them to support deViers。 He saw that fact give strength to the general now。 The old man stood taller；
the years falling from him once again。
“Every last damned one of you；” deViers said。 “When you get back to your vehicles； I want you
to tell our forward elements to hold that breach at all costs。 And get every other man and machine
under my command through it before the orks get here from the south。 That means the fuel trucks；
the water trucks； food； supplies； munitions； every last damn bit of it。 I want everything we have；
everything we’ll need； through that breach and heading east towards The Fortress of Arrogance
before the ork reinforcements are on us。 Is that understood？”
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Rennkamp mumbled something incoherent。
“I said is that understood？” hissed deViers。
“Understood； sir；” said the three major generals。
Tech…Magos Sennesdiar didn’t wait to be dismissed。 He turned and left the tent； saying nothing
more。
“You’re mad； sir；” said Rennkamp。 “You do realise that？”
DeViers looked at him and grinned。 “Mad； Aaron？ Or inspired？”
It’s a thin line between the two； thought Bergen。 He felt miserable。 He had known for a long
time that deViers would get them all killed for his own sake： Balkar lost； supply lines cut； every
major outpost they had won under siege by the greenskins。 It was worse even than he had imagined
it would be； but still The Fortress of Arrogance pulled the general on relentlessly； and with him； the
men and machines of the 18th Army Group。
“You’ll see that I’m right； gentlemen；” said deViers。 “It’s odds like these that make legends of
men。 We can still find Yarrick’s tank。 It awaits us not far from here。 And one day； all of the
Imperium will know our story。”
No they won’t； thought Bergen。 Because none of us will survive this to tell it。
DeViers dismissed them； and； after a salute that lacked any sincerity whatsoever； Bergen
returned to his Chimera。 The men of his division were still out there； fighting for their lives； fighting
to hold the breach in the ork wall so that the infantry could keep pouring through； helping to secure
more and more ground on the other side。
If he and the other divisional commanders could just get everyone through before the orks from
the south moved into range； then maybe； just maybe； they could run east。 With luck； they might stay
ahead of the orks for a while。 They might even reach the supposed coordinates of Yarrick’s tank。
Bergen hoped he survived that long。 He hoped the tank was there； despite his doubts。 He wanted
to know that the dead had fallen for something greater than an old man’s self…importance。
In the back of Pride of Caedus； he hit a toggle on his vox…caster and opened a link to Colonel
Vinnemann。
“Armour； this is Division。”
No answer。 Bergen felt his skin crawl。
“Armour Command；” he voxed； “this is Divisional Command。 Respond； please。”
Nothing but static。
“Damn it； Vinnemann； respond。 That’s an order； you hear？”
Words tumbled over and over in his mind； like a mantra： don’t let it be； don’t let it be。
Perhaps there was just something wrong with the Angel’s vox。
Emperor； let it be that； he pleaded。
He switched channels； contacting Colonel Marrenburg； who was overseeing the artillery
companies not far from deViers’ forward command tent。 “Marrenburg； can you get a visual on
Angel of the Apocalypse？ I can’t raise Vinnemann on the vox。”
Marrenburg sounded like a different man when he answered； and Bergen realised that his fears
were well…founded。
“It was the ork bombers； sir；” said the colonel。 “The Hydras got most of them； but Vinnemann’s
tank took too many direct hits。 We just took the last one down； but not before it managed to deliver
a final payload。 Not much left the Angel of the Apocalypse now； sir。 Throne rest the souls of all
those who crewed her。”
Bergen’s mouth went dry。 He was speechless。 He thought of Vinnemann； of the hunched little
man who had endured so much pain； so much struggle just to keep on fighting。 Few men Bergen had
ever met could be said to embody the Cadian spirit of honour and resilience so well。 His eyes began
to sting； and his throat felt tight。 He would miss Kochatkis Vinnemann。 The unrelenting colonel had
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gone beyond the call of duty long ago。 Perhaps now； his soul would be reunited with that of the wife
he had spent so long avenging。 He had more than earned his peace。
The 81st Armoured Regiment’s second…in…command would have to take over。 That was Captain
Immrich。
Bergen would promote Immrich later… if he was still alive。
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CHAPTER TWENTY…ONE
Captain Immrich was alive； and he was working damned hard to stay that way。 He was doing a fine
job of it； too； and of gaining ground as he led the tanks of the 81st Armoured Regiment against the
ork hordes that swarmed towards them from almost every direction。
Under Immrich’s command； the Imperial armour kept pushing out beyond the wall； and the
space they created behind them became filled with ever greater numbers of Chimeras； halftracks；
Thirty…Sixers full of troops； and Sentinel walkers that added the firepower of their auto…cannon to
the battle； slaughtering hundreds of greenskin filth with great sweeps of fire。
The ground was a carpet of smoking metal； big brown bodies and raw red meat。 Ork carcasses
covered every inch of sand and rock。 The Cadian tanks pulped them as they rolled forward。 There
was no way to avoid them。 The bodies were everywhere。 Treads of black iron became slick and
shiny and red。 Only the filter…masks worn by the Cadians protected them from the stench。 Without
the masks； it would have been impossible to breathe without vomiting。
Even with all his hatches locked up tight； Wulfe’s nose crinkled in disgust as the smell of so
much death permeated his turret； competing with the powerful combined stink of oil； sweat and
fyceline。
Last Rites II had knocked out three ramshackle ork machines already； and Beans was swinging
the turret around on a fourth that was approaching from front…left； when Wulfe heard Immrich’s
voice on the vox…link。 It sounded different； drained； as if something had sapped the life out of the
man。 He sounded lost。 “All units； listen up。 This is Captain Immrich。 New orders from General
deViers。 All tanks are to focus on carving and holding a corridor east。 The rest of the army group is
coming through behind us。 When they’re clear； I’ll give the word。 I want all tanks to fall in behind
them and cover the column’s rear。”
We’re running east； thought Wulfe。 Why the frak aren’t we solidifying our position here first？
The orks will close in behind us and harry our flanks if we run now。 Does the general mean to let
them cut off our route back to Balkar？
“There’s more；” said Immrich。 “I’ve just been placed in temporary command of the regiment。
Colonel Vinnemann… Colonel Vinnemann has gone to meet the Emperor。”
Wulfe reeled backwards in his seat。 It couldn’t be true。 It just couldn’t be。 Vinnemann was the
regiment。 To every man who knew him； he was as permanent as the stars。 What would the regiment
be without its guiding light； its living symbol of honour and duty？ He felt the news hit him like a
physical blow。
The sudden boom of his tank’s main gun shook him back into himself。 The turret jolted。 The
smell of burnt propellant tugged his nose。 He checked the vision blocks and saw a heap of burning
black metal straight ahead。 The main gun was still pointing directly at it。
Beans whooped with satisfaction。 “How many points do I get for a truck full of the bastards？”
“Metzger；” said Wulfe； ignoring the gunner’s celebration； “wheel us around to the north。 We’re
to hold a corridor here for the others to come through。”
“Aye； sir；” said Metzger； and the tank started to move。
“Siegler； Beans； keep that rate of fire up；” said Wulfe。 “Armour…piercing。 Focus on their armour。
Our infantry can deal with their foot soldiers。”
He hoped that were true。 So far； they’d given the orks a damned hard time getting anywhere near
the Cadian tanks。 Every vehicle that careered towards them had been lit up like fireworks at a
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Founding Festival。 The orks were still coming； though； pouring towards the breach from all along
the wall； desperate to join the fray where the fighting was at its thickest。 As the Imperial tanks
steadily thinned down the number of ork machines； the fight became one of lighter weapons：
lasguns； bolters； stubbers and the like。 Wulfe moved automatically； unlocking the hatch of his
cupola without thinking； still numbed by the news of Vinnemann’s death。 How would van Droi be
taking it？ The lieutenant had idolised his senior officer。
Shock and numbness bled off the moment Wulfe poked his head and shoulders above the rim of
the hatch。 There was no time for them。 The air was filled with the noise of gunfire； alien battle…cries
and the screams of the dying。 In his peripheral vision； Wulfe saw the guns of the vehicles on either
side of him blazing away； cutting down dozens of heavy brown bodies as they charged。 Distantly； he
noted that one of the tanks； the one to his right； was an Exterminator。 Lenck’s machine。
Wulfe grabbed the grips of his heavy stubber； knocked the safety off； cocked it； and hit the
thumb…triggers hard。 He barely needed to line up。
Fire blazed from the stubber’s muzzle。 The recoil shook him； a deep juddering that travelled
right through his body。 It was a satisfying feeling。 More satisfying still was the sight of a row of
massive greenskin warriors in iron plate being literally chewed apart by his hail of fire。
“Beans；” said Wulfe over the intercom； “if you don’t have any armoured targets； get on the
damned co…ax。 Put some autocannon fire on them。 We have to hold them here until the rear elements
get through！”
“I’m on it；” replied Beans。 Seconds later； the co…axial autocannon rattled to life。
More orks fell。
“Push through；” shouted General deViers over the vox。 “I want every last one of you through that
damned gap at once。 Don’t look back。”
The orks’ flankers from the south were closing fast。 DeViers had moved the vulnerable
machines ahead — fuel and water trucks； all the transports with their critical supplies — and
ordered a rearguard of Chimeras to follow； turrets turned to protect the flanks。 If any of the ork light
armour closed before his rear echelons passed the breach； the Chimeras would have to hold them
off。 It was far from ideal； but all the heavy armour was up front； holding the corridor eastward。
There was no time to reshuffle his forces。 Together； the orks behind the wall and those from the
south would try to smash his force； like glowing steel between anvil and hammer。
The general’s Chimera； Arrow of Alibris； moved at the head of the racing column； churning up
the dusty ground towards the gap that Angel of the Apocalypse had made。 Beside him； the Chimeras
of his divisional and regimental commanders matched his speed。
We will make it； he told himself。 If the tech…priests have it right； The Fortress of Arrogance isn’t
more than eighty kilometres east of here。 But how will I be able to recover it with all the damned
pressure from our rear？ How long will the Mechanicus need to send their damned beacon into space
and bring