Once in the vault, he hears knocking from the other side of the wall where nothing is supposed to be but stones and earth. If Lieutenant Nelson doubted if the noise signifies danger or not, now he knows that the knocking means nothing good.
“Nelson here. Something is trying to breach into the vault. I repeat, breach detected at Bravo Five!”
Lieutenant Bauer’s voice becomes anxious.
“Jesus Christ, you mean someone’s trying to infiltrate the vaults?”
“Don’t know, but I always thought Santa Claus would come through the chimney. Means this definitely ain’t him. Better raise the alarm!”
“Roger. Sending Jackson down with a squad, over.”
A siren begins to scream in the living quarters.
“Bockman, Boxkicker, stay back and wait for Jackson’s team to arrive,” Nelson commands, then gives the young fighter an encouraging wink. “You and me, we’ll stay and welcome whoever is coming through. Take cover behind those strongboxes!”
The two unarmed men hurry away as Nelson and the fighter take up position, aiming their weapons at the section of the wall that is now trembling from heavy blows.
Fucking caves, Nelson thinks. This whole cursed land is full of them. Damned ragheads or scavengers must have found a way through. But how was that possible?
The wall crumbles and two humanoid but immensely strong hands appear.
Lieutenants of the Tribe are not supposed to get shocked. However, the face appearing in the breech makes Nelson’s skin creep. The ugliest mutant’s snout wouldn’t look to him as scary as this horribly distorted human face that appears to grin under its dark hood.
“Fire!”
The creature growls as the bullets fired from the M1911 and the carbine hit it. It sounds more like anger than pain. Nelson feels his vision blur—or is it just the air undulating between the mole-like hands? He has no time to think. His shock makes way to near panic when he sees the bullets being reflected by an unseen shield. All Nelson can do is to bark the only command making sense.
“Fall back, fall back!”
Several blows shatter the wall. Rocks crumble and in the wide hole an even more frightening sight appears.
“Smiter! Run, run!”
Firing one more desperate burst from his M4, the fighter makes a dash toward the maintenance hall where the guard team should have arrived by now. Nelson empties his magazine into the torso of the mutant appearing through the hole, reloads, then sees that if he wants to live, he too had better run—following the first, more bulky mutants come through the breach and what is perhaps even more alarming, grinning Talib faces appear behind them.
Where in the hell is Jackson and his men?, the Lieutenant desperately asks himself as he turns and runs. Bullets whizz and ricochet from the walls. Then a shockwave hits him from behind and Nelson feels as if his stamina had been just sucked from his body. A bullet from a Kalashnikov hits his limb, then another one his back. Surviving, running, falling, then getting up and crawling away would require super-human strength.
The Lieutenant has it. Even if his exposure to the power beneath the City of Screams has been just a fraction of what had created the smiters, his strength is beyond that of any hardened warrior. If Nelson would only wear his combat exoskeleton and have a weapon more powerful on him than the simple pistol, he could make a stand until the reinforcements arrive.
And they come—a dozen heavily armed fighters appear from the tunnel leading to the Alamo, yet Nelson knows they are too late.
“Get out!” he screams. “They’re gonna overrun you!”
He must make it to the vault where the rest of the ammunition is stored. All Nelson can do is to set a claymore mine or C4 charge, let the section of the vault collapse and bury the intruders — with himself.
The relief squad’s M16s open fire. Nelson sees the two technicians run into the tunnel. The young fighter lies dead in his blood pooling from three gunshot wounds on his back. Nelson grabs his weapon and can fire a short burst backwards before the magazine is empty.
Triumphant howls and shouts come from the attackers’ direction when Jackson’s team falls back. Nelson knows that they will attempt to hold the intruders back until more men arrive from above with heavier weapons. Taking cover behind the Humvee that was being repaired just a few minutes ago, he screams a warning through his radio.
“The vault’s been breached! Get out of the tunnel, get out! I’m gonna blow it!”
Using smiters for cover, dozens of Taliban push forward. Only a few steps separate Lieutenant Nelson from the ammunition vault. He takes a deep breath and darts out. He needs three leaps to get there. Two. One.
Another shockwave hits him. Depleted of stamina, Nelson falls but keeps dragging himself forward. Only a half meter to go.
A huge foot steps on his back and pins him to the floor. Nelson gasps and spits blood. Without seeing it, he knows it’s a smiter.
“Hello Lieutenant,” a hoarse voice says. “As the old saying goes—nothing’s worse than having an itch you can’t scratch, right?”
The voice belongs to a triumphantly grinning half-mutant wearing ragged Stalker armor. He pats Nelson on the back and steps away, joining the Taliban who by now have overrun the vault. Then he steps away and nods to the smiter pinning the Lieutenant down. Horrendous pain and suffocation are the last things Nelson feels as the mutant raises his massive foot once more and then crushes his spine.
46
Cordon Base, Exclusion Zone
Standing in the courtyard of Cordon Base, Maksimenko watches the helicopter approaching from the west. His eye sparkles with satisfaction.
“Is it the renegade’s dumbness or our luck that’s beyond measure, Vlasov?” he asks the Spetsnaz sergeant standing at his side.
“Both, I’d say. You’ll bring him to Kiev as soon as possible, I guess?”
“Guessing is no part of your job description, Sergeant. No, we let him boil a little in his own gravy… to soften him up, if know what I mean.”
“You mean—interrogating him?”
“I said: to soften him up. Then I’ll do the interrogation myself.” The Captain thumps his right fist into his open palm. “Oh yes, I’ll do that. And what’s even better: Agent Fedorka will interrogate the female Stalker he had been with. Dunno what he was thinking. Female bodyguards didn’t help Gaddhafi either.”
Sergeant Vlasov obediently laughs with his superior.
The Hind gunship, call sign Osprey One, hovers over the Base with an ear-splitting whoosh and descends to the concrete helipad. It has barely touched down when the hatch swings open and Sergeant Shumenko appears, followed by Tarasov and Nooria. Both are handcuffed but two commandos still hold them by the arms.
“Package delivered,” Maksimenko cheerfully says. “I love this job, Sergeant. Let’s go and say hello.”
However, he only walks a few meters toward the helicopter and then stays still, stiffening his stance and letting Shumenko and his Spetsnaz drag the two prisoners up to him.
“Major Tarasov,“ he says with a beaming smile, “it’s wonderful to see you.”
“Makes you wish for still having both eyes, eh?” Tarasov angrily replies.
“Is this the way to greet an old comrade, Mikhailo? What about ’good to see you too’, for example?” Shaking his head, Maksimenko steps forward and punches Tarasov in the stomach. “Or maybe, ’how good it is to be back at Cordon Base’?” His knee goes up and kicks the deserter in the face, who is still bending over after the painful punch. Nooria can’t hold back a scream.
“And who do we have here?”
“Don’t touch her, you bastard!”
Tarasov tries to break free with all his strength but three Spetsnaz jump on and overpower him like terriers would a raging bull.
“A witch, so I heard? Or a mattress where American deserters lay down for just a little bit of comfort?”
Biting her lip, Nooria returns his stare without a word.
“Pull back her hood,�
� Maksimenko orders Shumenko and the other Spetsnaz holding her. He rudely pulls on her hair to force her to look up at him. Seeing Nooria’s face, he grimaces.
“Good God! Did a mutant piss on your face or what?” Grabbing her head, he takes a closer look at her scar. “No… it definitely looks like you gave a blowjob to a bloodsucker and then got his acidic load all over your pretty face!”
Maksimenko gives a bellowing laugh. The low-rank Spetsnaz laugh with him, though Shumenko and Vlasov stay quiet and exchange a disapproving look.
“Glad you too managed to put on a grin at last, Sergeant Shumenko,” Maksimenko says. “You’re about to be rewarded after all!”
“Komandir, I—”
“Later. First you load this wreck of a woman into the chopper and escort her, or should I say it, to SBU headquarters. Wait for me!”
A hint of regret and compassion lurks in Sergeant Shumenko’s eyes as he leads Nooria to the Mi-24 and darts a glance to Tarasov, who is being manhandled and pinned to the ground concrete by the commandos. This time his gaze doesn’t elude Maksimenko’s attention.
“Sergeant, wait a minute!”
He turns towards the soldiers. “I know many of you have served under this deserter. He was a highly decorated officer. Look at him now. Look at him! He repaid the Motherland’s trust with treason and desertion. Let his be a good example for how we deal with such scum!” Maksimenko gives Shumenko a grin. “Sergeant, your reward is well deserved. You’ll be given the cash and extra leave as soon as you return from an urgent patrol to Limansk.”
Shumenko’s face grows pale.
“Sergeant, you don’t want to forfeit the reward by thinking stupid things over the fate of this deserter, do you? It will be best for you to stay away from Cordon Base until your former commander is being kept here. Same goes for his pet mutant.”
“But—”
“It’s in your best interest, Sergeant! Get out of my sight.”
Tarasov writhes on the ground to break free from the Spetsnaz’ hold. “You bastards! If you lay as much as a finger on her, I’ll kill you!”
Pulling all their strength together, the commandos manage to hold him down. Maksimenko gives Tarasov a cold, triumphant look. “I doubt it, deserter.”
As if Tarasov hadn’t been humiliated enough in front of his former soldiers, Maksimenko theatrically steps on him and cleans the sole of his muddy boots into his fatigue. Vlasov though, who is watching the scene with growing disapproval, quickly intervenes before the humiliating gesture could be followed by a kick into Tarasov’s face.
“What are your orders, komandir?”
Maksimenko fishes his mobile phone from his pocket.
“Take him to the holding cells. I want two Spetsnaz guarding this cage day and night until we bring him to Kiev,” he says. “If he escapes, or just tries to, I’ll make you wish you were never born!”
“Understood.”
Maksimenko dials a number. “Verka, it’s me. I have a surprise for you.”
47
Northern edge of the Swamps, Exclusion Zone
Under normal circumstances, the wounded soldier would be a sight pitiful enough to make even a battle-hardened opponent feel just a little compassion.
However, when he looks into the steel-blue eyes of the Top who is holding him up into the air as if he were a helpless puppy, the soldier knows that he can hope for no mercy.
Nor can he expect any help from his four comrades. Two of them had already been incapacitated by shrapnel when they walked into a makeshift trap prepared from fragmentation grenades, and those still standing were hit by a well-directed volley of heavy slug rounds that effortlessly pierced their standard-issue body armor. Before they could even see their ambushers, the encounter was lost.
“All right, manchild, I’ll ask you one more time. Where is the woman? Where is Tarasov?”
“Ne znayo a shtom ty govorish,” the soldier stammers.
“He can’t speak English, Top,” says Pete who stands next to the Top, keeping his rifle pointed at the captured soldier. “This makes no sense.”
“Bullshit, Marine!” the taller one shouts back at him. “He’s Spetsnaz, special forces. He is supposed to speak English. They were trained to extract information from people like me and you.”
“Pozhaluysta… ya net Spetsnazam!”
“Speak English, you goddamn vodka-soaked Russkie bastard! We received Tarasov’s distress signal. It was next to the position of one of your squads, close to here! He was hunted, there was a price on his head, you must know where they would take such prey!”
“Klyanus bogom, ya ne ponemayu!”
“I think he said he is no Spetsnaz.”
“Since when do you speak his lingo?”
“I don’t but he said net Spetsnaz that obviously means no Spetsnaz. Do the maths, Top.”
“He fucking lies and I know only one Russian word—Tarasov!” The Top shakes his prisoner mercilessly. Bearing a deep gunshot wound in his limb, the soldier’s pain must be tremendous. Unmoved by his screams, his tormentor repeats his question. “Where is Ta-ra-sov?”
“Kordon… nasha baza,” the soldier splutters.
The Top tosses him to the ground. “Now we talk, Russkie.”
Pete tries to intervene. “I think…”
“I don’t care what you think. You better keep your eye on the bodies. I want no hostile-is-almost-dead-but-reaches-for-his-weapon antics on my ambush ground. Clear?”
“Semper fi, Top.”
“Now back to you, you miserable failure of a manchild playing soldier. How many men at your base? What weapons they have?”
“Kordon… tam spetsnazovtsi. Oni budut vam strelat… bugte umerit kak sobaki, blyadiviye Amerikosi!”
“Any idea what he said?”
Pete shrugs. “Cordon is guarded by Spetsnaz who will shoot us like dogs and that we Americans can suck his dick. Maybe something worse. Whatever.”
“How you know?”
“Spetsnaz means Spetsnaz and I heard the Doc calling his pseudodog a sobaka. The rest is easy to guess.”
“I’m really blessed with a linguistic genius like you. Goddamnit! If I had ten men, only ten Tribe warriors I could take that place, shake it until all those Spetsnaz fall out like apples from a tree and then have a word with our reckless friend! Provided if Nooria is unharmed, because if not… Oh God! Ten men. Eight. God, give me five men!”
“You’ve got only me and Sawyer and he refused to shoot humans, anyway.”
“And I told him that bugs are tougher than humans, predators are stronger and monkeys funnier, yet hunters like him don’t have a problem killing them. Makes him a peacenik and hypocrite.”
“Whatever. Bottom line is, we can’t get to Tarasov if he’s kept at that base.”
“It bloody well seems so, yes, but I’m glad at least you had the balls to come with me.” Hartman turns his eyes to the agonizing soldier. “Time to finish our business.”
“He’s all fucked up, Top. We should let him go.”
“Listen up, son,” the Top says loading his shotgun. “There’s a saying in Uncle Sam’s armed forces: no man is left behind. We in the Tribe prefer to say: no enemy is left alive. And we’ve good reason to do that—you’ll see.”
Lying helplessly at the Top’s feet in the mud, the by now barely breathing soldier closes his eyes not to see it coming.
“And what now?” Pete asks when the bang of the rifle shot died off.
“Back to base,” the Top replies. Seeing that Pete is about to check the bodies for anything useful, he adds, “Looting is not an honorable thing to do. We are not scavengers, son.”
“Sometimes you really give me a hard time understanding you, Top,” Pete says shaking his head but leaving the bodies alone. “You and your Tribe speak about honor. I mean, you shoot a helpless man without batting an eyelid but don’t touch his gear because it’s not honorable. I just don’t get your logic.”
“You’re not supposed to understand. You
’re supposed to follow.”
“You are a heartless SOB if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I take that as a compliment,” Hartman says with a grim smile. “Take point, big mouth! Watching out for anomalies will keep you from thinking too much.”
48
SBU headquarters, Kiev
The gossip magazine full of cheesy photographs of beautiful people doing all kinds of nice things is very out of place in the SBU’s vaults. The female guard reading it fits there perfectly, however—she’s got the hands of a butcher, and her knee-length blue skirt with a belt holding a baton, pepper spray and a holstered Fort pistol reveals fleshy legs crossed under her desk. With a thick finger, the nail cut short, she scratches her head that is topped by a bun of greasy, dyed blonde hair. Occasionally, she lets her blue eyes wander around the corridor from where a row of holding cells open on both sides, then continues completing a sudoku riddle. Overall, she appears a person no prisoner would mess with. Yet she stirs and jumps at attention when the entry door opens.
Radiating an aura of authority, Maksimenko and Agent Fedorka appear and walk to her desk, their steps keeping the same pace.
“Did you clean her up?” Fedorka demands.
“Yes. But—”
“Did she stink?”
“Just a few days’ share of Zone grime. I need to—”
“Did you disinfect her?”
“That was not necessary. But in the process—”
“What?”
Glad that the agent at last gives her an opportunity to tell what she wanted, the guard keeps her message short.
“She is pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Maksimenko asks and smacks his lips in amusement. “She got knocked up by one of the Spetsnaz or what?”
“No, tovarishu Kapitan… at least not to my knowledge—”
“How do you know?” Fedorka asks, impatiently.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2 Page 30