Gunheads(科幻战争)-第12部分

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positions；　slicing　through　the　clouds　of　billowing　dust　thrown　up　by　the　anti…personnel　mines　that
were　detonating　under　the　feet　of　the　green…skins’　front　ranks。　Heavy　brown　bodies　spun　into　the　air
to　land　in　bloody；　mangled　heaps。　Other　orks　trampled　over　them　uncaring；　undaunted；　yelling　and
hooting；　and　roaring　bestial　battle　cries　with　unrestrained　glee。
Competing　with　all　the　noise；　most　particularly　with　the　deafening　crack　and　stutter　of　nearby
las…　and　bolter…fire；　Lieutenant　Kassel　placed　his　mouth　at　his　colonel’s　ear　and　replied；　“Vonnel’s
platoon　is　taking　heavy　losses　on　the　right　flank；　sir。　The　Kasrkin　have　moved　across　to　plug　the
breach。”
Damn　it；　thought　Stromm。　Five　days。　Five　days　we’ve　lasted　out　here　on　the　open　sand；　and　not
a　single　bloody　sign　of　rescue；　no　vox…comms；　nothing。　And　there’s　no　end　to　the　greenskin
bastards。　Scores　of　men　are　dead　or　dying。　Our　perimeter　is　shrinking　with　every　charge　made
against　us。　This　looks　like　the　last　of　it　for　The　Fighting　98th。
His　mind　turned　to　his　family；　safe　aboard　the　naval　heavy…transport　The　Incandescent；　which
was　anchored　in　high　orbit　with　the　rest　of　the　fleet。　He　had　a　son；　still　just　an　infant；　who　had　been
born　during　the　Palmeros　campaign。　Stromm　had　hoped　to　watch　the　lad　grow；　to　see　him　strengthen
and　develop；　and；　one　day；　become　an　officer　like　his　father。　No；　not　like　his　father；　better　than　his
father。　A　son　should　always　strive　to　achieve　more　than　the　man　who　sired　him。　He　had　hoped　to　see
it；　to　live　that　long　despite　the　odds。　But　he’d　known　the　second　old　deViers　had　brought　Exolon　to
Golgotha　that　his　life　expectancy　had　been　suddenly；　dramatically　reduced。　Here　today；　before　his
eyes；　the　truth　of　it　was　playing　out。
Curse　this　world；　he　thought。　To　the　blasted　bloody　warp　with　it！　We　should　have　virus…bombed
it　from　space。　That　would　have　been　poetic　justice　in　that　—　revenge　for　all　the　people　Thraka’s
asteroids　have　killed。　If　it　weren’t　for　Yarrick’s　damned　tank…
The　orks　were　closing。　Six　hundred　metres。　Five…ninety。　Five…eighty。　The　Cadians’　landmines
were　barely　slowing　them。　Heavy　alien　bodies　were　being　blasted　high　on　pillars　of　smoke　and　sand；
but　the　enemy　far　outnumbered　Stromm’s　men。　The　foe　had　bodies　to　spare。　Those　that　escaped　the
deadly　fragmentation　and　explosive　pressure　waves　created　by　each　blast　just　kept　on　coming；　not
faltering　for　even　a　moment。
On　Stromm’s　first　day；　the　day　his　drop…ship　had　smashed　nose…first　into　the　red　sand；　he　and　his
officers　had　decided　that　it　was　best　to　stay　put；　sure　that　Major　General　Rennkamp　would　send　out
reconnaissance　units　to　look　for　his　missing　men。　But　vox…comms　weren’t　worth　a　damn　out　here；
and　darkness　fell　quickly　in　the　desert；　so　Stromm　hadn’t　wasted　any　time　in　ordering　makeshift
defensives　built；　though　progress　was　initially　slow　under　lamp　and　torchlight。
Sand　was；　of　course；　in　plentiful　supply　and　had　been　put　to　good　use。　The　sandbags　had
hardened　like　concrete；　such　was　the　effect　of　water　on　the　Golgothan　dust；　though　Stromm　was
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reluctant　to　spare　even　a　fraction　of　their　precious　reserves　for　anything　other　than　drinking。　Scrap
metal　pulled　from　the　wrecked　ship　was　plentiful；　too。　With　these　resources；　his　98th　Mechanised
Infantry　Regiment　had　constructed　outer　and　inner　defensive　works；　reinforcing　the　heavy…weapons
nests　with　plates　from　the　ship’s　crumpled　bulkheads。
The　resulting　fortifications　were　basic　in　the　extreme；　but　at　least　they　offered　better　protection
than　the　open　sand。　As　he　fired　shot　after　flesh…searing　shot　into　the　charging　xenos　horde；　Stromm
was　damned　glad　of　those　defences。
Torrents　of　fire　blazed　out　from　each　of　the　heavy…weapon　nests；　chewing　apart　scores　of
grotesque　alien　bodies　with　broad　sweeps　of　enfilading　fire。　Some　of　the　regiment’s　Chimeras　and
halftracks　had　survived　the　crash　and　were　entrenched　behind　walls　of　compacted　sand　and　steel；
adding　their　considerable　firepower　to　the　desperate　battle。　The　Chimeras’　hull…mounted　heavy
bolters　chattered　deep　and　low；　ripping　the　enemy　into　bloody　hunks　of　meat　with　their　explosive
ammunition。　Turret…mounted　multi…lasers　hissed　and　cracked；　scoring　the　air　with　blinding
brightness。　A　few　of　the　Chimeras　boasted　autocannon　as　their　main　armament；　their　long　barrels
chambered　for　powerful　thirty…millimetre　rounds。　They　made　a　harsh　chugging　sound　as　they
spewed　shells　out　in　devastating　torrents。　Over…muscled　brown　bodies　dissolved　into　scraps　and
tatters　wherever　the　autocannon　found　their　mark。
The　Chimeras　and　the　weapon…nests　were　not　alone　in　providing　heavy　support。　Thick　spears　of
lascannon　fire　blazed　down　from　atop　the　crumpled　hull　of　the　drop…ship。　The　ship’s　cockpit　had
folded　like　a　concertina　in　the　crash　and　the　flight　crew　had　been　killed　outright；　but　a　handful　of
navy　ratings　—　tech…crew　mostly　—　had　survived。　They　had　been　insistent　about　manning　the　ship’s
turrets；　only　a　few　of　which　still　functioned。　Stromm　had　seen　it　in　their　faces：　the　fear；　the　panic。
When　he　had　agreed　to　let　them　man　the　turrets；　their　relief　had　been　all　too　apparent。　They　were
terrified　of　meeting　the　orks　face…to…face。　He　cursed　their　cowardice；　but　he　couldn’t　hate　them　for
it。
They　hadn’t　been　raised　on　Cadia。　They　were　lesser　men　by　birth。
In　his　opinion；　that　said　it　all。
Despite　such　thoughts；　he　was　glad　to　have　those　turrets　manned　by　anyone。　They　poured
blistering　fire　down　on　top　of　the　orks；　killing　dozens　at　a　time；　charring　their　bodies　to　shrunken
black　husks。
Given　the　weight　of　combined　fire　the　Cadians　were　pouring　out；　it　seemed　that　scores　of　orks
were　dropping　with　every　metre　of　ground　they　gained；　but　they　were　still　gaining。　Stromm　could
already　see　that　it　wouldn’t　be　enough；　not　by　any　stretch。　As　so　often　in　a　straight　fight　with　the
orks；　it　would　ultimately　come　down　to　numbers；　and　numbers　were　something　he　didn’t　have。
Each　day　that　Stromm　and　his　men　had　stayed　by　the　shattered　drop…ship；　desperately　and
futilely　trying　to　raise　anyone；　anyone　at　all；　on　their　vox…casters；　more　and　more　orks　had　started　to
show　up。　They　had　been　drawn　to　the　site　by　the　spectacular　trail　of　fire　and　black　smoke　that　the
falling　drop…ship　had　painted　across　the　sky　in　a　descent　that　had　been　visible　for　a　hundred
kilometres　in　every　direction。
Stromm　regretted　entrenching　his　forces。
I　should　have　moved　us　out　into　the　desert；　he　thought；　away　from　the　crashsite。　I　should　have
got　everyone　away　from　here。
Even　as　he　thought　this；　however；　he　rejected　it。　Hindsight　was　a　fine　thing；　but　he　had　made　the
best　choice　he　could　with　the　information　he’d　had。　Moving　off　would　have　left　his　infantry
companies　vulnerable。　There　weren’t　enough　vehicles　left　intact　after　the　crash　to　carry　everyone。
And　there　were　the　wounded　to　think　about；　too。　He　had　no　idea　of　their　exact　coordinates；　either。
No　one　did。　Where　the　bloody　hell　was　the　rest　of　Exolon？
His　hellpistol　clicked；　another　cell　spent。　On　reflex；　he　hit　the　power…pack　release；　let　the
magazine　fall　to　the　ground；　tore　a　fresh　one　from　a　pouch　on　his　belt；　slammed　it　home　and
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resumed　firing。　His　first　shot　left　a　smoking　black　hole　where　one　monster’s　ugly　face　had　been。
That　he　could　now　see　the　damage　his　shots　were　causing　was　not　a　good　sign。
“Sir；”　said　Kassel　urgently；　“you　need　to　think　about　falling　back　to　the　inner　defences。　We’re
losing　key　sections　of　the　outer　perimeter。”
Stromm　nodded　and；　still　facing　and　firing　at　the　enemy；　began　walking　slowly　backwards　in　the
direction　of　the　wrecked　hull。
“Give　the　order；”　he　told　Kassel。　“I　want　all　our　lads　falling　back　to　secondary　positions　at
once。”
He　chose　his　targets　carefully；　firing　always　at　the　biggest　and　darkest…skinned　orks。　He　knew
from　long　years　of　experience　that　they　were　the　toughest　and　most　ruthless。　Their　hides　were　harder
than　sun…baked　leather；　criss…crossed　with　battle…scars　and　signs　of　crude　surgery。
They　were　veteran　killers；　relentless；　blood…mad　savages；　and　it　was　they　who　led　the　charge。
Throne；　but　the　bastards　are　ugly；　thought　Stromm。　What　kind　of　universe　tolerates　such
horrors？
It　was　easy　to　see　why　mankind　sought　the　orks’　absolute　extermination。　They　were　the　stuff　of
nightmares；　these　greenskins；　and　they　would　never　stop　fighting；　never　stop　killing　until　there　was
nothing　left　to　kill。　They　seemed　to　wage　war　for　fun；　to　revel　in　motiveless　slaughter。　Or　was
slaughter　motive　enough　for　them？　Even　now；　as　they　pressed　forward；　eager　to　butcher　his　men；
Stromm　saw　them　laughing　insanely；　as　if　the　whole　matter　of　agony　and　death　in　combat　was　a
great　game。　No；　mutual　tolerance　had　never　been　an　option。　From　the　moment　the　two　species　had
met；　the　galaxy　had　set　them　against　each　other。
The　orks　raced　closer　through　the　churning　dust；　and　Stromm　saw　their　hideous　faces　rendered
in　increasingly　sharp　detail。　He　could　make　out　the　glint　of　savage　madness　in　each　beady　red　eye。
Each　face　was　a　bestial　mask。　Their　noses　were　small　and　flat；　often　pierced　with　the　bones　of　some
luckless　animal　or　with　rings　or　bars　of　metal。　Their　mouths　were　huge　and　slack；　gaping　wide　and
dripping　with　thick　strands　of　blood…tinged　saliva。　Those　jaws　were　large　enough；　in　some　cases；　to
close　over　a　grown　man’s　head；　and　each　was　crammed　full　of　short；　jutting；　knife…like　teeth
dominated　by　two　long；　curving　tusks　that　thrust　upwards　from　the　lower　mandible。
Few　things　Stromm　had　ever　gazed　upon　engendered　such　a　feeling　of　loathing　and　disgust。　The
ork　race　seemed　tailor…made　to　strike　fear　into　the　human　heart；　tapping　an　ancient　vein　of　primal
fear　shared　by　all。　It　was　as　if　the　least　worthy　traits　of　his　own　species　had　been　twisted　and
magnified　a　thousand　times；　and　given　monstrously　powerful　bodies　with　which　to　wage　their
bloody　and　incessant　war　on　Man。
Where　had　such　abominations　come　from？
Stromm’s　order　to　fall　back　to　secondary　positions　had　filtered　down　to　the　rank…and…file；　and　he
saw　men　leap　from　sandy　foxholes　and　sprint　back　towards　him。　Many　left　it　too　late。　He　shouted　in
frustration　as　he　watched　them　cut　down　by　sprays　of　ork　stubber…fire。　It　was　a　brutal　and　bloody
sight。　The　large…bore　weapons　made　a　real　mess　of　their　victims；　barking　as　loud　as　any　bolter；
throwing　massive　metal　slugs　out　in　every　direction。　The　orks　barely　bothered　to　aim；　spraying　fire
left　and　right　without　a　thought　for　accuracy　or　wasted　ammunition。　It　was　only　the　sheer　volume　of
fire　that　took　such　a　deadly　toll。　As　the　Cadians　raced　back　to　the　inner　defences；　many　fell
screaming；　great　ragged　holes　punched　into　their　backs；　exit　wounds　the　size　of　watermelons
exploding　from　their　chests　and　stomachs。　Others；　more　fortunate　only　in　that　they　suffered　less；
were　struck　in　the　back　of　the　head。　Even　good；　solid　Cadian　Mark　VIII　helmets　couldn’t　protect
them。　Their　skulls　practically　exploded　with　the　impact　of　the　heavy　ork　slugs；　and　their　headless
bodies　stumbled　and　fell；　gushing　crimson　on　the　sand。
To　the　last　man；　thought　Stromm；　gritting　his　teeth；　firing　back　until　another　cell　was　spent。
We’ll　die　here；　but　we’ll　fight　the　bastards　to　the　last　bloody　man。　Damn　yo