S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2

by Balazs Pataki

  “You’re aboard, Foley. Haul ass to the left door!”

  The sergeant major seems to be in his element as he rants at the hapless recruits. Tarasov soon gives Nooria and Pete a sign to follow him out.

  “Guess this might still take a while,” he tells the female officer outside.

  “Is there something we can do around here till he’s finished abusing those who were stupid enough to volunteer for it?” Pete asks.

  Second Lieutenant Stone gives him a disapproving glance. “Yes. You are free to move around in the base. And it’s an honor to meet you, uh, sir, but watch your tongue. Even if you are the Colonel’s son. We don’t like being insulted.”

  “But, I mean…”

  Tarasov gives a mental nod to the Second Lieutenant for reprimanding the cynical kid. “Is there a restroom where the kid and Nooria can have a chat?”

  “You must mean the recreation room,” Stone says with a little smile. ”It’s signposted. Follow that corridor to the left.”

  “And what’s behind that blast door?” Tarasov curiously asks pointing at the massive door that had caught his attention earlier.

  “Care to see?” Stone asks and turns the iron handles to unlock the door. It opens surprisingly softly. Following the wave of Stone’s hand, Tarasov enters the room beyond.

  He recoils. A sudden sense of dizziness comes over him as he looks down into the circular, deep shaft gaping ahead.

  “Once a Minuteman-II intercontinental ballistic missile was standing here, always ready to deliver a nuclear warhead to Moscow. Maybe Kiev or Leningrad, whatever.”

  “A W56 warhead with a yield of 1.2 megatons of TNT, to be exact,” Tarasov says under his breath. “Sixty times Hiroshima.”

  “Yeah. A real whizbang! This silo stood abandoned for decades. It’s listed as dismantled and filled up with concrete in official papers. We’ve made a few tech upgrades to the silo and the bunker complex around it and moved in. Ain’t nuclear disarmament great?”

  “One of the greatest achievements in the history of mankind.”

  “Agree. Imagine if it would go on…”

  “That would be truly great.”

  “Yes. All those missile silos in the States becoming abandoned!… We could take over a few more and then have the whole country covered by a network of bases!”

  “That would be… outstanding. Thanks for the tour, but let’s now get out of here. I feel kind of dizzy.”

  Stone closes the door. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  Tarasov nods agreement. “How do you finance all this?”

  She reflects for a moment. “See… since the Top is vouching for you, probably there’s no harm in telling you that from time to time we receive a shipment of swags from the Alamo.”

  “Must be big artifacts… I mean, swags. At least big shipments if you can afford all this.”

  “The last shipment weighed more than fifteen tons.”

  Tarasov almost jumps hearing this. “What? Fifteen tons of artifacts?”

  “Yes, that was a big shipment. Usually, we receive only about ten-eleven tons of various swags every three weeks or so.”

  “And you spend the incredible wealth you make from artifacts on buying weapons, hiding in this missile bunker here and in your fortress in the New Zone?”

  “Yes,” Stone says with a smile. “For the time being.”

  “I’ve seen all kinds of desperate men wanting to join your ranks, but with all due respect — what does a charming, intelligent, young woman like you do here?”

  “Sir — I might be young, charming and intelligent but not the kind of woman you take me for. I am a Second Lieutenant in the Tribe and privileged to keep up our Code of Honor, Courage and Commitment against all odds in the world. And if all my wealth were a dime, I’d gladly give it away to support our cause and follow the Colonel’s call!”

  Although Tarasov can only guess what a dime means, he is well impressed by the Second Lieutenant’s dedication to the Tribe, even though she was obviously not among the Colonel’s Marines who turned into fanatic warriors after being exposed to the evil beneath the City of Screams. Not for the first time, he wonders whether his own defection had also been induced by that evil. Being used for bait to expose a general gone traitor, implicitly sacrificing him and his men, would have tested the loyalty of any officer; but what he really feels he betrayed is not Ukraine, even less so its army. It is the Exclusion Zone. Nooria, who appears to him as if she were holding all the mysteries of the New Zone in her dark green eyes, always had been a reasonable justification for his decision. Yet something keeps nagging at his conscience and now stirs up a sudden wave of homesickness.

  “I have a PDA on me. Is there a facility where I could download messages?”

  “Staff Sergeant No-Go can help you with that.”

  “Staff Sergeant—who?”

  “Not Hu. Ng, but we call him No-Go. He should be at his terminal over there. Only leaves his computers alone when he needs going to the restroom.”

  “His name is… what?”

  “Hiu Ng. Joined us all the way from Taiwan.”

  “I see. Thanks for the tour, Second Lieutenant.”

  The female officer nods and gives Tarasov a respectful glance but gives him no salute when she hurries off.

  He walks to a horseshoe-shaped workstation with large computer screens, several laptops and desktop PCs. A short Chinese man is sitting behind them on a huge chair. Despite his thin eyeglasses, No-Go doesn’t look at all like Tarasov would imagine a computer freak—the lean face and sinewy, tattoed arms rather remind him to a kung-fu fighter. With all the screens and computers around his workstation, he appears like a Bruce Lee who by some mistake wandered into the set of a science-fiction movie.

  “Staff Sergeant… uhm, No-Go, I need logging on to a special server in Ukraine through my PDA,” Tarasov says.

  “What does it have apart from a router and firewall?” No-Go replies barely looking up from a disemboweled PC he is mending. “VPN, IPS?”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ll need a little time to snuffle around before I can hack into a server, you know?”

  “No need for that. I still have my password.”

  “Oh.” No-Go sounds disappointed. “Help yourself. There’s an USB hub — plug and play!”

  “Is that a secure connection? I mean, can it be tracked?”

  “Course it can be. The question is what they find.” No-Go leaves the gutted computer alone and takes a wireless keyboard. He appears like a musician who’s about to play a challenging piece on piano knowing that it’s well within his abilities.

  “If they try to nail the guy who made the call, a clueless geek somewhere in Beijing will be in for a surprise… look! I can see him hosting a guild party in World of Warcraft right now… geez, not only that. Seems like he’s running a gold farm! Damned cheaters… Now give me just ten minutes and all that gold will be mine, only mine!”

  No-Go starts tapping his keyboard with fingers telling of routine.

  “By the way, I presume it was you who provided us with Pete Leighley’s police file. Thanks, we would’ve never found him without that.”

  No-Go sneers. “LAPD… gimme a break. We had police servers for breakfast before LulzSec got busted… oh yeah, those were the times!”

  Tarasov logs on to the server of the Ukrainian military storing the messages during periods of an officer’s PDA being switched off. Back at the Tribe’s stronghold he did it a couple of times already, wondering if his old account is still available because the military hasn’t given up hope on his return. Knowing how things are run back in the army, sheer negligence is his other guess.

  Intended for short periods during missions in locations where there’s no signal or during a leave, the log stores only messages from senders whom Tarasov or the system automatically has flagged as important. Now, after almost two months of absence, Tarasov is glad for this feature. It spares him the trouble of going through dozens of outdated
emission warnings and status reports.

  “Promotion to Lieutenant Colonel denied,” he reads out one of his messages, shrugging. “Looks like Degtyarev’s influence does have its limits after all.”

  Most of the news is about usual events in the Exclusion Zone: supply lists, mission reports from his former comrades like Freedom patrol sighted at Pig Farm, Dark Valley. Area secured. 2 KIA. Lt. Priboi. A few Stalker warnings about mutant sightings.

  All seems quiet in the Zone. Seeing how life went on without him, Tarasov is disappointed. The messages almost make him feel as if he were dead and looking back from the afterlife to the world of the living where he is no longer needed. Not even the thought of his impending return to the New Zone can cheer him up.

  Only three messages are interesting. A report by a junior Duty commander shared with the military tells of an increased number of Bandits appearing. Strangely enough, they seem to avoid any confrontation with free Stalkers and other factions. The other two come from the same sender—Strelok.

  Condor. Heard about your mission. Whenever you get back, come and see me. Back in my days I found something in X-18 that I want to show you now. Doctor and Barkeep are still reliable. Look for me in the Bar. Avoid Sidorovich.

  The second, sent only a few days ago, makes Tarasov frown.

  Condor. Got the SBU on my tail. Need your help. Hurry.

  “Wow, yes! I’m rich!” No-Go shouts and thrusts his fist into the air, triumphantly. “All I have to do now is to re-route the server—hey, why so serious? Bad news?”

  Tarasov reads the messages again, carefully. “Strange… first, an old friend says he has something important to talk about. A few days later, he says he’s in trouble and needs my help.”

  “Who’s that guy?”

  “An old friend, one of the last ones I still have in the Exclusion Zone.”

  No-Go’s smart eyes wink behind his glasses.

  “Let me know if there’s a change in your itinerary, okay? I’ll need to book your tickets, you know…”

  “I need a moment to think this through. By the way — are you allowed to play video games all the time?”

  “It’s part of my job.” Seeing Tarasov’s surprise, No-Go carries on. “Smaller part, though. The bigger part is monitoring YouTube and some forum threads—AR15.com, Marines.com and so on. Facebook too, of course.”

  “How come?”

  “Ever since the Bush wars, why do you think the bad guys were allowed to post hate videos showing our guys being blown up by IED’s, and worse? The NSA and all the other spooks were watching. As soon as Mahmud and Rashid started to praise those vids, the spooks ID-d them through their IP address and put them under surveillance. Extremist sites—ditto.”

  “And?”

  “We do the same, just looking at it from another angle. If Jack or Joe starts ranting about killing all the baddies, we flag them, check them, and if they seem to be clear Judging by their net traffic, we reach out for them.”

  “There was a kid among the recruits. Fond of computers, apparently. Did you find him like that?”

  “You must be meaning the all-American Counterstrike champion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never mind, someone like you wouldn’t like it anyway. Though it made that kid a fucking millionaire. What door did the Top send him through?”

  “The right one, I think.”

  The hacker’s face darkens. “Uh-oh.”

  “Why?”

  “Well… anyway… so, as you see, our recruiting methods are much more efficient than Uncle Sam pointing his finger at you from a poster. But it’s just one part — there’s also the NRA, Probation Service, veteran and suicide help lines, Alcoholics Anonymous… lots of good people who’d get lost for the right cause without us.”

  “All this must be top secret but you tell me everything without a second thought. How come?”

  “The Top vouching for you makes you almost one of us.”

  Although he is still curious about what this means, Strelok’s messages overwhelm Tarasov with desire to return to the Exclusion Zone. He is so much lost in his thoughts that he almost walks into Harman as he exits the recruiting hall.

  “I see you are impressed by our little base, Major!”

  “Net, ya… I mean, uhm, yes… You done with recruiting?”

  “Twenty-four out of thirty-six. Good catch. Even got a Canadian and an kiwi among them. Outstanding stock.”

  “Top, I saw and heard things I was probably not supposed to. Everyone kept telling about you vouching for me. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Follow me. I need you to see something.”

  The Top opens a door. As soon as they enter the dark room behind it, an almost blinding light is switched on. A striking red stripe on the ceiling catches Tarasov’s attention. Then, as he looks down, a ghastly cry escapes him.

  “Gospodi… it’s the recruit’s you’ve rejected! All dead!”

  “Here they lie, one by one finished off by Sergeant Hillbilly’s silenced Beretta 92. They enter the room through that door from the recruiting hall. Light goes up and they instinctively look up to that red area on the ceiling, just like you did — and are dead before hitting the floor. A head jolting backwards makes for a perfectly clean headshot.”

  “That’s horrendous!”

  “Necessary, too. Now you know to what lengths we go to keep this place secret. We don’t want anyone talking about this base to the wrong person, be it for revenge or frustration over not being chosen. Though I feel kinda sorry for this kid here.” Hartman takes his ten dollars from the hands of the dead Iowa youth.

  “No-Go said he was a millionaire,” Tarasov dryly observes.

  Hartman shrugs. “So what? He was too weak to hold even a combat knife. I gave him a chance and asked if he has any skills we need. Well, he hadn’t. I’m tellin’ you, Major, if all these nerd types would make ten push ups every half an hour they spend video gaming or downloading porn we’d live in a better world. Anyway, you’re alive to see all this — that’s what vouching for you means.”

  Tarasov is relieved when they leave the room. “I supposed you don’t have any alcohol in here.”

  “We don’t but you can have a fix of caffeine. Hillbilly, Polak! Don’t stand there supporting that wall, it won’t collapse without you leaning against it. Show our friend to the next coffee machine and make sure he gets a real one. He’ll put his finger inside and if it doesn’t burn his skin off, I’ll get you reprimanded!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “There’s something we need to discuss, Top!” Tarasov says.

  “Later.”

  Hartman hurries off. Brother Hillbilly gives Tarasov a gloomy smile.

  “Our coffee recipe is classified beyond top secret but since the Top vouches for you, probably you can have one.”

  “Only if no one gets hurt in the process,” Tarasov replies.

  “Depends on who’s drinking it,” Brother Polak says as they walk down a narrow corridor. “It’s not for the faint at heart.”

  “You know what that Scottish guy keeps telling me? That back in Somalia he once killed a whole bunch of skinnies with his coffee. Made it so strong that they got a heart attack.”

  “Come on, Brother Hillbilly. I’m not buying that.”

  He courteously opens a door to Tarasov and they enter a small, undecorated room where a few plastic chairs are the only sign of comfort. There is a chromed espresso machine on a table next to the wall that is decorated with an NRA poster. Tarasov finds the smell of freshly boiled coffee more than relaxing, as well as seeing Nooria and Pete sitting there. The Colonel’s son has a grin all over his face.

  “That thing looks like a spaceship from an old sci-fi flick but makes decent coffee. Help yourself,” Brother Polak says. “We need to do a little clean-up after the recruiting. If you miss our company, we should be back soon. We’ll both deserve a cup of good coffee afterwards, don’t we Brother Hillbilly?”

  “You bet,
Brother Polak. I hate that part of the job.”

  “Let’s get that shit done.”

  Tarasov steps to the espresso machine. “I haven’t got the faintest idea how to use this.”

  “Let me help you,” Pete says getting up from his chair. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, why?”

  “You’re looking like shit.”

  “It’s just that the Top reminded me of what the Tribe is about, actually.”

  “And? What is it about?”

  “The best people I have ever known doing the greatest evil I have ever seen to achieve something that’s beyond my comprehension.”

  “I’ll need another coffee to understand even half of what you just said.”

  “Suffice to say, your father holds the greatest imaginable power over people on this planet. God have mercy on him if his power ultimately turns into evil. I’m afraid he has no soul anymore, though… unless you give it back to him.”

  Pete chuckles. “Sounds like mission impossible. Though he used to be normal once… I think I can faintly remember him petting a dog twenty years ago.”

  “What have you two been doing?”

  “Being bored to death. My only entertainment is to see the self-proclaimed saviors of America hiding in this concrete warren like a bunch of rabbits.”

  “Soon you’ll see them from a different angle, Pete… Thanks, that much coffee should be enough.”

  “Are we going back?” Nooria asks, barely able to conceal her hope for a positive answer.

  “Yes, Nooria… but we’ll make a detour. Let’s go, we need to have a word with Hartman.”

  They find the Top at the computer terminal where he and the No-Go are going through some Excel sheets displayed on the screen.

  “I feel for you,” Tarasov says. “Guess you hate administration.”

  “Yeah, making inventory is a pain in the ass,” Hartman agrees with a grimace. “Thanks God I’ll take the newcomers to a few days boot camp. I love boot camp. You will fly back to the Alamo with Nooria and Pete. Bringing him back to his father will complete your mission, Mikhailo.”

  “Not exactly,” Tarasov says sipping his coffee. “My deal with the Colonel was to tell Pete everything I know and have seen about the Tribe. Taking Pete back goes beyond that.”