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

by Balazs Pataki

  “Sounds like a damned Catch-22 to me.”

  “What do you mean, Pete?”

  “What I mean is that the whole idea is bullshit.”

  “Surviving there is not only about weapons and body armor. If you go in with gun barrels blazing and try to shoot your way through, the Zone will punish you. If you treat the Zone with humility and respect — it might just allow you to survive. We’re going to take a chance on that.”

  “Sounds like a challenge and I love challenges. As for you, Marine — it might be a good opportunity to learn both humility and respect.”

  “Top, stop calling me a Marine.”

  “Once a Marine, always a Marine. Even if you went AWOL, even if you’re all but an empty shell of a Marine in your present state of a half-debilitated junkie.”

  “Seeing you, a Marine doesn’t need to become a junkie to act like crazy.”

  Scornfully, the Top steps towards Pete but Nooria stops the huge warrior by gently putting her hand on his chest.

  “Are there swags in Zone, Mikhailo?” she asks Tarasov and darts a disapproving look at Pete who looks down to his shoes, shunning her eyes. “Like my glowing stones?”

  “You will be in your element, I promise.”

  “I want to leave right now!”

  “Outstanding,” the Top observes. “When do we leave, No-Go?”

  “Gimme a sec,” No-Go replies without looking up from his computer screen. “Thanks goodness, no visa’s needed with your US passports. That speeds up things. You can leave… let’s say tomorrow at 9.30 AM from LAX, stops at Chicago and LHR, arriving in Kiev at 1.15 PM the day after. With all the luggage you’ll have probably you’ll need business class or better.”

  The Top and No-Go share a mischievous smile. “Once in a while we can afford a bit of comfort, can’t we?”

  “Are our passports okay?” Tarasov asks.

  No-Go glances at another computer screen.

  “No noise from CBP and Interpol yet, but I’ll warn you if something pops up in their internal protocols.”

  “Can you really hack into everything?” Tarasov asks in awe.

  No-Go gives him a self-satisfied grin. “You want to see the self-nudes Lana Del Rey keeps in her smartphone? My gosh, that girl is… talented.”

  “Who is Lana Del Rey?” Tarasov asks, innocently enough but still causing Nooria to give him a disapproving look.

  “That’s enough bragging,” the Top snaps at No-Go. “Make the arrangements. Nooria, you check with the infirmary if they have something we’ll need. Tarasov, go through our gear once it’s assembled to make sure Jimmy didn’t forget anything. Pete, you stay put and keep your cynicism to yourself. Clear? Now I need to have a word in private with Stone. See you in an hour. On second thought, let’s make it two.”

  “Sir!”

  No-Go jumps from his chair and salutes. As soon as the Top has hurried off, Pete leans over the terminal to have a closer look at the screen.

  “Hey dude,” he whispers. “You serious about Lana Del Rey?”

  “Pete, on me,” Tarasov sternly says. “Let’s see if our gear is ready. Come!”

  No-Go starts tapping on his keyboard again. “Didn’t even tell you that your trip will be sponsored by Shell… not as if they’d ever realize I’ve tapped their system. Go well, you’re going into hell… hey guys, you want travel insurance with the tickets?”

  Tarasov gives him a laugh while he walks toward the storage rooms with Pete and Nooria.

  “Guess that means no,” No-Go says to himself. “And like usually, no one cared to say thank-you to the local computer wizard. Tough boys, tough boys… what would you do without my magic?”

  He hits enter and starts humming a song. It’s you, it’s you, it’s all for you, everything I do, I tell you all the time…

  After an instant the melody is suppressed by the buzz of the laser printer ejecting e-tickets and boarding pass printouts.

  19

  Panjir Valley, northeast of Bagram, New Zone

  Back at Ashot’s bar in Bagram it all had appeared so easy.

  Two days ago, when the brawny stranger appeared at Ashot’s bar, he soon gathered himself quite an audience of bored Stalkers, all raving for stories about adventures, new mutants and artifacts. He claimed to have not only been to Panjir valley but a secret bunker or laboratory facility too. They all listened to him like idle knights must have listened to tales about the eastern realms before setting out on a crusade. The stranger’s words flew like the vodka they were knocking down, and the next day, just like those knights of old times, two dozen adventurous Stalkers set out to find the promised land of artifacts and followed him to a wide, anomaly-infested valley beyond the forests covering the Shamali plains.

  The stranger, wearing battered Duty armor beneath his ragged, long leather jacket, proved a perfect guide. The closer they got to their destination, the more fantastic his promises became. Oh yes, all those new and mysterious artifacts — the Emerald, raising stamina; the Heart of Gold, projecting its owner’s image; the Heartstone, boasting health and preserving life. Unlike in the Exclusion Zone, every artifact is useful. The stranger’s words made sense after all: a hidden area in the godforsaken wilderness far from Bagram, which he, as he himself had said, knows like the back of his hand.

  A few Stalkers turned back with their premonition being stronger than greed. Their leader just laughed it off, saying that the less Stalkers arrive, the more artifacts the remaining men can keep for themselves. If their march had taken one more day, the Stalkers would have believed even a promise of artifacts growing on trees which only need to be shaken off to harvest. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, or just the hope that a trek as perilous and hard as theirs must be rewarded with treasures well worth the efforts. But two days after leaving Bagram, they arrived at what might have been an electronic sub-station once. Leading directly into the hill behind it was a bunker entrance, still half-buried with dust and rubble.

  Now, in the underground vaults, the remaining Stalkers — about twenty of them — are exchanging looks of concern as they proceed deeper and deeper through this labyrinth of decaying concrete and rusting steel. One of them pats his PDA, as if the device could display a map without a signal. Another keeps looking backwards, checking if he could still find his way out if he got lost.

  “Keep moving, boys,” a Stalker says. Judging by his improved body armor and powerful Saiga shotgun he is a veteran of many raids.

  “Where’s our guide, Cougar?”

  The voice of the young Stalker walking behind him tells of fear.

  “That’s why you should keep moving, Pashka!” replies Cougar. “We don’t want to lose each other from sight!”

  “This place is just too darn creepy,” another Stalker whispers looking at the ceiling where water is dripping from thick, rusty pipes. His battered armor has a strange, blue and brown camouflage that betrays him as a former member of Clear Sky, a faction decimated in the Exclusion Zone years ago.

  “Jesus, Willow,” the young Stalker says. “You’ve been everywhere, even to the CNPP. If you got shit in your pants…”

  “I haven’t been to the CNPP, ” the former Clear Sky member says. ”That’s why I’m still alive.”

  “Stop gum-beating, guys,” Cougar sneers. “Let’s move!”

  More eerie corridors follow. Rusted signs and faded Cyrillic letters on the wall remind the Stalkers that this place had been a scientific facility decades ago: Secondary Laboratories. Ventilation Maintenance. Library. From this point ahead entry in protective suits only. Long Live the Achievements of Socialist Science.

  Blue glow of anomalies on shrieking metal catwalks that threaten to collapse under the men’s weight. A seemingly bottomless cavern lies below with massive pressure tanks.

  “What the hell was this place?” a Stalker whispers anxiously.

  Cougar doesn’t care. His thoughts are fixed on the back of their guide. He doesn’t allow anything to distract him, unless he wants to lose
him from his sight. In this huge underground labyrinth that would be fatal.

  “We have arrived,” their guide says at last when they have passed yet another long corridor and through a steel door, ducking and bending to avoid the rotting cables hanging from the ceiling.

  “Here?” Cougar skeptically asks looking around. “Where are all the artifacts you promised?”

  Wherever he looks in the darkness, the light of his headlamp reveals only debris on the concrete floor.

  “Give me a minute,” the guide says. “There’s a command post up there. I’ll switch on the lights.”

  Alarmed, Cougar tries to grab him. “Hey! Wait!”

  But the guide is already at the steel door. Before the Stalkers could stop him, he disappears outside and slams the door shut.

  Cursing, Cougar and three Stalkers jump at the door and try to ply it open. No matter how hard they try, it wouldn’t move.

  Fear makes the skin of even the most daring Stalker creep.

  “No…” mumbles Pasha then shouts out, “no!”

  “Calm down!” Cougar shouts, trying to sound reassuring. “Let’s follow the walls. There must be another way out of here!”

  There is none. The Stalkers are lost in darkness. No matter where they look, no door, no exit appears in the weakening light of their headlamps. Only tubes and electrical fittings leading from the wall toward the center of the hall.

  The Stalkers can hear their own hearts beating. The only other noise comes from water slowly dripping from the rusted tubes above. The concrete walls echo every step they make. It sounds fearsome and Cougar has to take a deep breath before he starts walking deeper into the darkness, following one of the pipes.

  “Come with me,” he whispers. “Watch my back.”

  “What the hell is this place?” Willow asks in a low voice.”

  “Let’s hope it’s like X-16 was,” a Stalker behind them says, nervously peering left and right and holding his AKS-74U ready to shoot. “Been there once. Huge vault, just like this, and something weird with a staircase in the middle leading up.”

  “Halt!”

  They all obey Cougar’s command. The veteran points forward. If the Stalker who mentioned X-16 has hoped for something weird, he got it — but it is not a staircase leading out of here.

  The pipe leads into a stasis tube, one of twelve arranged in a circle. The electric fittings are torn out or rotten away; the glass in the tubes is broken; and the tubes themselves appear like massive cages where the captive inside had bended the bars and escaped.

  “Oh my God,” Pashka mutters.

  “There he is!” a Stalker shouts, pointing upwards. “You bastard!”

  Cougar yells at the shadowy figure appearing on the command post high above them. “Let us out of here, now! Let us out or I kill you, you fucking son of a bitch!”

  The Stalker with the carbine aims at the guide and fires a burst. Several more join the fire before Cougar can make himself be heard.

  “Don’t shoot him, idiots! Only he can open that goddamned door!”

  But the trapped Stalkers cease their fire when they see that their shots barely do any damage to the bullet-proof glass. Faint laughter sounds at the command post.

  “What are you doing to us?” Cougar yells. “Why did you bring us here?”

  The guide appears busy. They can see him through the cracked, but still solid glass plates tampering with the gauges and valves fitted to the wall.

  “You bastard!” Willow screams in horror, “I curse you! You traitor, you damn traitor!”

  Whatever the guide is doing, he stops for a moment to shout back.

  “Just call me Skinner, brothers!”

  “We are not your brothers, motherfucker!” Cougar yells.

  Skinner’s reply ends with an evil laugh. “Soon you will be, hahaha!”

  Then he disappears.

  The horrified Stalkers start shooting at the command post. Then, with ammunition wasted in vain and the bitter smell of gunpowder lingering in the darkness, they look at each other in terror.

  Cougar swallows hard. “Okay, guys. I want every second of you switch off the headlamps. Let’s save battery power. Place all your grenades at that steel door. We’re gonna blast it open!”

  The Stalker in Duty armor tears the gas mask off his face. “It opens to the inside, you idiot! We need a fucking RPG!”

  The veteran is not easily intimidated. “Do you see any?” he shouts back at his despaired mate. “No? Why? Because we haven’t any! Put your damned grenades at the door, now!”

  “That’s never gonna work,” another Stalker says. “There must be another way out of here!”

  Chewing his lips, Cougar looks around. “You see any other exit? Whatever this bloody place was, it was made anyone from escaping and now it’s us trapped here. Move!”

  After a minute, two dozen F-1 fragmentation grenades are piled up next to the steel door. “Stand back!” Cougar yells as he grabs a grenade of his own, pulls the safety pin’s pull ring with his index finger and tosses it at a low arc toward the others.

  The splinters of the detonating grenade penetrate the steel casing of the others, pass through the explosive filler and strike the detonators. A series of blasts follow.

  When Cougar looks up from his cover and sees the steel door blackened by the blasts but standing as firm as before, only one thing comes to his mind.

  We’re doomed.

  20

  LAX (Los Angeles International Airport)

  “Where’s Nooria gone? Oh, there she is,” Tarasov says waving his hand.

  Appearing among the crowd in front of the tax free shops at Los Angeles International, a big, ear-to-ear smile is on her face and two heavily loaded bags in her hands.

  “Jesus, woman! What’s all that?”

  “I have been shopping for perfumes.”

  “You could open up a perfume shop with all that! Couldn’t you make up your mind over which one to buy?”

  “They don’t smell very good. I took a few and will mix them together. My own perfume will be much better.”

  “Oh gosh,” Pete exclaims covering his nose, “I was supposed to sit next to you but that smell on you makes me sick… no offense, but how many did you try?”

  “All.”

  “Holy Mother of Jesus Christ — all?” Hartman asks with not entirely feigned horror on his face. “The only thing I love about airports is the smell of kerosene. Second best only to napalm. Now I won’t be able to feel a single molecule of it!”

  “I am sorry, Top.”

  “Pity that our gas masks are in the checked-in duffels… I could use one of those M40s right now.”

  “I’ll need a full NBC suit once you start smoking those cigarettes,” Tarasov says looking at Hartman’s own bag, holding several cartons of non-filter Lucky Strike cigarettes.

  “Those ain’t for me but the big man. It’s his favorite brand.”

  Tarasov walks down the gangway with mixed feelings. He cannot suppress a certain excitement over flying back to his homeland and the Exclusion Zone, but he also regrets to leave America, this big and intriguing country he had never hoped to see one day, so soon and after barely seeing any of it.

  Keeping in mind that they might have lots to discuss during the long-haul flight, Tarasov and Hartman pick two neighboring berths while Pete and Nooria make themselves comfortable in berths behind them. Meanwhile a middle aged woman, wearing lots of heavy golden jewelry, courteously helps Nooria to store her coat. Her smile vanishes when she sees the scar on Nooria’s face.

  “Glad to fly business,” the Top says storing a tax-free bag with an oversized bottle of whiskey inside. “I’d hate to spend six hours squeezed in economy class.”

  “That female officer in your secret base,” Tarasov says making himself comfortable in the berth, ”she’s quite a character.”

  “Who? Oh, you must mean Katie. Katie Stone. Sure as hell she is.”

  “Why don’t you let her join your combat units
? She seems extremely committed to your case.”

  “For that alone? We all are. No, Major, we need no females in the line of fire.”

  “I bet she’d do as well as any male warrior.”

  “Her rifleman skills are fine, but that’s not the point—”

  The pre-flight announcement interrupts him. By the time it is over, and the airplane lifts off the tarmac, Tarasov has already forgotten his question. It seems to have touched a sensitive point in the Top’s heart, however, because when the engine noise becomes lower at travelling altitude he finishes his reply.

  “Yeah, women in the ranks… You know, when you see a friend die, that can devastate your heart. If you see your love die—that can bring the wild animal out from the bottom of your soul. We don’t need anyone going into a killing frenzy to revenge a dead woman, or taking on too high risks to get her out of harm’s way. Both are bad for discipline. That’s why we don’t tolerate any homos in our ranks either.”

  “I get your point, but the ancient Greeks even promoted homosexuality among their soldiers. They thought, a man will fight harder and never behave like a coward if his love is seeing him. Matter of honor, too.”

  “Your ancient Greeks were pussies. Neither did you get my whole point. In our ranks, not fighting hard enough is simply not an option. Being a coward even less so. Period.”

  “I have to admit to feel a certain respect for your way of thinking, Top, even if it is rather old-school.”

  “Yes it is,” the Top says yawning like a lion. “That’s why there’s no place for people like me in any of our forces anymore, not even in the Corps. You see, during the Korea war, a colonel told his Marines: ‘Not all the communists in Hell can overrun you!’ and damn right he was about that. He forgot to add, unless the Commies make it into the White House and use an army of lawyers to force you into their yoke, abusing and twisting our Constitution. It was judgment that destroyed us…”

  The Top adjusts the pillow under his head and puts on his eye mask.

  “But the true spirit of your country will be preserved until the Tribe’s flag flies over the Alamo,” Tarasov replies under his breath, not entirely sure if he actually meant his sentence as ironically as it sounds. Either way, Hartman probably didn’t hear it. When Tarasov looks at him after a minute, he sees that the sergeant major is in a deep slumber already.