mountains and broad open plains； he marched his crew up the boarding ramp and into the drop…ship
that would ferry them down to the surface。
The trip from Palmeros to the Golgothan subsector had been the longest unbroken warp journey
of his career； and plenty of tempers had frayed under the strain； not least his own。 It wasn’t just the
journey； however。 Warp travel was no picnic； but it didn’t help that his mind was still wrestling with
the memories of his last days on Palmeros； memories that often woke him in a cold sweat； gripping
his bunched sheets and calling out the name of a dead friend。
He suspected that his crew was more bothered by this than they let on。 They had to bunk with
him； after all； and often got as little restful sleep as he did。 He thought he detected it in their eyes
sometimes； a loss of confidence in him where once it had been unshakeable。 How much worse
would matters be； he wondered； if he ever told them the truth about what he had seen in the canyon
that day？ Much worse。 It didn’t do for a tank commander to see ghosts。 Those who reported such
things tended to go missing shortly afterwards； marched off by whatever Imperial body had
jurisdiction。 So far； the only man Wulfe had confided in was Confessor Friedrich； and that was how
he intended to keep it。 Even drunk off his arse； as he often was； the confessor was a man to be
trusted。
Wulfe forced his mind back to more positive territory。 It would be good to see a sky overhead
again； instead of pitted metal bulkheads veined with dripping pipes and tangled cables。 It hardly
mattered what that sky looked like； just so long as it was wide and open and any colour but the
lustreless grey of starship bulkheads。
Following the squad in front； Wulfe led his men through one of the drop…ship’s cargo holds；
turning his head to look at the tanks and halftracks that rested there。 Beyond them； further back in
the shadows； sat the company’s fuel and supply trucks。 All of the vehicles were covered in heavy
brown tarpaulins； lashed down with thick steel cables and bolted to solid fixtures in the floor。 But；
even with her bulk hidden under a tarp； it was all too easy for Wulfe to mark out his own tank。 The
Leman Russ Last Rites II boasted a Mars Alpha pattern hull； so she was fractionally longer in the
body than the other Leman Russ。 She was an old girl； and badly scarred — in Wulfe’s opinion； one
of the shabbiest tanks he had ever set eyes on。 Her armour plating was riveted together； rather than
mould…cast； and her turret was all vertical surfaces just begging to be hit with armour…piercing shells
or rocket…propelled grenades。 He was quite certain that she would get him and his entire crew killed
during their first engagement。 She was nothing like her predecessor； and he cursed her for that。 He
remembered seeing her for the first time and wondering if； in assigning him this old junker； the
lieutenant had meant to punish him for something。 Wulfe had thought his relationship with
Lieutenant van Droi perfectly solid up to then； but now he felt he had cause to question it。 To make
things worse； some of the other sergeants had leapt on the chance to rip him up about it。
“Don’t get too far ahead of us all； will you？” they said。 “Let us know if you need help pushing
her up a dune。”
“What does she run on； Wulfe？ Pedal power？”
12
“How many aurochs does it take to pull her？”
The list went on。 Wulfe scowled over at the covered tank； glad she was cloaked by the tarp so he
didn’t have to look at her ugly hide。 He quickly turned away。
The squad in front of him； Sergeant Richter’s crew； stomped up a narrow metal staircase and
disappeared from view。 Wulfe put his hand on the guardrail and hoisted himself up after them； steel
steps ringing under his polished marching boots。 His men clambered up behind him； right at his
back； silent except for the gunner； Holtz； who was grumbling unintelligibly。 Wulfe didn’t wonder
that Holtz was uneasy； though the man was apt to grumble at the best of times。 Emerging safely
from the warp was one thing； and Wulfe’s relief was genuine enough； but every man in the regiment
knew what awaited them on Golgotha。 Only the crazies and the liars — meaning most of the
commissioned officers — professed to like the army group’s odds of success here。 To Wulfe’s
mind； Operation Thunderstorm seemed like the most incredible gamble。 Colonel Vinnemann had
done his level best to instil a sense of purpose and honour in them； of course； but that was all part of
the job。
An entire world overrun with orks。 By the blasted Eye！ Who knew how many of the filthy
buggers there would be？
Without realising he was doing it； Wulfe reached up to brush a fingertip over the long horizontal
scar at his throat。 Orks。 His hatred of the greenskins was as strong today as it had ever been。
Probably stronger； in fact。
A doorway led into one of the passenger holds at the top of the metal staircase。 It was a long
dark space barely three metres across； extending to the left and right like a tunnel。 Twin rows of tiny
orange guide…lights lined the floor； and numbers in faded white paint marked the walls。 Wulfe and
his men soon found their seats； buckled themselves in； and reached up to pull metal impact frames
down over their heads and shoulders。 The frames locked into place with a loud click。 It was a sound
filled with significance； with a distinct finality。 Once you were locked in； there was no getting off
this ride。
Only minutes remained until the drop。 Wulfe felt a familiar tightness in his stomach。 He glanced
up and down the compartment； and nodded in friendly acknowledgement to Sergeant Viess。
Viess； only recently promoted； had been Wulfe’s gunner for some years and remained a friend；
though an undeniable distance had grown between them since he had been given his stripes。 He had
his own men to lead； and Holtz； formerly a sponson gunner； had taken his place on the main gun。
Wulfe was glad for Viess。 Most men in the regiment aspired to commanding their own tank。 He
missed having him on his crew； though。 Together； they had notched up a good number of armourkills。
Once the last squad had filed in to the compartment； the door hissed shut。 Almost two hundred
men sat in the compartment。 They were Gossefried’s Gunheads； the 81st Armoured Regiment’s 10th
Company。 Only the lieutenant and his adjutant were absent； seated in the cockpit with the dropship’s
flight crew。 The rest sat facing their fellows； trading jokes and nervous banter across the
hold’s narrow length。 Corporal Metzger； Wulfe’s driver； sat next to him； typically pensive； with
Holtz and Siegler — the latter being Wulfe’s long…serving loader — in the opposite seats。
This drop was different from the last； not just in terms of the nature of the mission； but for the
smaller crew with which Wulfe was rolling out。 His previous tank had boasted sponsons on either
side of her hull； two protruding compartments； each housing a belt…fed heavy bolter that made
messy work of anything foolish enough to close with her。 She had been an awesome war machine；
utterly unstoppable； and memories of abandoning her on a dark highway so many light…years away
filled Wulfe with genuine longing and remorse。 He had mourned her loss every day since then； but
what choice had there been？ Her top speed hadn’t been nearly enough。 Leaving her behind； he and
his crew had boarded a much faster Chimera APC； and the lighter machine’s speed had saved their
lives。 They had made it onto the last lifter into orbit just before the planet Palmeros was utterly
obliterated。
13
Despite the pain of losing his beloved tank； Wulfe knew he had a lot to be thankful for。 Billions
of Imperial civilians had not been so lucky。
In any case； the new machine — hah！ he thought。 What was new about her？ — lacked the same
potent defences。 Her flanks were practically naked。 Her side…armour might be one hundred and fifty
millimetres of solid plasteel； but there were weapons aplenty in the hands of mankind’s enemies that
could cut through it like butter。 An attacker only had to close the gap。 Without side sponsons； it
would fall to Wulfe to cover the tank’s blind spots from his cupola high atop the turret。 There was a
box…fed heavy stubber there； pintle…mounted with a nice； wide arc of fire； for exactly that purpose。
He knew it was a good weapon； but he still lamented the absence of side sponsons。
A crackling voice sounded from speakers set in the ceiling。 “Bay doors open。 Locks released。
Engines engaged。 Activating onboard gravitational systems in three； two； one…”
Wulfe felt his stomach lurch； a brief moment in which his body weight doubled as the grav…field
of the Hand of Radiance and the drop…ship’s field overlapped。 Just as quickly； the feeling was gone；
and the drop…ship’s onboard gravity became the only force pulling him into his seat。
“Bay doors cleared；” reported the mechanical voice a minute later。 “Firing thrusters。 Beginning
descent。 Breaching thermosphere in ten； nine…”
Wulfe tuned out the rest of the count。
“What’s a thermosphere； sarge？” piped a nervous…sounding trooper a dozen seats to the right。
“Stifle it； drop…virgin；” barked his sergeant。 “How would I know？ Do I look like a cogboy to
you？”
Wulfe grinned。 New meat； he thought。 This was the first drop for a good number of the men。
The 18th Army Group’s catastrophic losses on Palmeros had left it at less than half strength。 Senior
cadets from the Whiteshields — the tough； teenaged Cadian training regiments — had been drafted
in to replenish the ranks； but most of those had been posted to regiments in the 8th and 12th
divisions。 After promoting suitable men from the tech…crews and support squads； the Cadian 81st
had to make up the rest of their numbers with men drafted in from the 616th Reserve Regiment —
men who； in most cases； had never crewed a tank in their lives。 Lieutenant van Droi had expressed
his grave concerns about this in private。 He felt that most of the new men didn’t make the grade； not
by a long shot。 The reserves were rarely employed at the front lines； tending instead to be used for
garrisoning duties and the like。 Wulfe knew that their first taste of front line action would sort the
men from the boys。
Thinking about who made the grade and who didn’t； he cast an involuntary glance along the
opposite row of seats towards a man on his far left。
I’ve got my eye on you； squigshit； he thought。
The speakers crackled to life again。 “Mesospheric penetration in ten； nine…”
“Sounds dirty； don’t it？” quipped a ruddy…faced trooper on the opposite row。
“You’re so full of crap； Garrel；” said the young man next to him with a mirthless laugh。 He tried
to punch his comrade playfully on the arm； but the bars of his impact frame restricted his movement。
The anxious trooper who’d spoken up earlier opened his mouth to speak again； but he didn’t get
a word out before the same gruff sergeant cut him off。
“Go on； Vintners；” he barked； “ask me what a mesosphere is。 I dare you。” Despite his manner；
there was an unmistakable tone of humour in the sergeant’s voice。 “You’ll be on latrines for the
whole frakking op！”
Nervous laughter rippled along the rows。 Vintners tu