.”
“Understood, sir,” said Killian.
Bergen didn’t speak. He noticed a fresh gleam that had crept into the general’s eyes.
“Then let’s disperse, gentlemen,” deViers told the colonels in the tent. “Prepare for the assault.
Your divisional commanders will have more specifics for you within the hour. Dismissed.”
The regimental leaders saluted, turned, and marched out of the tent. Bergen considered
following Vinnemann out for a private word, but deViers said, “You three stay a while longer. I
want your input on formations.”
What did Vinnemann think he was doing? Bergen wondered. When the orks spotted Angel of the
Apocalypse sitting out there on the sand, they would hit her with everything they had. She was one
hell of a target, easily three times the size of the vehicles that would be escorting her, and, just like
at Karavassa, she would be utterly immobile while her capacitors charged for firing. The blast from
her Volcano cannon would draw every ork eye on the wall to her, and after the shot, the crew would
need valuable seconds to switch the generator back over to power the treads again. Seconds counted
for everything when the shells were falling all around you. Popping smoke would only help shield
the Angel of the Apocalypse if the wind stayed low. If it picked up, it would blow the cover straight
off of her.
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Vinnemann knew all this, of course. He just wasn’t about to let any of it stop him doing his duty.
Bergen wondered if perhaps the colonel’s pain had become too much for him after all these years.
Was the man growing impatient for an honourable death? Throne, thought Bergen, I hope it’s not
that.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
The chaos of battle erupted the moment the orks spotted them. The wall was manned, as General
deViers had known it would be. In fact, there were many thousands of greenskins on it, a huge
garrison force, and they leapt to man their long-guns as soon as they noticed the approaching dust
cloud of the speeding Cadian armour.
The tanks of the 81st Armoured Regiment moved in loose formation, a broad fighting line with
van Droi’s Gunheads on the far right flank. Captain Immrich’s 1st Company ran escort to Colonel
Vinnemann’s massive Shadowsword.
It was midday, searing hot, and the thick, muddy sky churned and roiled above the battlefield.
“Charge!” yelled van Droi to his tank commanders over the vox.
The Gunheads roared towards the wall, tearing up the ground that lay between them and their
foes. The entire strength of Vinnemann’s regiment was being thrown at the wall in one massive
surge: ten companies of Imperial tanks, though no company could boast of being at full strength.
Every single one had taken losses on the journey east. They were still a force to be reckoned with,
however, still something special to see as they tore across the sand. Bursts of black smoke
announced heavy firing from the parapets, and the hot desert air filled with deep booming thunder.
Great black-rimmed craters began appearing in the sand where the first artillery rounds struck. The
orks could hammer the Cadians from this distance with impunity, and the constant barrage soon
claimed its first victims. Three of Lieutenant Keissler’s 2nd Company tanks were torn apart by
tremendous explosions. They were the first of many to fall. Keissler rallied his surviving crews,
keeping them in the line.
The men that died at least died quickly. The ork shells were huge and heavy, packed with
devastating amounts of explosive. The tanks they struck were smashed apart by the blasts. There
was no brewing up, no burning alive in steel coffins, just a sudden, brutal end. Three black husks,
barely recognisable as Leman Russ tanks, sat pouring out smoke while other tanks surged past them
to continue the push.
The orks had found their range, and Colonel Vinnemann ordered all companies to fan out.
Bunching together, with the full weight of the ork defences raining down on them, was suicide.
There was still some way to go before the Cadians entered effective firing range. Even in
Golgotha’s gravity, a standard Leman Russ battle cannon could take out targets at a distance of over
two kilometres but the ork artillery was pounding them from twice that. Closing the gap at speed
was paramount.
Like her sister tanks, Last Rites II roared over the low dunes with all her hatches closed. Wulfe
sat in the rear of the turret basket, peering through the vision blocks that ringed the rim of his
cupola, shouting instructions to his crew. “That’s it, Metzger. Keep her speed up.”
Looking left along the Cadian line, he saw van Droi’s Foe-Breaker to his immediate right.
Beyond her, scores of other tanks raced forwards. It was quite a sight. Suddenly, bright light stabbed
at his eyes and he grunted in pain. When he opened them again, he was glad to see van Droi’s tank
still at his side. He turned to look behind and saw a burning black wreck. Someone else had been hit.
Thick black smoke poured outwards and upwards.
That could have been us, thought Wulfe.
Metzger was squeezing every bit of speed he could from the old girl, pushing her forward at full
tilt, her engine roaring like a mad carnotaur, her suspension bouncing and juddering, tossing the men
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in the turret basket around like dolls. There were more flashes of light, more bone-shaking booms.
Wulfe saw two more wrecks drop from the Cadian line, fountains of dirt and rock exploding on all
sides as the greenskins continued to rain shells on the rapidly advancing Imperial force. Van Droi’s
Vanquisher had pulled ahead. Wulfe saw her swerve violently to one side, just missing a huge pillar
of fire and dust that geysered upwards into the air. Van Droi’s driver, Nalzigg, really was good,
thought Wulfe. Foe-Breaker had escaped destruction by a hair’s breadth. Metzger must have seen it
too. A second later, he swerved to avoid ditching Last Rites II into the crater caused by the
explosion.
Beans banged his head on the metal housing of his gun scope. “Damn it!”
“Watch yourself,” shouted Wulfe over the cacophony of battle. “Keep your eyes pressed to the
scope’s padding.”
Even over the intercom, it was difficult to hear each other. The artillery fire, explosions and
engine noise were deafening.
“I want this crate ready to fire the moment we make range,” said Wulfe. “High explosives.
We’ve got to take out those wall-guns so the infantry don’t get minced following us in.”
Up ahead and to the left, some of the tanks from the other companies had pressed forward into
firing range, and their guns began to answer the orks’. The tanks were travelling too fast to fire with
any real accuracy, but Wulfe saw bright blossoms of fire burst into life as shells hit the wall. It
didn’t look like they were very effective. The orks’ answering barrage, however, managed to
destroy a number of tanks from the 5th and 8th Companies.
“By the frakking Eye!” spat Wulfe. “How can we expect to hit anything in a full sprint? Who
conceived this bloody plan?”
Metzger spoke over the intercom. “We just made range!”
“Beans,” said Wulfe, “line her up on one of those wall-guns. The bigger the better.”
“Got one,” said Beans. “Halfway up the wall on our two o’clock. How about it? The gun-port to
the upper left of the central gate, sarge?”
Wulfe scanned the wall and found it. It was one of the biggest barrels visible. A good target. The
muzzle was so damned wide a man could have sat comfortably inside it.
“Nice,” said Wulfe. “Siegler, high-explosive. Beans, zero in. It’ll be a tough shot. We’ll have to
fire on the move.”
“I can do it, sarge,” said Beans.
Siegler slammed a shell into the battle cannon’s breech, yanked the locking lever and yelled,
“She’s lit!”
“Metzger,” said Wulfe, “drop her down into third but, for Throne’s sake, keep us moving.
Steady as you can.”
“Aye, sir,” said Metzger.
Last Rites II slowed abruptly, and the tanks on either side began to pull further away from her.
Wulfe barely noticed. His eyes were locked to the target. When he felt that Metzger had her
steady in third, he called, “Fire!”
“Brace,” shouted Beans, and he stamped on the firing pedal with his right foot. Last Rites II
