With the corridor momentarily secured； the remnants of the embattled infantry began pouring
out； desperately making for the cover of Sword Squadron’s tanks。 As they ran； some stopped and
turned； dropping to one knee to fire back at the pursuing orks。 When the men behind had overtaken
them； they rose again and ran while someone else covered the rear。 It was as well…executed a
staggered retreat as Wulfe had seen。
While Sword Squadron’s secondary weapons continued to blaze and stutter； helping to hold the
orks at bay； Wulfe saw Colonel Stromm run down the centre of the corridor； a wiry…looking comms50
officer at his side。 The comms…officer was carrying a regimental banner of bright crimson and gold
that rippled and waved above his head as he ran。 It might have been glorious but for all the bullet
holes in it。 Wulfe noticed； too； that Stromm’s right arm had been strapped to his body。 It was
probably broken； and yet he moved towards the tanks with as much speed as any of the others；
slowing only to turn and fire blazing hellpistol shots back at his howling pursuers。
With men pouring out； racing to the relative safety behind the tanks； it wasn’t long before only
the Kasrkin storm troopers were left； holding the line until the last man was clear。 The orks vented
their full fury and rage on them； and some inevitably went down； though they fought to the bitter
end through wounds that would have killed lesser men outright。
S all the fire support they could manage。 Most of the Kasrkin made it
out； but not by much。 As they raced towards the cover of the tanks； Wulfe ordered his squadron to
keep the fire up but prepare to fall back。 Then he contacted Colonel Stromm。
“You have wounded men in your group； sir。 Get them up onto the tanks。 Use the track…guards
and the rear decking； but stay clear of the engine louvres and the radiator。 We can carry them out of
here and still cover the retreat。 Those on foot will have to run。 What do you say？”
Stromm began barking out orders immediately； and the track…guards of the three tanks were
soon crowded with men in blood…soaked Guard…issue fatigues。 Wulfe would have helped them up；
but his continued fire was needed to keep the orks at bay。
“Sword One； Sword Two；” he voxed to Siemens and Lenck； “fall back to Hammer’s position。
Keep your fire up as we move； but no main guns until van Droi gives the word。 We don’t want to
scatter them。”
A short series of acknowledgements followed and； slowly； steadily； Sword Squadron began to
roll backwards。 It was then that Frontline Crusader’s engine sputtered and died。 Wulfe could hear
Corporal Siemens swearing over the vox。 The panic in his voice was all too clear。 “Oh； Throne！
We’ve stalled。 Come in； Sword Leader。 Frontline Crusader is in big trouble！”
From his cupola； Wulfe saw Siemens slamming his fists on the top of his turret。 The wounded
men perched on the Frontline Crusader’s track guards were looking agitated。 The orks coming
forward immediately angled straight towards the crippled tank。
Some of the wounded leapt off and started limping through the sand； clearly unwilling to gamble
on the engine restarting。 Others stayed put； bravely pouring las…fire down at the oncoming enemy。
That didn’t last long。 Wulfe saw them struck by wild sprays of enemy fire。 The wounded Cadians
fell from the sides of the tank； as lifeless as rag dolls。
Wulfe barked orders over to Lenck； and both the New Champion and Last Rites II turned their
weapons left； desperate to buy Corporal Siemens some time。
Wulfe knew Siemens needed more than time。 He needed a bloody miracle。
None was forthcoming。
While the stubbers and bolters were busy raking the charging greenskins； three orks with rockets
strapped to their backs suddenly careened upwards on trails of blue fire； landing just metres away
from the Frontline Crusader’s armoured flanks。
Wulfe barely had time to register the thick； cylindrical weapons the orks were carrying； before
they were put to murderous use。 The moment they landed； each of the orks raised its tube to its
shoulder； took aim at the sides of the crippled tank； and fired。
Three explosions sounded in rapid succession； and a cloud of dust and fire erupted into the air；
cloaking the Frontline Crusader from view。
“Siemens！” shouted Wulfe over the vox。 There was no answer。 He immediately turned his
stubber on the orks responsible； turning two of them into hunks of dead meat where they stood。
Aiming at the third； his shells struck the red rocket on its back； and it detonated； scattering tiny burnt
pieces of the ork in every direction。
As the cloak of dust and sand around the Frontline Crusader showered back down to the
ground； Wulfe saw Siemens’ body。 It was still in the cupola； slumped forward。 His flesh was black。
51
His clothes； hair and skin were still burning。 One charred and lifeless arm was draped over the barrel
of his heavy stubber。
There were holes in the tank’s armour； too。 Wulfe could see twin gaping wounds where the
plating looked like it had melted straight through。 Red flames were boiling up out of them； and out
of the hatches the crew had tried frantically to open in their last moments。
Four men； men Wulfe had known； dead。 Rage lit inside him like dry tinder。 He turned his
stubber back on the advancing horde with a vengeance。
“Throne curse you and your entire stinking race；” he yelled at them。
“What are you doing； Wulfe？” a gruff voice demanded over the vox…link。 It was Lieutenant van
Droi speaking on the company command channel。
“It’s the Frontline Crusader； sir；” replied Wulfe； breaking only momentarily from his revenge。
“She’s been brewed up。”
“I can see that； damn it；” growled van Droi。 “Keep falling back。 Spear Squadron is in position。
It’s time we put a lid on this。”
Wulfe gritted his teeth。 Siemens had been all right； not a friend exactly； but a fellow tanker； a
Cadian brother。 He was one of the few left who had been with the company since before Palmeros。
He didn’t deserve to be cooked in his crate like that。 Wulfe didn’t want to think about what it had
been like for the crew inside； struggling to free themselves while the flames devoured them。 It
seemed like every time Wulfe faced the orks； he came away mourning lost men。
He ordered Metzger to keep them rolling backwards； and Holtz to keep the autocannon firing。
Moments later； they were back in line with van Droi’s Foe…Breaker and the tanks of Sergeant
Richter’s Hammer Squadron。 The New Champion had beaten them to it。 Lenck hadn’t wasted time
venting anger on the orks。 Maybe Siemens’ death didn’t really bother the cold…hearted son…of…abitch。
With the tanks pulling up into a horizontal firing line； Colonel Stromm ordered his able…bodied
men to help their wounded brothers down from the track…guards and lead them back to cover behind
the vehicles。 There was little left for them to do； and it was better for them to stay well back from
the main guns if they didn’t want their eardrums ruptured。
Rhaimes and the rest of Spear Squadron were visible on the left； pressing the orks into a
crossfire。 Last Rites II and the New Champion were ordered to edge right； the better to cover any
attempt by the orks to break and run in that direction。 The greenskins seemed emboldened by their
tank…kill and eagerly charged straight on； a mad howling mass of flesh and metal。 Soon； they were
exactly where van Droi wanted them。 He gave the order。
“Fire main guns！”
What followed was no battle。 It was the grisliest sort of massacre。
Against the full； unrestrained fury of the Gunheads； the mindless greenskins never stood a
chance。
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CHAPTER SEVEN
Gossefried van Droi stood looking up at the ruin of the naval drop…ship； chewing on the end of a
damp cigar while； all around him； Colonel Stromm’s infantry went about the business of identifying
their dead； stripping the bodies of anything that could still be put to use。 Grim work； yes； but van
Droi knew that it was essential。 Out here in the desert； the supplies they had brought with them were
all the supplies they would be getting。 Speaking over the vox； Stromm had already confirmed van
Droi’s worst fears： no； there had not been word from anyone else。 Exolon’s status remained a
bloody mystery。
Dark days； these； thought van Droi； and darker ones ahead。 Saints guide you； Siemens。 You
were a good man。 I hope you find peace with the Emperor。
The drop…ship that had carried six companies of The Fighting 98th to Golgotha was in a sorry
state； even worse than the one that had carried van Droi’s Gunheads。 It looked like a carcass； the
decaying body of a giant beast； huge and grey； landing legs twisted and bent； the bones of its
titanium superstructure shining through where the hull had been ripped or blasted away。 It was a
wonder that any of Stromm’s men had survived the crash。 It was another wonder they’d lasted out
the ork assaults as long as they had。 Van Droi wondered how many men and machines he would
have lost if he had ordered his Gunheads to dig in back at their own crash site？ Might an Exolon
reconnaissance patrol have found them？ Or would the orks have got there first？
He chided himself。 There was nothing to be gained by such speculation。 He had made the
decision to move out； and he stood by it。 Throne above； if he hadn’t； the infantrymen scurrying
busily back and forth all around him would be corpses； probably headless ones； given the
greenskins’ propensity for taking grisly trophies。
Siemens’ death weighed heavy on him。 Ten tanks had become nine。 A full crew had been lost。
Morale had taken a beating； too； though his tankers were understandably glad to have found others
who had made planetfall more or less intact。
Van Droi was still looking up at the ruined ship when he heard boot heels grinding the sand just
behind him。 He turned and found himself looking into the scarred and weathered face of a man he
judged to be about twenty years older than himself。 He was wrong。 There was barely ten years
between them。 Even covered in blood and dust； though； Colonel Stromm somehow managed to look
dignified。
“Colonel；” said van Droi。
The colonel was a little shorter than van Droi。 He filled his uniform well — muscular — fit to
fight；