Gunheads(科幻战争)-第18部分

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of　all　Mankind；　there’s　nothing　I　wouldn’t　do　for　you。　You　know　that。　So　do　you　think　you　might
get　off　your　bloody　Throne　and　help　us　out　a　bit？”
After　checking　Last　Rites　II　for　outer　damage　—　her　headlamps　had　been　shot　to　pieces；　some　of　her
vision　blocks　needed　replacing；　and　the　turret’s　left…side　external　stowage　boxes　were　riddled　with
bullet　holes；　but　these　things　were　easily　fixed　—　Wulfe　found　himself　with　a　little　well…earned
downtime。　The　support　squads　would　take　care　of　maintenance　duties。　Lieutenant　van　Droi　had
ordered　the　tank　crews　to　rest　and　recover；　knowing　they　would　be　crashing　hard　after　the　fight。
Coming　down　off　so　much　adrenaline　was　enough　to　knock　some　guys　out；　but　Wulfe　didn’t　feel
ready　to　try　for　sleep　yet。　His　throat　was　still　itching；　though　whether　it　was　because　of　his　scar　or
because　of　the　damned　dust；　he　couldn’t　be　sure。　Sipping　a　little　water　—　a　little　being　all　he　could
afford　himself　—　seemed　to　help。　He　pulled　a　rebreather　mask　over　his　mouth　and　nose　and　went　for
a　walk。　If　it　was　the　dust　that　was　bothering　him；　the　mask　would　stop　it　getting　worse。
Masked　or　not；　his　stroll　was　far　from　pleasant。　The　desert　sands　were　cratered；　fire…blackened；
and　absolutely　littered　with　bodies。　At　least　all　the　bodies　were　those　of　the　foe。　Colonel　Stromm’s
men　had　finished　removing　their　fallen　brothers　from　the　field　of　battle。　Wulfe　was　glad　of　that　as　he
weaved　between　piles　of　alien　cadavers。　Many　of　the　bodies　wore　thick　plates　of　black　armour；　iron
pitted　with　rust　and　scored　by　las…fire。　Between　the　plates；　Wulfe　saw　gaping　wounds　caked　with
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blood…soaked　sand。　He　was　doubly　glad　of　his　rebreather　now。　The　stench　would　have　been
unbearable　without　the　mask’s　powerful　filter。
Last　Rites　II　had　slain　many　of　the　beasts；　surely　over　a　hundred；　though　she　wouldn’t　be
wearing　any　new　kill…markings　for　it。　To　an　armoured　company；　infantry　kills　counted　for　little　in
terms　of　prestige；　even　in　such　numbers。　Armour　kills　were　what　mattered；　the　challenge　of　machine
against　machine；　crew　against　crew。　Such　were　the　fights　a　tank　commander　lived　for。　Until　Last
Rites　II　bested　another　tank　in　combat；　she　had　proved　nothing　to　Wulfe；　nothing　at　all。
Wulfe’s　crew　had　a　different　outlook。　After　the　battle；　they　had　been　quick　to　show　their
gratitude　to　her；　offering　sanctioned　prayers　to　the　machine…spirit　housed　in　her　metal　body。
Through　the　vision　blocks；　they　had　seen　the　Frontline　Crusader　brew　up。　They　had　seen　Siemens’
body　roasting　in　the　red　fire。　Why　was　it　always　the　most　horrific　images　that　remained　so　clear　in
one’s　mind？　Wulfe　wondered。　Why　could　he　never　remember　a　pretty　girl’s　smile　or　a　glorious
sunset　in　the　same　kind　of　vivid　detail？
The　Frontline　Crusader　had　stalled　and　it　was　all　down　to　the　damned　dust。　In　the　days　the
Gunheads　had　spent　crossing　the　desert；　eleven　of　their　machines　—　five　of　the　tanks；　four　of　the
halftracks；　and　two　of　the　rugged　Thirty…Sixers　—　had　suffered　the　same　kind　of　sudden　cutouts：
dust　on　the　contacts；　dust　clogging　the　fuel　lines。　Clean　the　dust　out　and　you　were　fine；　good　to　go。　It
just　took　a　little　work；　a　few　minutes’　attention。　Siemens　and　his　crew　had　been　dead　men　from　the
moment　it　happened。　They　never　stood　a　chance。
It　could　have　happened　to　any　of　them。　Last　Rites　II　could　have　stalled　just　as　easily。　He　knew
that。　It　was　a　cruel　thing　that　had　happened　to　Siemens；　but　Wulfe　couldn’t　deny　a　guilty　relief。　His
crew　was　alive。　He　was　alive。
His　footsteps　took　him　towards　the　wreckage　of　Frontline　Crusader；　and　he　stopped　just　a　few
metres　from　her。　She　was　nothing　but　a　black　husk　now。　Her　machine…spirit　was　gone。　She　was　a
corpse　like　the　countless　bodies　that　surrounded　her。　Thankfully；　someone　had　removed　Siemens’
remains　from　the　turret。　Wulfe　hoped　the　bodies　of　the　men　inside　had　been　removed；　too。　Throne
help　the　support　crew　who　had　taken　care　of　that。　It　was　a　miserable　business。　Wulfe　had　seen　some
terrible　things　in　his　time：　turret　baskets　painted　red　ent　caked　in　bone　fragments
and　gore；　blackened　bodies　fused　together　by　flame　so　that　you　couldn’t　tell　where　one　man　ended
and　another　began。　Little　wonder　that　infantrymen　sometimes　referred　to　tanks　as　“steel　coffins”。
Years　ago；　Confessor　Friedrich　had　taken　it　on　himself　to　deal　with　that　kind　of　mess　as　often　as
possible；　working　quickly；　quietly；　and　without　solicitation　or　complaint。　No　one　had　asked　him　to
take　on　such　a　burden；　but　it　wasn’t　right；　he　said；　for　tank　men　to　have　to　see　such　things。　Wulfe
hoped　the　confessor　had　got　down　safely　with　the　rest　of　the　regiment。　He　was　a　good　man。　Given
the　horrors　he　put　himself　through；　it　was　no　wonder　he　drank　so　much。
Moving　closer　to　the　black　husk　of　the　tank；　Wulfe　saw　again　the　two　great　gouges　in　her　side。
The　armour　plating　had　melted　around　the　wounds；　creating　a　jutting　lip　of　metal　under　each。　He
stretched　out　a　hand　and　found　that　the　metal　was　cool　to　the　touch。
Walking　around　to　her　other　side；　he　found　another　hole。　She　had　been　hit　simultaneously　on
both　flanks　with　three　separate　impacts。　The　weapons　that　had　killed　her　had　been　rocket…propelled
grenades　with　shaped　charges。　The　implications　were　grim。　Over　more　than　two　decades　of　battle；
Wulfe　had　faced　the　full　gamut　of　antitank　weapons；　from　magnetic　mines　to　man…portable
lascannons。　He　had　seen　shaped　charges　employed　by　armies　of　rebels　and　heretics　all　too　often；　but
he　had　never　seen　orks　field　them。　He　had　seen　them　use　simple　rockets　sometimes；　but　this　was
different。　Here　was　a　weapon　that；　with　a　jet　of　molten　copper；　made　a　mockery　of　armour　up　to　two
hundred　millimetres　thick。
From　now　on；　he　and　the　other　tank　commanders　would　have　to　be　extra　wary。　The　orks　had
always　been　dangerous　at　close　quarters；　especially　to　infantry。　Now　they　were　just　as　dangerous　to
tanks。
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Leaving　the　wreckage　of　Frontline　Crusader　behind　him；　he　started　walking　towards　one　of　the
wrecked　ork　artillery　pieces　that　van　Droi’s　Vanquisher　had　taken　out　at　long　range。　Ten　metres
away；　he　stopped　and　stared　at　it；　noting　the　bodies　of　the　greenskin　crew　that　lay　around　its
shredded　tracks。　They　were　little　more　than　heaps　of　smoking　bone　and　gristle。　Even　before　it　had
been　turned　into　burning　junk；　the　machine　had　been　an　ugly　thing。　It　was　often　hard　to　believe　that
these　ork　vehicles　could　function　at　all。　Its　massive　gun　was　ruptured；　peeled　back　like　the　skin　of　a
fruit；　ragged　metal　ends　twisted　outwards　from　a　blast　within。　Wulfe　supposed　a　round　had　exploded
in　the　barrel　when　the　turret　had　been　struck。　What　remained　of　the　track　assemblies　showed　them　to
be　huge；　almost　as　wide　as　Wulfe　was　tall；　and　cruelly　spiked；　though　they　hardly　needed　to　be
given　the　nature　of　the　terrain。　Flat；　open　desert　was　ideal　for　treaded　machines。　Wulfe　knew　that
adding　spikes　was　just　something　orks　tended　to　do。　There　were　other　examples　nearby；　including
suits　of　body　armour　adorned　in　a　similar　fashion。　Orks　built　everything　that　way：　big；　heavy；　spiky
and　loud。　Laying　waste　to　their　misbegotten　creations　was　a　duty　Wulfe　relished。
“Showed　the　bastards　this　time；　didn’t　we？”　said　a　rasping　voice　behind　him。
Wulfe　turned　to　see　a　Kasrkin　storm　trooper　crouching　on　the　sand　nearby；　leaning　over　a
lifeless　greenskin；　tugging　hard　on　a　pair　of　metal　pliers　that　were　clamped　around　one　of　the　dead
monster’s　jutting　tusks。　The　Kasrkin　had　removed　his　helmet；　laying　it　beside　him　on　the　sand　while
he　worked。　Clearly；　the　stench　from　the　ork　bodies　didn’t　bother　him　much。　He　was　younger　than
Wulfe；　though　the　profusion　of　criss…crossing　scars　that　marked　his　hard　face　added　a　few　years。　His
skin　was　swarthy　and　his　hair　so　blond　it　was　almost　white。　A　south…hiver；　then；　a　Kasr　Derth　man；
or　Kasr　Viklas；　maybe。　Back　on　Cadia；　men　from　the　north　and　south　didn’t　always　get　on；　but　the
friction　usually　vanished　the　moment　they　got　off…world。　Cadians　tended　to　stick　together　in　the　end；
whichever　hive　they　originally　came　from。
“I　reckon　we　did；”　Wulfe　replied。
The　Kasrkin　didn’t　look　up。　He　yanked　hard　on　his　pliers；　and　the　ork　tooth　came　loose　with　a
spurt　of　thick　red　blood。　He　transferred　the　pliers　to　his　clean　hand　and　shook　red　droplets　onto　the
sand；　muttering　an　oath。
“Which　one　is　yours　then？”　he　asked。
“Sorry？”
“Which　tank？”
“Last　Rites　II。　She’s　a　standard　Leman　Russ。”
“Is　that　right？”　asked　the　Kasrkin；　not　looking　up。　“What　number？”　He　fixed　his　pliers　to　the
dead　ork’s　other　tusk　and　began　working　them　backwards　and　forwards；　trying　to　free　the　roots　from
the　massive　jawbone。
“Nine…two…one；”　said　Wulfe；　slightly　suspicious　of　the　soldier’s　interest。　Kasrkin　weren’t　known
to　be　garrulous。　Conversation　with　them　was　rare。
“Nine…two…one；”　the　storm　trooper　repeated　between　grunts。　The　corpse’s　remaining　tusk　was
putting　up　a　bit　of　a　struggle。　“Yeah；　I　saw　you。　Carried　some　of　our　wounded　out；　right？”
There　was　a　sharp　cracking　sound。　Wulfe　winced　as　he　saw　the　tusk　come　free　with　a　gush　of
crimson。　Grinning；　the　Kasrkin　held　up　his　prize　so　that　Wulfe　could　see　it；　white　as　bone；　as　long　as
a　man’s　middle　finger；　and　tapering　to　a　nasty　point。　He　dropped　the　excised　tooth　into　a　darkly
stained　canvas　bag　by　his　right　knee；　and　said；　“I　saw　that　one　over　there　brew　up。　He　was　your
mate；　was　he？　No　way　to　go；　burning　up　like　that　in　a　big　tin　box。”
Right；　thought　Wulfe　bitterly；　thanks　for　that。　“They　were　good　men。　They’ll　be　with　the
Emperor　now。”
The　Kasrkin　didn’t　speak。　He　picked　up　his　bag　of　teeth；　rose　to　his　feet；　and　moved　to　the　next
greenskin　carcass。
Wulfe　didn’t　need　to　ask　why　the　soldier　was　pulling　teeth。　He　had　seen　it　done　before。　Some
said　that　the　orks　were　superstitious　and　that　finding　their　dead　kin　with　tusks　removed　put　a　terrible
fear　into　them。　He　doubted　that。　Fear　wasn’t　something　orks　seemed　prone　to。　On　the　other　hand；　he
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knew　troopers　who　traded　the　tusks　for　packets　of　smokes　and　bottles　of　alcohol。　There　was　usually
at　least　one　man　in　a　regiment　who　could　fashion　them　into　charms　or　trinkets。　Sometimes；
depending　on　the　planet；　civilian　traders　would　offer　a　high　price　for　them。　It　was　illegal；　of　course；
under　the　alien　artefact　laws。　Commissar　Slayte　had　executed　two　men　for　it　a　few　years　back。
Repeat　offenders。　Rather　than　shoot　them；　he　had　chosen　to　snap　their　necks。　It　hadn’t　helped　his
popularity　much。
The　Kasrkin　was　focused　on　his　morbid　dentistry；　and　Wulfe　decided　to　head　back　to　his　crew。
Maybe　van　Droi　had　new　orders　for　them。　The　sooner　they　left；　the　better。
Without　saying　another　word　to　the　Kasrkin；　he　turned　and　began　walking；　weaving　his　way
between　the　heaped　corpses；　but　he　hadn’t　gone　ten　metres　when　he　heard　a　shout。
“Hey！　Nine…two…one！”
Wulfe　turned。
“Souvenir！”　called　the　Kasrkin；　and　he　threw　a　shining　object　into　the　air。　It　curved　towards
Wulfe；　who　reached　out　a　hand　and　caught　it。　Opening　his　fingers；　he　saw　a　long；　curving　tusk　with
four　pointed　roots。　It　was　still　sticky　with　blood。
He　looked　up；　expecting　some　explanation；　but　the　Kasrkin　was　already　moving　off　towards
another　corpse；　happily　humming　a　tun