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

by Balazs Pataki

  “The web site said that any information—” Anhela Kirillovna stammers.

  “Not just any information. It said useful information. I am sorry. You can leave now.”

  Anhela Kirillovna looks from one agent to the other with a mixture of humiliation and anger. She is about to protest and demand the reward when her eyes meet those of the elderly agent once more. To Anhela Kirillovna, her silence is more threatening than anything else. She feels as if anything she had done in her life that might be interpreted as a deviation from a proper citizen’s way of life—stealing candies from a shop when she was a kid, having had too many lovers in her youth, voting for the wrong party in last year’s elections—could become charges against her to which she could only plead guilty.

  “Vova,” she stutters, “let’s go.”

  After the door closes, Maksimenko waits for a minute. Then he hits his palm with his fist.

  “Yes! It’s confirmed! He took the bait and came back! I told you so!”

  “And now what?” Pain is suddenly apparent on Fedorka’s face as she adjusts the bandages on her wrists. “How will you find him?”

  “I won’t need to.” Maksimenko looks at his watch. “Okay… I need to go to the Zone for a few days. That’s where Tarasov will go. Hunting season!”

  The noise of a faint cough comes from behind them.

  “Apologies, but can I go now?”

  Maksimenko turns to the grey-haired woman. “Of course, Alyona Ivanovna. You can continue mopping the corridor now. Your time was appreciated.”

  “Thank you, komandir.”

  The elderly woman takes the plastic bucket and the mop. She gives the two agents a smile that could come from a grandmother and leaves the room.

  “Who the hell was that?” Fedorka asks, puzzled.

  “Verka, Verka, you might be one of our best assets but you’ll never have Aunt Alyona’s gaze. She was housekeeping here even back in Soviet times.”

  “Psychological torture, I guess?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And here’s physical!” She gives Maksimenko a slap on his face. “Leaving me there in… that condition?”

  Fedorka’s hand might be fast but Maksimenko’s is faster. Before she could strike again, he catches her underarm and applies an iron grasp. Fedorka whimpers with pain. He grabs her closer to himself and kisses her.

  “Excellent job with that brat. You scared him shitless.”

  “I love you,” Vera Fedorka whispers.

  “Not here,” Captain Maksimenko whispers back, glancing at a barely discernible, dark spot in the ceiling that hides a CCTSV camera. “At your place.”

  Vera Fedorka steps away from him, but not without gouging her nails into his hand so deeply that Maksimenko can barely suppress a shout of pain.

  31

  Tribe outpost, New Zone

  Exposure to the Spirit means not only a growth in strength and bodily proportions, neither the almost complete exclusion of fears from a man’s instinct. A body thus toughened also reduces the need for sleep and rest, or maybe gives stronger willpower to resist such needs. Lieutenant José Ramirez never contemplated why he and the other Lieutenants could complete long marches during day, spend the whole night on watch and not feel any fatigue when resuming their mission the next day. But by whatever way the Spirit had changed them, it didn’t eliminate the need for something to keep them warm during a cold night and now he is pleased to feel the smell of hot coffee steaming from the metal cup in his hand. Enjoying smell and flavor, he wishes for a cigarette to round off this simple pleasure. A glowing cigarette would make him an excellent target for any hostile sniper lurking in the darkness, though. Having finished his coffee, he continues to watch the canyon from the roadblock.

  The fighters manning the roadblock are barely visible but he can smell them. A sharp musk of sweat and sleeplessness weaves through the air, mixed with the heavier scent of gun grease from his own recently cleaned M16.

  Stars abound in the sky. He has a clear view over the canyon where through his night vision binoculars everything appears to be illuminated by the eerie green of St. Elmo’s fire.

  “About one hour to sunrise,” a fighter breathes next to him.

  The last hour of the night watch is so quiet that Ramirez can even hear the howls of a jackal pack far to the south.

  “Jackals or wolves?” the fighter asks in a low voice.

  “Who cares?” Ramirez whispers back with a shrug. “I hate’em all. This place without mutants… that would be quite something.”

  “Yep. Been on patrol to the Amir Lake once… that huge blue water with pink and green anomaly fields all around it, reflecting the red sky before a dust storm hit… a marvelous sight.”

  Ramirez suddenly signals him to stop talking. He raises his binocs again and scans the canyon, but sees nothing suspicious.

  Those howls… they ended too abruptly.

  “Something scared the jackals away,” he whispers. “I don’t like this. Get Campbell over here.”

  Campbell too was a member of the Colonel’s original team, but Ramirez, at that time a staff sergeant, had outranked Lance Corporal Campbell. Although now both are Lieutenants, seniority is still reflected by their positions — Ramirez a squad leader, Campbell his second in command.

  “Sir?” the junior Lieutenant asks when he appears at the roadblock. He is wearing an exoskeleton like Ramirez and an M16A4 with grenade launcher is slung over his shoulder.

  “Something just scared the shit out of a jackal pack, a few hundred meters south of our position.”

  Ramirez hands the heavy binoculars to Campbell. He pulls up his face mask and rubs his tired eyes.

  “I see mutants!”

  “Get the men ready, quickly!” Ramirez tells Campbell. “Move!”

  He grabs the binoculars and looks where his second in command had pointed a minute ago. Still blurred in the distance, a huge pack of ferocious jackals appears in the green vision.

  Muted noise comes from the outpost as fighters wearing heavy combat gear are manning machine guns and rifle positions.

  “All teams, check your comms,” Ramirez says into his intercom.

  The first reply comes from the fighters taking up position at the roadblock. “Rifle One, in position.”

  “Rifle Two, ready,” comes the reply from the other side of the creek.

  “Mortar team ready.”

  “Heavy One, ready.”

  “Heavy Two, in position.”

  “Heavy One and Two, hold fire on the .50 cals,” Ramirez commands. “Rifle One and Two, lock and load! Fire on my command!”

  He waits until the approaching pack gets into point-blank range. When the mutants are just about 250 meters away, Ramirez aims at their alpha.

  “Open fire!” he shouts and fires his assault rifle. The two fire teams immediately respond to his call. Their M16s hit the tightly packed jackals from the front and right side. Though decimated in a few seconds, they keep running towards the outpost.

  Then the first mine explodes, followed by several more as the mutants enter the minefield laid out on the dirt track in front of the roadblock. Instead of turning back or scattering, the jackals keep running up, seemingly ignoring the bullets hailing on them, their heavy bodies releasing more mines as they step and fall on them. Lieutenant Campbell brings the last one down just a few steps before the roadblock.

  Ramirez waves his hand and shouts, “Cease fire!”

  Save for a few faint yelps coming from wounded mutants, silence descends. Unhurriedly, Ramirez aims his rifle and finishes them off one by one. “The sandbox has just said good morning.”

  Campbell snorts. “Mutants with a death wish?”

  “They got it,” Ramirez replies, loading a full magazine into his assault rifle.

  A bark sounds in the distance. The noise makes the Lieutenant frown. To his ears it sounded more like a human imitating a jackal alpha, though if so, then in a very faithful way. He has no time to ponder over this as on
e of his fighters shouts out.

  “There’s more of them!”

  An even larger pack appears. Lieutenant Ramirez orders his men to fire and the previous gory scene repeats itself. The only difference is that by the time the last mutant is killed, their bodies lay much closer to the roadblock. A horrible suspicion comes to Ramirez’ss mind and he is not the only one perplexed over what has just happened.

  “Jesus Christ, they’ve cleaned the minefield!” a fighter shouts.

  “Try to decaf, man!” Ramirez shouts back. “The jackals were just hungry and got their bellies filled with lead!”

  “What if they were sent to clear the mines, sir?”

  Ramirez first wants to reprimand the fighter for talking nonsense but then admits to himself that the man has a point. Even if the two packs had attacked them senselessly, the track is now cleared right up to the roadblock.

  “Campbell, set up the Raven. Heavy One and Two, stay alert, mortar team, prepare to fire,” he commands. “Keep your eyes open, warriors.”

  His second in command rushes to the Humvee stationed beyond the cover of the fallen boulders. Hearing a noise, Ramirez glances at the steep canyon wall to his left.

  “Just a loose rock,” a fighter says.

  “I need that SUAV, now!” Ramirez impatiently shouts over the intercom.

  I want to see what’s going on deeper in this goddamned canyon, the Lieutenant thinks. He is about to tell his men something encouraging to ease the tension when he sees a flash not far from their positions. A split second later he hears a muted blast coming from the same spot.

  He screams out. “Incoming!”

  The rocket-propelled grenade impacts on the dust track, just a meter away from the roadblock. A second one follows and hits the fighters’ cover. It doesn’t deal too much damage to the well-fortified roadblock where the weathered sandbags are hard like concrete, but shakes the men behind and showers them with sand and stone splinters.

  Then all the hell breaks lose. Dozens, if not hundreds of Kalashnikovs start to rain fire on the defenders from the canyon walls.

  “All teams, fire at will!” Ramirez screams. “Campbell, it’s too late for surveillance now! Get back to position!”

  He quickly assesses their situation. The attackers have obviously used the distraction by the jackals to take up positions above. They can pin them down from the canyon walls but can’t get closer without leaving their cover. Their left flank across the creek is safe because no enemy, no matter how fanatical, would be crazy enough to wade through the irradiated water. Without the mines blocking access, the roadblock itself is in greater danger but the dirt track leading up can be easily held under fire by the nearby machine gun and the mortars in the rear.

  “Here they come!” a fighter shouts at the roadblock. “Ragheads in the open, one o’clock!”

  “Asking distance?” Ramirez demands.

  “Two-zero-zero, approaching fast!”

  “Mortar team! Fire emission, direction — twelve, distance — one-niner-zero, marker — jeep track,” the Lieutenant yells. “Fire for effect, over!”

  “Fire for effect. Out.”

  A second after the mortar section’s acknowledgement the first 81mm round impacts on the track. Ramirez mentally praises Gunny Anderson’s training skills—the two light mortars fire consecutively in a two-second cycle, sending a devastating HIE round every second into the approaching enemy. The two heavy .50 caliber machine guns also get into action. All in all, Ramirez sees with relief that they are still far from being overrun.

  “Rifle teams, save ammo!” he commands. “Campbell, pass the word!”

  The suppressive fire from the hillside doesn’t cease for a second but the Tribe’s well-protected machine guns and mortars deal carnage to the approaching enemies.

  “Should we report this to the Alamo?” Campbell asks through the gunfire.

  Ramirez grins under his face mask. “We’re an outpost, we’re supposed to be attacked. Wait till things get real dicey!”

  “It’s your call, sir,” Campbell replies and continues firing. He has only fired two bursts when the assault appears to be over. No more ragheads appear from the south.

  “Mortar team, hold your fire,” the Lieutenant commands. ”Hold fire!”

  The suppressive fire ceases on the hillside and Ramirez hears the attackers above shout out. It is not a battle that echoes in the valley but a triumphant cheer.

  “What the hell?” he asks, wishing there had been enough time to set up the surveillance craft.

  Cautiously, Ramirez peeks over the sandbags. Immediately, his instinct tells him to get back to cover but what meets his eye forces him to keep looking, trying hard to believe his own eyes. His fighters must be perplexed too because none of them open fire — even though that would be the natural reaction of armed men when seeing hulky, humanoid mutants lumbering towards them.

  The mutants’ muscles tell of superhuman strength. On the brawny arms, chests and limbs, thick blue veins run under a pale skin. They bend forward as they get closer, as if their limbs cannot cope with the weight of their immense torsos, the disfigured heads slightly hung and having a mouth from where oversized teeth and fangs protrude. Once they might have been humans because they wear rags of protective suits and still know, or have learned again, how to use weapons. Big ones.

  “Smiters!” Campbell screams, “Smiters! Oh fuck, they got machine guns!”

  Apparently ignoring the hail of bullets fired at them, the dozen or so mutants sweep the outpost’s defenses with their machine guns. From the cover of their hulks, hostile humans fire and throw grenades.

  Ramirez understands at once that their own two heavy machine guns are the only hope. “Heavy One, Two, kill those bastards!”

  Tracers mark the arc of fire as the .50 calibers begin to rake the assaulting mutants. The smiters ignore the radiation in the water and cross the creek, forcing the to machine guns to disperse their fire over a wider range. At the same time, a mass of Taliban is storming toward the roadblock. Ramirez’s mortars can’t fire there, unless they want to hit their own fighters who are frantically firing their M16s.

  “Campbell! To that fifty, go, go, go! Heavy Two, direct your fire at the smiters in the creek!”

  The smiter’s walk is slow but their steps are as long as human leaps. They cross the creek in a matter of seconds and the first of them, ignoring the blood flowing from his wounds all over his rags with blue and brown camouflage, has already reached the machine gun post at the bridge. Ramirez hears the .50 caliber cease firing and his men scream in terror.

  His own position at the roadblock is also about to be overrun. The incendiary rounds fired from the heavy machine gun rip into the closest smiter’s body and make it howl with pain. The smell of blood and burnt flesh rises as the rags over his chest catch fire. The smiter trembles and at last goes into his knees. But another already steps up from behind, raising the hand-held machine gun and mows the .50 caliber’s crew down.

  Screaming with rage, Ramirez empties one magazine after the other but his M16 doesn’t have much effect on these huge mutants.

  “Last mag!” he hears a fighter scream. It is the man from the watch who had fond memories of the New Zone’s beauties, and he won’t have the chance to see them again — a Talib jumps at him and holds his neck in a chokehold while another finishes him off with a long burst from his Kalashnikov. Ramirez fires his M16 and downs him, then reaches for another magazine on his assault vest only to realize that he has just finished his own ammunition.

  He flips the M16 in his hand and moves to the disabled machine gun, shattering skulls and punching bodies with the rifle butt and screaming as loud as he can.

  “Pull yourself together, men! Fight! Give’m hell!”

  He grabs an M27 from the ground and fires it at a mutant who is about to climb across the roadblock. The smiter’s massive fist smashes into the piled-up sandbags as he begins to tear down the defenses. Ramirez aims at the drooling mouth and se
nds all rounds still left in the STANAG magazine into the smiter’s head. It staggers for a second, giving a painful and angry roar, then collapses.

  But by now their forward defenses are overrun. Ramirez finds himself almost alone this side of the bridge, and the situation on the other bank looks dire—the Taliban and their mutant allies are already fighting among the stone huts. A fighter is already manning the tower machine gun of a Humvee. For a moment it seems that he can hold back the assault by peppering the fast approaching Taliban, but then two smiters step up and, to Ramirez’ss horror, get a hold on the vehicle, turn it over and let it tumble down the creek. Defeat seems certain to Lieutenant Ramirez, though amid all the carnage he can’t see a single of his men retreating.

  But all he can do now is to issue just that command.

  “Fall back! Fall back, to the Humvees!”

  Then he himself makes a dash across the bridge. Several enemies try to block his way. Ramirez charges into their midst, ignoring the 7,62mm rounds hitting his heavy body and sweeps them away, smashing two hostiles with his rifle and kicking down a third. He is just a few steps away from the Humvees, and sees his remaining fighters retreat there too. Ramirez lets go off the empty automatic rifle and takes a fallen Talib’s AKS.

  A thundering explosion blasts the house where the mortar team is located. He instantly knows that a grenade or RPG shot must have hit the mortar shells, killing friends inside and enemies outside. The radioman, carrying the heavy radio on his back, is slain by a smiter. With bullets whooshing over his cover, a corpsman attempts to give first aid to a wounded warrior, only to disappear in the fiery blast of an RPG shot.

  “To the Humvees! Go, go, go!”

  Ramirez turns back to fire and give as much cover as he can to his few remaining men. He presses the trigger. The battered rifle fires two shots — and jams.

  A grenade hits the closest Humvee where a few retreating fighters were already climbing inside. The blast sends Ramirez to his knees but he staggers to his feet once more. Then a massive fist hits him from behind and he falls forward, face into the dust.