“These are not supposed to have a picnic together,” he whispers. “Stay put!”
With his old reflexes setting in, Tarasov starts thinking about a way to engage them. Whatever this bunch of Stalkers might be up to, it can’t be good if they are led by Bandits. However, he knows that he would be hopelessly outgunned. All he can do is to take a steady aim at the Bandit guard standing closer, who now steps into the bushes to relieve himself. Through the ironsights, Tarasov aims directly at his hooded head. He jerks his index finger and mentally pulls the trigger.
“Bang,” he whispers to himself.
Then he hears the quick tick-tick-tick of a burst fired from a noise-suppressed sniper rifle. With the wind blowing through the poplar trees and playing with the thousands of yellowing leaves, the rifle’s sound could have just been his imagination.
A whimper escapes him seeing the Bandit’s head jolt, splattering blood with skull fragments that look real enough. Tarasov closes and opens his eyes to check if what he saw had been for real, but when he looks again at the spot where a second ago the urinating Bandit had stood he only sees his dead body.
The rest of the party hadn’t noticed the danger yet, neither did the other guard who is now looking up at the sky as if a bird had caught his attention. Another tick-tick and he falls too. Tarasov realizes that he is witnessing a perfectly executed sneak attack, aided by the Bandit guard’s mistake of having stood with a tree between him and his fellows who wouldn’t see him collapse.
With the two guards removed from the flanks, Tarasov knows that the butchering phase is about to begin. He hears a thump and a moment later a rifle grenade lands right in the campfire. The explosion immediately puts several Stalkers out of action. The leader jumps up, barking frenzied commands as he tries to scramble his men who are already under the concentrated fire of automatic rifles. Tarasov easily recognizes them as Kalashnikovs by their barking sound. The Stalkers frantically return fire but have no chance to repel the attack of their still invisible enemy.
Realizing that their situation is hopeless, the leader makes a dash to save at least his own skin. Tarasov can’t blame him — by now, all his men are down. The Bandit fires a few bursts from his rifle in a vain effort to keep his pursuers at bay, but is smart enough to run. Rifle shots hit the ground around him and someone shouts, “Halt!”
A Spetsnaz appears from the bushes, then three more on the left flanks. One of them, who is shouting commands to the others and is the ambushers’ commander apparently, is wearing a heavy SKAT suit that betrays him as a military Stalker. A Sphere helmet is covering his face. To Tarasov’s surprise, three fighters in Duty armor step out from the bushes to the commander’s right.
The military Stalker runs after the fugitive, with the Spetsnaz and Dutyers dashing out to flank him. This leaves the Bandit with only one direction to escape — up the embankment, directly in Tarasov’s direction.
Tarasov knows that his cover will be blown in a few seconds. Either the Bandit will stumble right over him, or the attackers will find and shoot him in the very reasonable assumption that he is a Stalker from the group. He doesn’t even want to consider what would happen to Nooria if that happens. All he can do is to let them know that he is not their enemy, or at least not sided with the Stalkers they have ambushed. He waits until the fugitive Bandit is just about two paces away, where he can already hear his heavy panting, and then fires both barrels of his rifle.
Fired from such a point-blank range, the heavy slug rounds in the chest would have made a standing target fly back or at least recoil a few steps. The hugely built and armor-wearing Bandit, running with full strength into the direction from where the shots came, just stops in his tracks and falls to his knees as his feet collapse. His body rolls half a meter in the wet grass, right to Tarasov’s feet who gets up from behind his cover and raises both arms. He leaves the hunting rifle on the ground.
“Hold your fire!” Tarasov shouts. “Friendly coming out!”
By now, the rest of the attackers have caught up with their commander. Assault rifles are pointed at Tarasov from all sides.
“Step away from that shooter and keep your hands up, Stalker!”
The commander pointing a Vintorez rifle at Tarasov is still panting from the excitement of battle and the run afterwards. With his prisoner being secured, he allows himself to remove his tactical helmet and wipes sweat from his face.
Tarasov gives him a wide and friendly smile.
“Sergeant Shumenko! How is your bladder doing?”
The military Stalker drops his jaw.
“I’ll be damned! What the hell are you doing here, komandir?”
“Boar hunting, mostly. My compliments for an ambush well executed, by the way.”
“Thanks, Major, but I only did what you taught me. I can’t believe this!” Tarasov’s former soldier turns to his comrades. “Down with your rifles! Don’t you know who this is?”
They don’t seem to know but follow Shumenko’s order nonetheless.
“Before you stumble on my companion and shoot her—I’m not alone. Nooria! No need to hide anymore. Come, it’s safe now!”
Sergeant Shumenko gives Nooria a curious look when she appears from behind the wagon. Knowing the reaction most people give over her scar, she had already pulled the hood of her long coat over her face.
“Who’s that, Major? Are you traveling with an anorexic pet burer?”
“Will tell you later, Sergeant. I’m dying of curiosity over all this. Army and Duty together ambushing a group of Loners, a Freedomer and even a Monolith, all guided by Bandits? It’s like the whole Zone in a nutshell.”
“Things have changed since you went off the radar, Major.” Shumenko offers his canteen to Tarasov, and then takes a long draw of water from it. “Let us finish our business before we chat. You’ll have the questionable pleasure of seeing Duty in action.”
“I mean no trouble,” Tarasov says. “May I take my rifle now?
“By all means, Major Tarasov.”
They all walk back to the groove where a Duty fighter and a Spetsnaz are guarding the Freedomer. He appears to be the only one who survived the ambush, even if wounded. However, seeing the Dutyer towering over him and rubbing his gloved hands with anticipation, Tarasov is not too optimistic about the wounded prisoner’s fate.
“As agreed, Inquisitor,” Shumenko tells him. “Freedomers are yours to interrogate, so it’s your turn. Do us all a favor and make this one speak, will you?”
“Guys… don’t shoot me!” the Freedomer whines.
“My poor friend, you got shot in your chest,” the Dutyer called Inquisitor says. “No wonder ,with you wearing such a pathetic excuse of body armor.”
“Give me a medikit, please!”
“Yes, you’re a touch pale, buddy! A kit wouldn’t help you much but I might have a bandage for you. Just answer my first question: what were you up to?”
“We all wanted to leave the Zone! Travel to the south, to the New Zone! That’s all!”
“Why am I not surprised to see anarchists and criminals running from the Zone?” The Dutyer snorts. “Here comes my second question and I’m going to ask nicely. Where were you going?”
“I don’t know! Only the guide knew!”
“I did ask you nicely.” The Dutyer steps on the prisoner’s chest, pushing it so strongly that blood gushes from his mouth. “This is the kind of bandage that Duty applies to bleeding anarchists! Where in the fuck were you heading?”
“Oh God…”
“Yes, that’s what I am to you now and you’d better answer to my question, or I’ll stuff your stinking hide with shit and display it in my zoo of dead mutants! Damned anarchist!”
“I don’t know, I swear!”
Each word the Freedomer utters makes him spit up more blood. Inquisitor looks at Shumenko who replies with a shrug. Seeing the Dutyer unholster his Makarov pistol, the Freedomer emits a last cry.
“Svobo…”
Inquisitor fires his pis
tol.
“Da. Net cheloveka, net problema,” he says holstering the Makarov.
Nooria stirs and looks at Tarasov in disgust. She might have treated many dreadful wounds but seeing a man being shot in the head from close range is a different thing. Turning away from the ghastly scene, she starts vomiting.
“Such is life in the Zone,” Tarasov quietly says.
“Did you eventually quit or may I still offer you a smoke?” Shumenko asks, offering Tarasov a cigarette. He waves it off.
“Duty,” the Sergeant continues as they walk away from the body, rolling his eyes. “Joint operation, not exactly to my liking. The problem is that whatever that freak said, killing this man didn’t solve our problem. Many Stalkers from all factions are moving to the south. Maybe it’s winter approaching and they just migrate like those cranes in the sky. Look—a lovely sight, those big Vs.”
“What’s so odd about Stalkers moving to the New Zone? At least you’ll have less trouble here.”
“People smarter than me think the Bandits might have a hand in this. The strange thing is, we never find any intel on them. Just like now—nichego. If we take them prisoner, they don’t know shit about where they’re heading. Just like that hapless anarchist. We tried to make them talk as best as we could, believe me. Apparently only their leaders know the destination and they don’t keep the coordinates stored in their PDAs.”
“Then it’s a pity I shot that Bandit.”
“Probably we couldn’t have caught him alive,” Shumenko says with a weary wave of his hand. “Two days ago, we encountered a similar group and had the boss cornered. He blew his own head off with a hand grenade. Whatever secret they have, they are keen to keep it. All the better for us, I guess. If grunts don’t know where to go after deserting, they think twice before deserting.”
“You talk now like an officer.”
“The army has treated me well, so I play according to its rules. No reason to complain.”
“What about Sergeant Kolesnik?”
“Being low on men has its advantages. Cordon Base is run now by a lieutenant. Patrols are commanded by sergeants. Kolesnik and I are patrol leaders now. He’s doing well, patrolling somewhere between the Red Forest and Limansk. Now you tell me, who’s that girl with you?”
“Just a rookie.”
Shumenko stops at a tree and takes a leak. “She’s from the New Zone, isn’t she?”
“She is. How do you know?”
“That’s where you went. Now you’re back, I guess with her as a souvenir.”
Tarasov smiles. “Yes, kind of.”
“We all believed that you found a treasure trove of artifacts down there, got rich and were living happily ever after,” Shumenko says closing the zipper on his camouflage leggings. “I mean, with dying never being too much of an option for you, that’s the only thing we could think of. What brought you back as a Loner, apparently?”
“Just passing through. Really. You wouldn’t believe me that I’m actually a hunter’s guide, anyway.”
“No, I wouldn’t. In any case, tread carefully.”
“I left my cover because I had no choice. That Bandit was running right up to me with you closing in on him.”
“Wise decision. We would have shot you first and asked later. Some of us would have shot you even knowing who you are.”
“No surprise, with everyone mistaking me for a deserter.”
“But you are. No offense.”
“I don’t take any because there’s a lot to be told that you don’t know. Where are you going now?”
“Back to Cordon. Another squad will arrive soon to continue combing this sector. We have some intel for a certain Captain Maksimenko.”
“Maksimenko? He was always a self-loving bastard but not without abilities… very good abilities, actually. He missed the career bus if he’s still only a captain.”
“Maybe not for long. He’s in charge of our operation, at least partly. His superiors might appreciate the intel we found.”
Hearing this, an alarm bell goes on in Tarasov’s mind. Slowly, his hand moves to unsling his rifle, disguising the movement as adjusting the strap on his shoulder. Meanwhile his other hand in his pocket touches a button on the PDA.
“You just told me you didn’t find any intel during your patrol.”
“That was true until you appeared, Major Tarasov,” Shumenko says tossing away his cigarette. Then he shouts out to his men.
“Seize them!”
Before Tarasov can get his rifle ready, Shumenko has his Vintorez already pointed at him.
“Sorry Major. Don’t even bother to ask that question. Two weeks leave and two thousand hrivnya is more tempting than letting you go for old times’ sake.”
Held in check by the Sergeant’s rifle, Tarasov watches helplessly as Inquisitor puts his heavy hand on Nooria’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, rookie. I’ll only ask you a few questions.”
She reaches for her blade but two more Dutyers grab her arms.
“Don’t touch her! Shumenko, you bastard—”
No matter how much Tarasov curses him while the Spetsnaz manhandle and bring him to the ground, Shumenko just shrugs it off. The sergeant only reacts when he sees Inquisitor holding Nooria’s chin and rudely turning her head left and right, checking how she would look as another wall trophy in his collection of dead mutants.
“Hey, you creepy freak!” he shouts. “Leave that girl alone or you’ll have a really big problem!”
Checking if the plastic handcuffs are tight enough, Shumenko kneels down and pats Tarasov’s back.
“Don’t worry, komandir. If he touches her, I’ll shoot him. That I will do for old times’ sake.” Then the sergeant waves to the Spetsnaz with the patrol’s communication gear. “Call Cordon Base. Ask them to send Osprey One to our exfil position. Tell them, we have priority intel for Captain Maksimenko.”
45
Vaults beneath the Alamo, New Zone
Walking his watch in the Alamo’s vaults where the Tribe has its ammunition, fuel and other supplies stored, Lieutenant Nelson is desperately wishing for a cigarette but smoking is strictly prohibited here. To face the impending attack, the Colonel has ordered to haul up most of the ammunition to the overground defenses but the ban on smoking still stands and not even a Lieutenant would dare to defy it. Least of all he, Nelson, who still feels guilty over the ambushed Humvee under his command.
He moves down the hall which looks like an underground hangar. The walls and ceiling are reinforced with concrete, with several smaller vaults holding supplies opening on the sides. Usually, this place is bustling with life: the rough terrain takes its toll on the Tribe’s vehicles and there’s always something to be repaired. Supplies are administered and moved 24 hours a day. Most of the combat vehicles are in the field now and the big maintenance hall is all but empty, save for a few trucks that were in too bad repair to be used. Apart from a single fighter in one of the smaller vaults taking stock of food supplies, it is only Boxkicker and Lance Corporal Bockman there. They are busy fixing a broken-down Humvee.
Nelson smiles as he looks over the hall. When they first entered this underground, there was nothing but a dark but spacious cave system and a path to the then still ruined citadel that was probably an ancient escape route from the citadel above. In the few years that had passed since then, no efforts were spared to turn the cave into a well-equipped storage and maintenance facility. The narrow path leading up to the ancient town where now the Tribe’s living quarters are has also been re-built into a safe and wide passageway since. Nelson, however, can still remember the frenzy, panic almost, that overcame Marines and their Hazara protégés alike when the nukes went up. The Hazaras repaid for this protection well enough. Without them, they would have never found this refuge. Nelson himself owes his personal luck to them; his girl, at that time barely more than a scared little brat but now grown into a beautiful woman in her early twenties and already a proud mother of two, was one of the Ha
zaras who guided them here. After the Colonel assigned him to guard and training duties, Nelson’s only comfort is that he can spend more time with her—such short periods of peace are rare in the life of Lieutenants, who always fight in the first line and deal with the most perilous assignments.
There is silence in the vaults, and Nelson is missing the usual bustle as he trots to the broken vehicle where two pairs of legs stand out from under the chassis—one wearing a blue civilian overall and the other in grease-stained fatigues.
“Think this gear shift will ever work again?”
“My fault. Should’ve looked at this weeks ago when some pups first complained about it… geez, a Lieutenant’s boots! We got company!”
“As you were, Bockman,” Nelson says when the lance corporal’s oily face appears from under the chassis. “Take your time. There will be more to repair once the strike force returns.”
“Sir!”
Bockman smiles flashing his impeccable teeth and disappears under the Humvee again.
“With all due respect, Lieutenant Nelson, but could you just kick that monkey-wrench over?” Boxkicker asks. “Gotta be there next to my tool kit.”
Nelson finds the tool and is about to move it closer to the technician when he hears a strange noise, coming from one of the storage vaults. It is muted but sounds like stones rumbling. “What was that?”
“Something’s wrong, sir?”
“Both of you, on me!”
Sharing a frown, Boxkicker and Bockman climb out from under the Humvee. Nelson’s ears detect the muted rumble once more. It is louder now.
The Lieutenant unholsters his M1911 and whistles to the fighter in the supply vault. The three men follow Nelson to the vault where the rumble is coming from.
“Bauer, come in,” Nelson speaks on his radio.
“Bauer here.”
“Something weird’s going on in storage vault Bravo Five. Send down a team immediately.”
“Roger.”
Nelson waves to the fighter. He is a Hazara boy, armed with an M4. With Nelson only having his sidearm on him and the two technicians completely unarmed, the carbine is the only rifle they have. Nelson can only hope that Bauer’s guard team will arrive soon. But then, what danger could have been expected here in the vaults? And is it a danger at all?
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2 Page 29