all tired； but we’re almost home。 See it through。”
When each of the tanks had confirmed and rumbled into position； he gave the order and they all
moved out。
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Balkar； like all of the old Imperial ruins out in the equatorial desert； was a fortified base built on a
rocky upthrust that had endured the onslaught of the wind…borne sands。 The orks had moved in as
soon as the Imperial forces had retreated but； in all those years； they had done little to change the
base other than to fill its streets with rusting junk。 Several of the structures； mostly barracks
buildings and concrete garages； had collapsed in on themselves under the weight of the sand that
had accumulated on their broad roofs。 Other structures had once been decorated with proud Imperial
iconography； but the winds had eaten it away to almost nothing； sandblasting the exposed surfaces
smooth。 The orks had subsequently covered them in childishly rendered glyphs and impenetrable
scrawls of alien gibberish。
Much of the metal used in the construction of the base was flaking away。 The rest； anything that
the orks had thought to utilise for the modification of their strange war machines； had been stripped
out； leaving bunkers without doors and barracks buildings without shutters。
To anyone looking down from the air； the base would have appeared hexagonal in plan； though
not symmetrical； designed with uneven sides to take full advantage of all the space afforded by the
broad； flat rock underneath。 There were a number of wells； cut straight down； very deep into the
ground。 Unfortunately for the 18th Army Group； they contained no water。 They must have dried up
long ago。 The base’s former occupants — the great greenskin horde that Major General Killian’s
men had fought so hard to eliminate — had been using them as latrines。 Killian had ordered them
sealed。
It was the topic of water discipline that Colonel Vinnemann was discussing with his staff when a
runner from Major General Bergen’s office interrupted； bringing him some rare good news。
Vinnemann’s expression said it all as he sat listening； a mixture of disbelief and joy lighting his
battle…scarred features。 The look was mirrored on the faces of his staff officers。
“Say that again； son；” he told the runner。 The words had gushed out of the gasping lad’s mouth。
Vinnemann wasn’t sure he had heard them correctly。
“Lieutenant van Droi calling for you on the vox； sir。 He and his 10th Company are heading
towards our position with the remnants of Colonel Stromm’s 98th Mechanised Infantry Regiment。
The major general thought you would want to know； sir。”
Vinnemann clapped his hands together。
“Did you hear that； Alex？” he asked his adjutant。 The young man nodded； smiling。 Vinnemann
barked out a laugh。 “Fine officer； that van Droi。 Fine officer！ I knew he’d get his boys through。
Come on； you lot。 We must welcome them！” He turned to the runner。 “Which direction are they
approaching from； son？”
“From the south…east； sir；” replied the young man。 He； too； was smiling； infected by the
colonel’s open joy。
“They’re about two hours out。 They’ll enter through the south gates。 The Sentinel pilots who
picked up their transmissions are guiding them in。”
“Outstanding；” said Vinnemann。 He grasped the head of his cane and struggled to his feet；
wincing for a moment with the pain that shot through his back。 It would soon be time for more
blasted injections； but he wouldn’t let the thought of that spoil this wonderful moment。 His 10th
Company had survived。 Gossefried’s Gunheads were returning to the fold。 Say what you liked about
them — and certain officers had plenty to say — they were a bloody resilient lot。
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When General deViers ordered Vinnemann’s regiment east to secure The Fortress of Arrogance
at last； every single one of his companies would be accounted for。 Rolling Thunder would be
deploying in full strength。 It would do wonders for the regiment’s morale。
From his cupola； Wulfe saw the walls of the base appear through the dusty pink haze in the distance。
They rose from atop a rocky mound with a gentle； easy gradient on one side； and they were topped
with watchtowers and weapons batteries。 He could see long barrels protruding from the oldfashioned
crenellations； even at this distance。 Home at last； he thought； for home； to him； was with
the rest of the regiment。 Sure； there was competition； even the odd bitter rivalry； between the
companies of the 81st。 What regiment didn’t endure such things？ But they were all tankers together
in the end； and all of them were Cadians； and therefore brothers when it came to the fight for
mankind’s survival。 It would be good to see old Vinnemann again； to know that the man was still up
front； leading as few other officers of his rank dared to do。 Wulfe was surprised at how much that
thought suddenly meant to him。 Lieutenant van Droi was a great man and company commander in
own right — he was direct； honest and approachable； though he could be bastard hard at times —
but Vinnemann was practically a legend among his men。 His refusal to lie down and die when other
men would certainly have done so epitomised the unrelenting spirit that Rolling Thunder was
famous for。
“Can’t believe we made it back to the rest of the pack；” muttered Holtz over the intercom。
“Never thought we’d live to see this。”
“Can’t wait to sleep in a proper bunk again；” said Siegler。
Metzger was typically silent； concentrating on keeping Last Rites II in formation behind the tank
in front as the walls of Balkar loomed ever larger in his vision slit。
“Do you think they’ll have water and food waiting for us； sarge？” Siegler asked。
“They had bloody well better；” griped Holtz。 “I’ve been running on fumes for the last three days。
I’ll die if I have to drink recycled piss again。 Fit to collapse； I am。 Someone’ll have to help me out of
the hatch。”
“I’m sure the Officio Logistica has taken our supply needs into consideration；” said Wulfe。
“Balkar is the launching point for the general’s big gambit； right？ He won’t have left anything to
chance。 First thing I’ll do after we dismount is find the mess hall。 I’ll bloody well faint if they try to
debrief me first。”
The others laughed at that。 Even Metzger。 No one would be trying to debrief him。 Only the tank
commanders would have to deal with that； and； as far as fainting was concerned； they all knew that
their sergeant had only collapsed once in his life — that day so many years ago when an ork had cut
his throat。 Blood loss had knocked him unconscious； but the medic that had leapt onto the tank’s
turret to save him had got there just in time。 That very medic； Wulfe later found out； had died a few
days later； captured in a raid and tortured to death in a greenskin camp。 A mop…up detail had found
his body hanging from a makeshift gibbet； hands； feet and other parts lopped off。 He had been taken
while trying to save a wounded trooper on open ground。
Wulfe was still about the business of avenging him； and only death would ever make him stop。
In that sense； he felt a great closeness with Colonel Vinnemann； though he had only ever spoken to
the man twice in person。 Vinnemann’s never…ending quest to avenge his wife was well known。
Look at what he endures to pursue it； thought Wulfe； having heard stories of the endless pain the
colonel suffered。
As the tanks and halftracks got closer and closer to Balkar； a strange noise began to cut into
Wulfe’s uplifted mood。 It came from the rear of his tank； and Wulfe knew at once that something
had gone wrong。 Metzger reported over the intercom a moment later that the engine’s temperature
was increasing rapidly。 Wulfe checked the rear vision blocks and saw thick black smoke pouring out
of the back of his tank from beneath the metal engine covers。
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“The blasted radiator has packed in；” he told his crew。 “Metzger； warp damn it； can we at least
make it inside the gates？ Tell me we can！”
Before the driver could answer； Last Rites II gave a great shudder and stopped dead in her
tracks。 Wulfe cursed so long and loud that he almost went hoarse。 He watched the other vehicles
move up from behind； come abreast of him； and then overtake。 New Champion of Cerbera passed
within a metre on the right。 The vox board started blinking。 Wulfe； thinking it must be van Droi；
immediately opened the link。
“Oh dear； oh dear； sergeant；” said a smug voice。 “Looks like you’ve pushed the old girl too hard
at last。 Time she was put out to pasture； don’t you think？”
“What the frak do you want； Lenck？” Wulfe growled back。 “Just calling to gloat？ Frivolous use
of vox…communications during an operation… that’s a punishable offence。 Old Crusher would love
to hear about that。”
“Get over yourself； sergeant。 I was just voxing to see if you and your men would like a lift into
base。 There’s room on the track…guards。 Can’t have you sitting out here like idiots； embarrassing the
lieutenant and the rest of the company like that。”
Wulfe gritted his teeth。 He would rather dance naked at the general’s next banquet than let that
weasel…faced son…of…a…bitch gloat over this for the rest of his hopefully short life。 Last Rites II had
been running smooth ever since they had left the crashed drop…ship。 All the other tanks — all of
them — had needed to stop sooner or later for field repairs； but not her。
So why in the warp had she chosen now to break down？
Wulfe smacked a fist against the inside of her turret and said； “Damn it； girl。 Couldn’t you have
waited a few more kilometres？” Then he hit the transmit stud and said to Lenck； “Move on；
corporal； before my gunner blows you into the hereafter。”
“Such hostility； sergeant。 Save it for the greenskins； why don’t you？ New Champion is moving
on。 Maybe we’ll see you in the mess hall。 We’ll try to leave some food for you； but no promises。
Lenck； out。”
Wulfe cut the link and roared with frustration in his turret。 “This stupid old bucket！ She couldn’t
have picked a worse time！ We’ll be the laughing stock of the whole damned base。”
“Yes she could；” said Metzger。 His voice was almost a growl。
“What？” said Wulfe。 It was rare for Metzger to speak up；