“Don’t cut the kid’s ears off, Nooria,” the Top replies, slowly releasing his grip on Pete’s shoulders as the youth accepts his fate. “He’s got a big enough problem listening to me already.”
16
Mountain range around the former asylum at Ghorband (Stalker outpost), New Zone
In the United States Marine Corps, rifle squads usually consist of thirteen men. When the remnants of Colonel Leighley’s recon battalion rebelled and took the Hazaras under their protection, they found themselves at war with everyone around them strong enough to wield a Kalashnikov. Their stretched defense meant that single squads had to perform what had normally been a platoon’s task, and they rarely massed their forces to reach the numbers that would justify calling them a company. The Colonel had each squad commanded by one of his men who were with him in the catacombs of Shahr-i-Gholghola and became his most trusted and fierce warriors. He referred to them as his Lieutenants, regardless of their earlier ranks save for Sergeant Major Hartman. No matter what, the warriors of the Tribe hung on their past as Marines and a Marine force needs a sergeant major as much as a body needs a backbone.
Later on, as their strength grew with recruits flown in and the martial Hazara youth beefing up their ranks, the Colonel could have refer to his units as companies and platoons but the term ’squad’ stuck. It could by now mean any force between that and company level, organized in task-force manner as the objectives require. The nature of fighting in the wilderness where small skirmishes are the norm rarely makes big operations necessary , and it doesn’t happen too often that a Lieutenant moves out with a ’squad’ of three hundred men which would more or less equal the fighting force of three rifle companies.
Hence it is to First Lieutenant Driscoll’s great satisfaction to look over the column of Humvees and trucks carrying the three hundred men of Task Force Anaconda. The vehicles stand still on the narrow road below the hill from where he observes the Stalker outpost through his binoculars. Lieutenants Collins and Schmidt are at his side.
“Looks like the scavengers did half our job already,” he observes.
Though the road block at the end of the ruined village is manned by Stalkers, they appear busy looting the dozen bodies strewn around their position. Black smoke rises from behind the Asylum’s all but impenetrable mud brick walls.
“Never seen them fighting among themselves before,” Lieutenant Schmidt says.
“Scavengers,” Driscoll grumbles with disgust. “At least we can save some ammo. Let’s get this show on the run!”
“Sir, there’s something weird about this.” Collins lets his own binoculars down and points to the men looting the bodies. “They look different. The bodies have the standard scavenger kit. The looters though—look, it’s trench coats.”
Schmidt nods his agreement. “Yeah, I wonder how they could run over that place without heavy weapons. Most of them only have shotguns but those Ghorband guys were all armed to the teeth.”
“So what? Trench coats seem to be the new scavenger fashion,” Driscoll says. “Doesn’t matter much what they’re wearing when they die. Collins, call the Gunny and let his Javelin team move up here. I want them to blast that place before the assault team moves in.”
“Aye, sir,” Collins replies and takes his radio set to convey the order.
17
Bagram, New Zone
Mac leaves Billy at the bottom of the lookout tower and swiftly climbs the metal stairs. She is about to greet the sniper on the platform when he raises his hand, without turning back to look at her.
“Stay behind me,” the sniper says. “We better talk like this.”
“What?”
“It would be like talking to myself. But if you step into my aura, we start interacting. Exchanging glances. Gesturing. It would interrupt my concentration. Besides, I already know who you are and what you are, Mac.”
“How could you?”
“I hear the noise your exoskeleton makes. Your voice is hoarse now it betrays that normally, it is very soft. It sounds very young, too. I’ve heard of only one young Stalker who owns an exoskeleton, because rookies cannot afford one. He was Mac, Uncle Yar’s apprentice.
“Correct, so far.”
“Then I can smell soap on you. You smells better than Stalkers usually do. Adding this to your soft voice, and removing from the equation the not very likely possibility of you being gay, results in the probable assumption that you are a woman.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. Some of the best snipers in the world were women.”
“Does anything else exist for you apart from sniping?”
“Sure.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s talk about it another time.”
“Will you tell me at least your name?”
“Call me Ahuizotl.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Ahuizotl.”
“What does it mean? “
“A kind of spook, much like a ghost. Several ghosts, actually, such as the Headless Priest, the ghost dog Cadejo, or the Carreta Nahua, a wooden cart carrying chained lost souls—and some more.”
“¿Eres de América Latina?”
“Sí. Managua, Nicaragua.”
“Vamos a hablar español, porque soy de Argentina.”
“No. I prefer English if you don’t mind. I need some practice and yours is very good.”
“Ahuizotl… For a sniper it’s a great call sign since you are supposed to be like ghosts.”
The sniper nods.
“Now that you know so much about me and me about you only that you’re a hardcore sniper—”
“I preferred you saying, over the edge.”
“—maybe it’s time to tell you what I originally wanted. Shrink wants us to pay a visit to the Stalkers in the Asylum. Their comms are down and I may need to repair it, if that’s why they don’t reply to our calls.”
Ahuizotl shrugs. “All right. Let’s go.”
“Just like that?”
“The boss told us what to do and off we go. What else do you want, a farewell party?”
“Uhm, okay. If you are ready, I am ready.”
Mac is about to descend the ladder when the sniper scans the hills around Bagram once more. Then he fixes his binoculars to the northwest, where the road to the Salang Pass and the Asylum runs through a sparse forest.
“Look at that, Mac.”
Peering through the sniper’s heavy binoculars, Mac’s first reaction is to emit a surprised wow.
“These binocs are fantastic!”
“I know. Zoom in on that road intersection, about two kilometers from here, left from that ruined bus stop.”
“I see — I see a Stalker. He appears wounded. And — Jesus, I see a pack of jackals just a few hundred meters away, between him and the base!”
“He’s dead already,” Ahuizotl coldly observes.
“Shoot those damned mutants! You are supposed to be a sniper!”
“No. Even if all my shots were kills, there would be still enough mutants left to finish him. It makes no sense to waste precious ammunition.”
“You are a coldhearted bastard, you know that?”
Ahuizotl keeps watching the scene.
“Those are not jackals!” he says but Mac doesn’t listen to him. She grasps her PDA and switches to the emergency channel that every Stalker in the range of a few hundred meters receive.
“Wounded Stalker approaching Bagram base from the north-west. Jackals will attack him within a minute. Help! Brothers, help him!”
After a long moment, replies start pouring in.
“Is there a reward for risking my skin for him?”
“Tell him to send me the coordinates of any hidden stash before it’s too late.”
“I’m cleaning my rifle. By the time I get there he would be dead. Too bad, but the New Zone is about taking another life.”
“If he was a good Stalker, we’ll drink to him once more!”
T
hen at last Shrink’s reply comes and he seems to be the only one who cares.
“Mac and Axe-in-a-Bottle. Get to the URAL immediately. Guards, raise that container and open the gate!”
Praising Uncle Yar for welding the steel ladder such way that the guards can simply slide down, Mac gets down and runs to the armored truck which has a twin-barreled ZU-23 anti-aircraft gun mounted on its flatbed. Shrink has already started the engine and the truck is slowly rolling towards the opening in the container wall surrounding the Stalker base when Ahuizotl reaches it. He grabs Mac’s hand and jumps to the flatbed. Billy follows him with a huge leap.
“Switch to your intercom!” Shrink shouts while he drives the truck through the gate. “You better know how to use that autocannon!”
“You have no one to handle this shit?” she shouts back.
“Of course I have! You!”
Mac almost falls off the flatbed as the truck speeds up but Ahuizotl grabs her arm at the last moment.
“I know how to shoot this,” he yells at her. “Hold on to the handrails!”
Shrink accelerates the massive truck and drives straight ahead towards the intersection. The shortcut through the bushes wins them a few minutes, but also prevents Ahuizotl from firing the cannon forward where the truck’s cabin blocks the cannon’s line of fire.
“Keep right, keep right!” the sniper shouts. “I can’t fire from this angle!”
Ignoring him, Shrink drives the truck directly into the mutant pack. They have meanwhile sniffed out the bleeding man and move in for the kill.
Holding tight on the handrails on the left side of the flatbed, Mac watches the pack. The canine mutants that looked like jackals from the distance are actually twice their size and boast an enormous snout with fangs as long and curved as a saber. That would make them appear fearsome enough, but their red eyes glow with a rage that is insane even for a blood-thirsty mutant.
“These are not jackals,” she yells.
“Told you so. It’s wolves! Shrink! Turn the truck to the right! To the right!”
Putting his trust into the 15 tons of steel driving at full speed, Shrink attempts to run through the pack but the mutants are on their guard. The pack splits and lets the truck drive into their middle where they don’t only keep up with its speed but encircle the vehicle.
“Mac! Keep those beasts away from us!” the sniper shouts. ”I can’t hit them at this range!”
Mac doesn’t need to be warned: she’s already holding herself with one hand and firing bursts from her F2000 rifle with the other. On the flatbed of the speeding and bumping truck, aiming is impossible but she hopes to hit at least the mutants running up the truck before they can leap onto the flatbed. Ahuizotl has also drawn a pistol with his left hand and fires at the wolves closing in on the truck.
“Hold on,” Shrink’s yell crackles in the headset. “We have almost reached the patient!”
“Keep driving instead of trying to be funny!” Mac shouts back.
At the same moment, one particularly agile mutant makes a leap and lands on the flatbed. Billy jumps at its throat but wouldn’t stand a chance against the wolf even if he were a fully grown jackal. Mac pulls the trigger, only to realize that the magazine is empty. The wolf’s massive fangs are about to tear into the yelping jackal’s neck when three rounds from Ahuizotl’s pistol hit it. The mutant shakes its head, as if trying to get rid of the sudden pain, and turns on its human attacker with a growl. Billy snaps after it, his sharp teeth getting hold of the wolf’s foot and interrupting its attack. Mac puts all her strength into the kick she delivers to the drooling mutant. For a second, the red glow disappears from the wolf’s eyes. In the next moment, a long burst from Mac’s rifle tears into the wolf’s head and makes sure that it doesn’t return.
Once more, Mac desperately grabs the handrails when the truck suddenly slows down.
“Grab him! Pull him up, pull him up!”
The wounded Stalker is kneeling on the ground. He looks up, and for a heartbeat Mac sees the pain on his face so clearly as if nothing else existed in the world.
“Your hand! Day ruku! ¡Dame tu mano!” she shouts in several languages and grabs the Stalkers outstretched hand as the truck approaches him at reduced speed.
The Stalker must have realized that his saviors will not stop and politely ask him if he needs a ride. Ignoring his exhaustion, he runs a few steps holding Mac’s hand aside the truck and then jumps. With her free hand, Mac grabs the belt on his armored suit and pulls him up to the flatbed. Then she unslings the weapon once more and starts firing at the mutants closing in.
“Nice catch,” she hears in the intercom. “Now brace yourselves, this will be bumpy.”
With the Stalker in safety, Shrink accelerates the truck and reaches the road embankment in a few seconds. The massive wheels tear into soft mud and toil up the steep ascent. If lifeless rubber and metal could act desperately, the wheels wouldn’t act much differently now from the Stalker who had pulled all his strength together to get into safety. Mac needs both hands to hang on and prevent herself from falling off the truck.
By now, the wolves won’t need to be particularly to jump on the flatbed, but the asphalt road gives the truck an advantage not even the most resolved mutants can match. The truck accelerates to a speed that threatens it with falling apart, bumping over potholes and rocks amid the cloud of dust now blowing from its tires and chassis. The distance between the URAL and the wolf pack quickly grows.
But the mutants don’t give up easily. Running at incredible speed, the quickest ones are almost catching up with the truck when at last the twin-barreled cannon starts firing. Its muzzle blinds Mac who loses any chance to effectively fire her assault rifle, but it is no longer necessary — Ahuizotl swathes their rear with short bursts from the cannon until the hard-hitting 23mm cartridges melt into an arc of fiery steel, decimating the mutants and suppressing the painful yelps coming from their scattered pack.
In a minutes, the truck rolls through the open gate into safety. The guards have barely lowered the container blocking the entrance, and the engine is still idling when Shrink jumps off the cabin. “Is he still alive?”
Mac glances at the Stalker she has held in her lap for the past few minutes. “Yes, he made it!”
“Bonesetter!” Shrink yells. “Where’s the doc?”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!”
A round-headed man appears among the Stalkers gathered up around the truck. He is the only one unarmed and wearing only a light brown jacket, appearing almost like a civilian. He checks on the wounded man whom Mac and Ahuizotl have carefully lifted off the truck.
“Get him into the infirmary! Do you want me to treat him here in the dust, you idiots?”
Inside the steel containers that might have once accommodated transiting visitors when it was still an air base, the Stalker is laid on one of the dozen makeshift surgery beds. Bonesetter cautiously removes his torn body armor. Two gun shots have penetrated the body armor but the integrated Kevlar plates have absorbed much of the impact, turning what would have been deadly into painful, but non-lethal flesh wounds.
“Our Asylum — Ghorband is fallen,” the wounded men mutters. “It was overrun. All dead!”
“What? Overrun? By whom?” Shrink’s face turns pale. “Mutants? The Tribe? Speak up, Stalker!”
The Stalker sighs as the effect of the painkillers administered by Bonesetter begins to set in.
“No. Bandits. They came out of nowhere and slaughtered everyone—I was returning from an artifact hunt and all I could do was to seek cover, stay put and watch how they looted the place… The Bandits saw me. I had to run away—”
“Bandits? There are no Bandits here!”
The Stalker tries to lean up from his bed. Apparently angered about Shrink not believing him, he grabs his arm and pulls him closer. “I have seen enough Bandits in the Zone to recognize not one but dozens of them.”
“Shrink, you know the drill,” Bonesetter calmly says. “H
e needs rest. You have heard enough for now.”
Shrink grazes his stubble. “Bandits? Then we should have left this sucker to his fate. There’s no need to piss off Bandits if they show up here!”
“Who said that?”
A Stalker steps forward. Shrink narrows his eyes and opens the folder of incoming messages on his PDA.
“Is there a reward for risking my skin for him? Vaska Bulldog, did you send this message?”
“Uhm, yes. Why?”
Shrink’s blue eyes sparkle with anger. “Because you need some cowardice management, Stalker.”
He gives Vaska Bulldog a head-butt and the selfish Stalker collapses with a yell of pain.
“That’s a lesson for all of you,” Shrink says. “This is our base now. A Stalker base. We will not let each other down, neither will we let ourselves be bullied by thugs in ridiculous trench coats. We will fight whatever the New Zone throws at us. If anyone disagrees—he can join Vaska on his way to the wilderness. He is cast out and shall never again set his foot in Bagram!”
The Stalkers gathered in the infirmary look at each other. Some faces lighten up upon hearing their new leader speaking. Others frown, thinking that they might be drawn into a conflict interfering with their plans of staying out of any trouble. But no Stalker sides with the humiliated coward who is moaning on the floor.
Shrink nods. “That’s what I thought. All right, men, let’s Bonesetter do his job. Mac, Box a Little — you spread the warning about Bandits in the northern approaches. Uncle Yar and the rest of you—prepare the defenses. Dima Toad, Mishka Bear — on me. You are old Ghorband hands and will be my first assistants. Let’s prepare the defenses! Those bastards won’t catch us with our pants down!”
The sniper shakes his head as he watches Shrink leave the infirmary with his Stalkers.
“It’s Ahuizotl,” he sighs. “Not Axe-in-a-Bottle or Box a Little.”
Mac gives him a pat on the shoulder. “Cheer up, hermano. Not everyone can be called Mishka Beekeeper!…”
18
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2 Page 11