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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 turned pale and clamped his mouth shut。
All this was mere background noise to Wulfe。 He was too busy watching the man on the far left；
studying the lines and angles of his hawkish face； watching the way he moved his lips as he talked
in an undertone with the crewmen seated around him。
His name was Corporal Voeder Lenck； twenty…eight years old and commander of the Leman
Russ Exterminator New Champion of Cerbera。 He was a tall； slim； darkly handsome man； all poster14
boy good looks； easy smiles and warm handshakes。 But Wulfe wasn’t fooled； not for a second； not
like the gang of doe…eyed sycophants that had surrounded Lenck since the moment he had
transferred in。 Why the rookies all flocked to him； Wulfe hadn’t figured out yet。 The man had been a
bloody reserve； for Throne’s sake。 What was there to admire？ Admittedly； he wasn’t typical of the
newcomers。 He had some prior tank experience； for a start。 Perhaps that was it： a combination of
being fresh to the regiment； like the rest of the new meat； but being an experienced tanker at the
same time。 It was as good a guess as Wulfe could make。
The records showed that Lenck had been a sergeant earlier in his career； but something had gone
wrong。 There had been a trial； a court…martial。 He had been locked up for thirty days and demoted to
the rank of corporal。 Only the commissioned officers knew why and； so far； they weren’t telling； but
Wulfe planned to find out sooner or later。
The day he and Lenck had first met aboard the Hand of Radiance； Wulfe had recognised an icy
cruelty behind the man’s purple…irised eyes。 Lenck hadn’t done anything overt to induce Wulfe’s
dislike； not so far anyway； but Wulfe knew it would come sooner or later。 It didn’t help that he was
the spitting image of someone else； a convicted Cadian criminal by the name of Victor Dunst。 Dunst
and his gang of tattooed cronies had once tried to rob Wulfe in the under…streets of Kasr Gehr。
Wulfe had been a Whiteshield at the time； just a teenage cadet on leave before graduating from
basic。 He had been heavily outnumbered but； like so many Whiteshields； his belief in his
invincibility was so complete that he hadn’t even thought to run。 Instead； he had told the gang to
piss off； and Dunst had decided to kill him。 Only the chance intervention of a patrolling Civitas
enforcer squad had saved Wulfe’s life that day。 Dunst’s knife didn’t get more than two centimetres
into Wulfe’s chest。 Wulfe had been very lucky。
As Wulfe looked along the row； Lenck seemed to realise that he was being watched。 He didn’t
turn his head or shift his eyes； he just seemed to sense it。 Wulfe saw a grin creep over the younger
man’s face and felt a tremendous desire to punch him。 The feeling of Lenck’s bones cracking under
his fist would be supremely satisfying； he imagined。 Wulfe was no brawler； not like some of the
men he knew； but he was no slouch； either。 He was pretty sure he could take Lenck if it ever came
down to a fair fight； though Lenck didn’t seem the type to fight fair。 Such an