fruit； and he felt the monster’s foul blood spray over his face and fatigues like hot rain。
The creature’s heavy blade clattered against the turret armour as it fell。 Then the headless body
followed it； falling backwards； slipping over the tank’s track guards to the red sand below。
Wulfe didn’t move for another second； confused that he was somehow still alive。 He didn’t
register the ork shells that were whining past his head。
There was something powerfully salty on his lips； and the foul taste of it snapped him back to
his senses。 It was ork blood。 He wiped it off with his sleeve and turned。 Looking to the right； he saw
Corporal Lenck standing in the cupola of the New Champion； his heavy stubber still pointed in
Wulfe’s direction。
For just the briefest moment； Wulfe felt absolutely sure that Lenck was about to shoot him。
There was a look of utter triumph in the arrogant corporal’s eyes。 He could end Wulfe’s life with the
merest pressure of thumb on trigger。
But the lethal impacts never came。 After a tense second； Lenck laughed； turned his stubber back
on the orks and continued firing。 He looked sickeningly pleased with himself。
By the frakking Eye； Wulfe cursed。 Now I’m in his debt。 Damn it all！ Why did it have to be
Lenck？
49
His eyes followed the line of Lenck’s tracers and he saw that the New Champion had cut a deep；
broad path in the ork ranks； deep enough and wide enough to make all the difference to Stromm and
his men。 The orks were pushing away from the crashed drop…ship； eager to avoid being slaughtered
under the torrent of explosive munitions and autocannon fire。 They left hundreds of their dead
behind them in great heaps of reeking meat。 Wulfe looked beyond the piled bodies and saw
Stromm’s infantrymen fighting valiantly with their backs to the crashed ship’s hull。 Not smart； he
thought； to get yourself grounded like that without an exit strategy。 It was only by sheer luck； or
perhaps the machinations of the Divine Emperor； that the Gunheads had found Stromm’s lot in time。
If Lieutenant van Droi had picked up the colonel’s faint vox…transmissions any later； the Gunheads
would have found only dead men and scavengers。
Wulfe had said it before； and he said it to himself again now； he wouldn’t have been a
footslogger for all the gold on Agripinaa。 What kind of madness made men march to battle without
at least a hundred millimetres of solid armour between them and the foe？ Little wonder that the life
of an infantryman was so short。 One way or another； most died within their first six months of
combat duty。 The average for tankers was almost double。 He knew some men resented that； but it
was tanks and their crews that drew most fire on the battlefield。
Through the veils of churning smoke and dust； Wulfe spotted a man that could only have been
Colonel Stromm。 His poise； his movements； everything about him radiated strength and leadership。
He and the men immediately around him were fighting desperately against those orks that were still
pressing in from the far side； protected from the tank fire by the very men they were so eager to kill。
At a glance； Wulfe judged that there wasn’t much more than a company’s worth of men left
standing： two hundred； maybe three。 The number was dropping even as he watched。 The orks kept
up a constant pressure； clambering over banks of their dead to fire clumsily…made pistols and
stubbers； or to charge forward with blades raised high。 The sand under the carpet of dead men and
orks had turned into a blood…sodden quagmire。
Wulfe dropped down into the turret and nudged the vox…selector switch to F channel； band six。
“Colonel Stromm；” he voxed； “you have your corridor； but it won’t hold for long。”
Stromm didn’t waste time offering thanks。 Instead； he answered； “Understood； armour。 We’ll
make our push。 Give us all the cover you can。 Stromm； out。”
Wulfe contacted Lenck and Siemens briefly and passed this on。 For an instant； he considered
thanking Lenck； but he couldn’t forget the look in the man’s eyes。 He decided that they would talk
about it later； providing they both lived through this。 He scrambled back up into his cupola； intent on
doing whatever he could to help Stromm’s men。 He sa troopers
moving out from the colonel’s side； swiftly taking up positions that would allow them to hold the
passage open for as long as possible。 They moved as one； firing clean； disciplined hellgun bursts for
maximum effect； and Wulfe found he was profoundly impressed。 The Kasrkin were a special breed。
He wondered what it took to remain so cool…headed； surrounded by all that death and horror； by
alien savages that outweighed you three or four times。 He marvelled at their calm efficiency。
Like tankers； the Kasrkin drew a certain level of resentment from standard infantrymen。 They
received special training and superior kit； and commanders tended not to waste them in wars of
attrition when there were other options available。 Right now； however； that training and equipment
was being employed to save lives。
Wulfe wondered how any soldier could resent that。
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 t