rocked backwards with the blast. Three plumes of fire burst from her cannon, one from the mouth of
the barrel and one from each of the apertures in either side of the muzzle brake.
The turret basket filled with the coppery stink of spent fyceline propellant. Wulfe didn’t give it a
thought. He was watching the ork wall-cannon. A fraction of a second after Last Rites II spat her
shell, a yellow ball of fire burst into existence just below the wall-cannon’s firing port. Pieces of
burning metal showered the sand at the foot of the wall. Black smoke moved on the breeze. When it
cleared, Wulfe saw…
Frak!
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“It’s a miss,” he reported to the crew. “Metzger! Floor it! Take her back up to full speed. We
have to keep moving.”
He took his eyes away from the vision blocks for a second and saw Beans hammering a fist onto
his thigh.
“Damn it!” shouted the youngster. “By the blasted Eye.”
Wulfe leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. “Beat yourself up later, son. Right now, I want
another shot lined up. Siegler? High-ex. Now!”
The loader didn’t waste any time confirming. He rammed another shell home, yanked the
locking lever and shouted, “Lit, sarge!”
Come on, Beans, thought Wulfe. Concentrate, boy.
“Metzger,” said Wulfe, “drop to third.”
“You’ve got it, sarge,” said the driver.
“Adjust your shot, Beans,” Wulfe told the gunner. “Up a little. A little more. We’re closer now.
You ready?”
“I have the shot,” said Beans.
“Take it!” said Wulfe.
There was a deep boom and a rush of pungent smoke. Last Rites II reared up on her treads with
the power of the recoil, and then hit the sand again with a rough bounce. The main gun’s breech slid
back and dumped the spent shell casing in the brass catcher on the floor.
Wulfe held on tight, eyes scanning the wall through his vision blocks. The massive gun-port
Beans had been aiming for erupted in bright red flame and black smoke.
Debris exploded outwards. Whooping and cheering filled the compartment.
“That’s more like it!” shouted Wulfe. “Metzger, back up to fifth, now!”
The engine roared. The base of the wall was no more than a kilometre away. The other
companies were already slowing to blast every last gun-port they could see. Fire and smoke poured
from the wall’s gun-ports and towers. Leman Russ Conquerors and Demolishers from the 8th and
9th Companies were lobbing shells up onto the parapets, too, desperate to take out the artillery
pieces before they could shred the infantry vehicles that would follow in the wake of the tanks.
Black smoke billowed up into the sky from all directions. Angry fires blazed all around.
From the corner of his eye, Wulfe saw a light blinking on his vox-board. He hit the toggle. It
was van Droi.
“Company leader to all tanks. We’ve been ordered to peel right. It doesn’t look like the orks are
coming out of their own accord after all. Colonel Vinnemann is about to kick their door in.”
“Metzger,” said Wulfe, “take us right, parallel with the wall. Angel of the Apocalypse is moving
up.”
Vinnemann’s massive Shadowsword had so far enjoyed the cover of the dust clouds kicked up by
the other machines as it rolled forward, moving into position to attack point alpha.
One shot, thought Vinnemann. We’ll have one shot at this. We absolutely must force a breach.
Over the vox, he head Major General Bergen say, “Are you in position, colonel?”
“A few more seconds, sir,” Vinnemann replied. Then his driver reported over the intercom that
they had position. The gunner confirmed line-of-sight. Vinnemann voxed back to Bergen. “In
position now, sir. Readying to fire.”
“We’re counting on you, Kochatkis,” said Bergen.
Vinnemann heard Bergen notify all units on the divisional command channel, “Division to all
armour, be advised. Angel of the Apocalypse is about to fire. I repeat, Angel is about to fire.”
On the tank’s intercom, Vinnemann told Schwartz, his engineer, “Switch all power to main gun.
Tell me when she’s charged.”
“Yes, sir.”
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“Vamburg,” said Vinnemann, addressing his gunner. “Full blast, full duration. Let’s turn that
gate to vapour.”
“No worries, sir. Ready to light it up.”
“Capacitors full, sir!” reported Schwartz.
“Right, Vamburg,” said Vinnemann. “You heard him. Do it!”
“Brace for firing!” shouted the gunner.
A hum filled the air inside the tank, like thousands of voices joined in a single tone that rose
until it drowned out all else. A charge passed through Vinnemann’s twisted body as he felt the space
around him vibrate. The pain he usually felt melted away for a moment as the tone rose higher and
higher. Then, suddenly, the whole bulk of the Shadowsword shook as if it had been kicked by a
giant. Blazing white light burst from her cannon, lancing straight across the battlefield, striking the
massive ork gate dead centre.
The air shook with a massive thunderous crack. The iron gate glowed blindingly bright for an
instant, and then seemed to vanish completely just as if it had never been there at all. The armoured
wall all around it glowed white, then yellow, then orange and red. Gobs of molten metal began to
rain down on the ground. Seconds later, the armour-plating had cooled again and solidified. It
looked like melted wax.
The wall was breached. The 18th Army Group had its passage, but the battle was just beginning.
Beyond the hole, ork structures burned, damaged by the destructive energy that spilled through from
the Shadowsword’s powerful blast.
Vinnemann surveyed the results of his crew’s efforts and opened a vox-link to Major General
Bergen. “Objective achieved, sir. Point alpha is open. The wall has been breached. But we must
secure it at once.”
Bergen, in turn, voxed the rest of his forces. “Division Command to all units. Move up and
secure the breach at all costs. I repeat, secure the breach at once.”
Through his vision blocks, Vinnemann saw scores of tanks wheel around and race for the gap he
had just made.
“Schwartz,” he called over his intercom, “all power to the main drive. We’ve got to move.”
Already, the ork artillery had started cutting a deadly path of dirt and fire towards Angel of the
Apocalypse. More and more of the ork guns swivelled to focus on her.
“Vamburg,” said Vinnemann. “Fine shot. But get some bloody smoke up, will you? Bekker, pull
us straight back as soon as you can. We’re a sitting target out here.”
“All power back to main drive, sir,” reported Schwartz. “Ready to move her on your say.”
“Good man,” said Vinnemann. “You heard him, Bekker. Get us out of here.”
A trio of heavy shells struck the earth just in front of the Angel’s hull, making a tight triple-beat
of explosions. The blast waves rocked her on her suspension. Vinnemann heard pieces of rock
raining down on the roof of the turret. “Damned close. The next lot will hit us for sure if we don’t
get the hell out of here. Move it!”
The mighty Shadowsword rumbled and shuddered as her giant drive sprockets started turning in
reverse, but she weighed three hundred and eight tonnes. Accelerating from a dead stop wasn’t
exactly effortless.
As she started rumbling backwards, Vinnemann heard Bergen hailing him again on the vox.
“Division to Armour Command. Can you hear me, Kochatkis?”
“Go ahead, sir,” said Vinnemann.
“You have to pull back faster. Ork fighter-bombers are inbound from the south. They’re coming
in fast.”
“From the south, sir?”
“Affirmative,” replied Bergen. “Throne knows where the hell they launched from, but, judging
by their angle of approach, they didn’t come from behind the wall.”
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“You think the orks have long-range comms, sir?” asked Vinnemann. “Could the orks on the
wall have called in an airstrike from somewhere?”
“If they have comms with that kind of range here on Golgotha,” said Bergen, “then they’re a
damned sight better off than we are. And I’ll be asking the tech-priests why. But listen, Kochatkis,
your crate is the biggest thing we’re fielding out there. Expect lots of unwelcome attention. I’m
sending some of our Hydras forward in support of you. We’ve already lost one of the Vulcans. They
weren’t designed for dogfighting. They can’t handle anything with that kind of airspeed.”
“Understood, sir,” said Vinnemann. “We’re pulling back as fast as we can, but the anti-air cover
would be much appreciated.”
“The Hydras will be with you in a few minutes, Kochatkis,” said Bergen. “Inform me when they
reach you.”
“I will, sir. Armour Command out.”
Bombers from the south, thought Vinnemann. Didn’t Stromm and van Droi report a great ork
host moving in that direction?
“Move in, move in,” shouted Wulfe over the intercom.
Metzger gunned Last Rites II forward, and they passed the melted edges of the ork wall. The
sight that greeted Wulfe was of a place in turmoil. Shoddy ork buildings were everywhere, each an
ugly mishmash of rusting steel poles and sheets of corrugated metal all bolted together at odd
angles, looped by barbed wire and painted with bright glyphs of white on red. Greenskin foot
soldiers were everywhere, crowded onto raised platforms or charging in great tides over the sandy
ground, blazing away at the intruding tanks with everything they had.
Most of the weapons they carried were heavy stubbers and flame-throwers, oversized cleavers
and axes, none of them much good against fifteen centimetres of heavy armour, but Wulfe knew that
far more dangerous weapons were available to the Golgothan orks. His eyes scanned the roaring
mobs, frantically searching for signs of the thick, tube-like weapons that had brewed up Siemens’
tank. It was an impossible task. There were too many of them, and too much movement all around.
Wulfe didn’t have time to make a count of how many tanks from the 81st had survived to pass
the breach. He had some sense that the number might be around fifty, meaning that fully half of the
regiment’s armour had been lost in getting this far. As he thought this, trails of bright flame streaked
out from one of the tower-like constructions and struck a tank to his left. The tank exploded in a
spectacular ball of orange flame.
“Shaped charges,” he yelled over the vox to any of the other tank commanders that might be
listening. “They’ve got anti-tank weaponry!”
The vox-chatter he heard back told him which tank had been hit.
“Dark Majestic is down,” shouted someone. “Anti-tank fire from ten o’clock high.”
Dark Majestic was a 3rd Company machine, one of Lieutenant Albrecht’s.
“Beans,” called Wulfe over the intercom. “Traverse left. Ork tower. Three hundred metres.
High-explosive.”
Siegler heaved a shell into the main gun’s breech. “She’s lit.”
Wulfe tapped Beans on the left shoulder, twice, a sign to fire at will.
“Brace!” shouted the gunner.
Last Rites II shook, coughing fire from her muzzle, and the ork tower disintegrated
spectacularly. Bodies rained to the ground amid the storm of burning junk.
“Eat that!” shouted Beans.
“That’s a kill,” said Wulfe. “Nice shot, son. But don’t get cocky. Traverse right. Target ork
tower, five hundred metres. High-ex. Fire at will.”
Siegler slung another shell into place. As the traverse motors hummed, turning the main gun
towards the specified target, Wulfe took the briefest second to check the rear. He saw the burning
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wrecks of Imperial tanks on all sides. Black bodies, too small to be orks, littered the ground, their
clothes still on fire. He cursed.
Most of the regiment’s tanks were still fighting desperately, however, holding back the seething
tide of orks with booming volleys of explosive fire that killed countless hundreds with every passing
moment.
Thank the Throne, thought Wulfe, that most of the greenskin bastards only have blades and
guns. With the exception of those carrying explosives, the ork infantry were largely powerless
against the might of Imperial armour. Their wall-mounted cannon and artillery pieces were useless
back here. The Cadian tanks were gradually pushing out from the breach, forming a wide semicircular
perimeter so that the infantry vehicles pouring in behind them had room to deploy. Wulfe
saw halftracks, Chimeras and trucks skid to a halt behind him and start unloading men.
The soldiers immediately added their fire to that of the tanks, and the death toll among the orks
mounted faster and faster. Torrents of stubber and bolter fire blazed out from the Chimeras and
halftracks, and the Cadians continued to gain ground.
Keep it up, thought Wulfe. We’re beating them. By the Golden Throne, we’re beating them.
Then he heard van Droi’s voice on the company command channel.
Ork armour had been spotted approaching from the north along the inside of the wall. Wulfe
turned his head in that direction and caught a glimpse of hulking black machines just as Siegler
shouted, “She’s lit!”
“Brace!” shouted Beans.
The tank rocked and the turret basket filled with the sharp stink of propellant once again. Wulfe
quickly checked and saw that Beans had made another direct hit. The tower collapsed sideways,
spilling green bodies all around it.
“Good work, soldier,” Wulfe told the gunner. “No time to rest, though. We’ve got enemy heavy
armour coming in. Siegler, I want armour-piercing up the spout. Beans, traverse left.”
Rumbling through the smoke, fire and dusty haze, three hulking metal monsters emerged. Wulfe
gaped. The ork machines had been fashioned to look like some kind of carnivorous creature. Their
insane alien creators had given them metal jaws with long steel tusks that clanged together as they
gnashed. They were bristling with cannon and secondary armaments. Wulfe could only imagine the
fear such machines might drive into infantrymen, but, to Last Rites II, the ork tanks were big fat
targets, begging to be turned into burning scrap.
Wulfe had every intention of obliging.
His fellow tank commanders clearly had the same idea. As the monstrous ork armour closed, all
three machines rumbling and spluttering their way along a wide avenue that ran parallel to the inside
of the wall, the Leman Russ tanks loosed a stuttering volley of armour-piercing shells.
Most of the shells struck home, and one of the ork machines stopped dead in its tracks. The
greenskin crew began bailing out at speed, leaping from high hatches to land on the heads and
shoulders of the ork infantry that surged around the treads of their machine. They weren’t quick
