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

by Balazs Pataki

  56

  Cordon Base, Exclusion Zone

  Tarasov curses himself.

  He lets his encounter with Shumenko go through his mind for the hundredth time, but still can’t find anything he could blame for his capture apart from bad luck.

  Had they taken a different path.

  Why would we?

  Had they run away while they still could.

  No chance.

  Had he just shot Shumenko and escaped into the wilderness.

  One hunting rifle against a squad of Spetsnaz and Duty? Suicide.

  It was bad luck and betrayal that resulted in a situation from which he could have never fought his way out; not with the hunting rifle he had.

  All he can think about is Nooria. If he could break out of his confinement at the price of a broken skull, he would gladly ram the metal wall with his head. Setting his teeth to suppress the desire to scream and curse, he sits on the floor, banging the walls with the back of his head. The unceasing rapping of the heavy rain on the top of the metal cell even adds to his mental pain.

  What would I shout, anyway? Calling on my former soldiers to take on the Spetsnaz guards and free me? It was one of my most trusted soldiers who betrayed me for a handful of money. What could I expect from the rest?

  He curses Maksimenko for the subtle way to torture him — kept prisoner in his own former base, in a holding facility he himself had ordered to be transformed from a mobile command station and, like the vigilant officer he had been, personally made sure that it offered no way to escape.

  I had so many good men under my command. Viktor Zlenko. Ilchenko, that bastard. Damn… I don’t even know his given name. Squirrel… Freedom hates the military. Gospodi, I’ll find myself hoping for the anarchists to come and raid Cordon… no way, they are way too weak for that. All gone… at least I’m still alive, unlike them. God save their souls.

  The only one he could put his remaining hopes on is the Top. But no matter how strong and capable the old warrior is, Tarasov knows that he would have no chance coming to his rescue.

  Damn… damn. He doesn’t even know where I am. And those bastards took Nooria to Kiev. Damn! What now? Will the Tribe declare war on Ukraine?

  He smiles bitterly over the nonsense of his thoughts.

  Those goddamned renegades… if they’d come for me, it would be only to kick my ass for putting Nooria in danger. Yes… that would be quite a show. The Top, Driscoll and all those fanatic Lieutenants storming the Zone. Renegade Marines against Spetsnaz. Hell of a showdown. Wish they were here, blasting this whole place with me inside, I don’t care!

  His capture by the Tribe flashes through his mind. They kept him in the place they called the Brig, where he wished for the Zone unleash its power on the Tribe who he loathed then.

  There I wished for the Zone to come… here for the New Zone’s warriors. Where do I belong now?

  Thinking of this, the controversy appears to him so ridiculous that he has to laugh. One of the Spetsnaz guarding the holding cell immediately bangs on the door.

  “Shut up, prisoner!”

  “Why?” Tarasov shouts back, loud enough to make himself heard through the metal walls and the heavy rain outside. “Can’t I laugh about the fucked up situation I’m in?”

  “You—”

  Whatever the Spetsnaz wanted to tell him, it ended in a gurgle. Then all is quiet again, only the rain keeps drumming on the container’s metal roof.

  After a moment, he hears someone tampering with the lock, and after another heartbeat the door slowly opens. Through rain and darkness, Tarasov cannot see the face of the figure wearing a Stalker suit, but the eyes dimly illuminated by the night vision goggles’ green light look familiar. He hears a whisper.

  “Come, quickly!”

  Tarasov heeds his call without thinking twice. The Stalker points to the ground where a dead Spetsnaz lies.

  “Get his weapon and help me hide the body!”

  Tarasov slings the commando’s AN104 rifle over his shoulder and grabs the body by the legs. Together, they quickly drag him behind the holding facility where the searchlight in the watchtower can’t detect it. The body of another Spetsnaz is already lying there.

  The rain soaks him to his skin in seconds. Tarasov quickly takes two more magazines from the ammunition vest of the second body.

  “Follow me,” the Stalker whispers.

  Ducking, the two men cautiously proceed to a bush opposite the base gate.

  The searchlight slowly sweeps over the perimeter, more as an excuse by the soldier manning it for doing something during his watch than an attempt to detect anything. Tarasov mentally praises the storm that covers the perimeter with a curtain of heavy rain.

  About two hundred meters away, beyond the barracks, a twisting fog bank conceals the low hills lying to the east. His rescuer points in that direction, but to reach the cover of fog they need to pass through between the barracks and the helipad. This section is brightly illuminated by two reflectors, just like the Mi-24 attack helicopter itself — another feature Tarasov had had installed during his time as security-savvy base commander. The light would deny even the most daring Stalker any chance to sneak into the base and sabotage the helicopter, the military’s most powerful weapon in the Exclusion Zone. Now he finds another of his brain children turning against him.

  To his dismay, Tarasov sees a soldier guarding the helicopter. Seeking shelter from the rain, the soldier huddles up under the short wings on the fuselage, facing directly the section where they have to pass through. A cigarette glows in the soldier’s hand, but his assault rifle is unslung and ready to shoot.

  The Stalker aims his silenced pistol. With a cautious movement, Tarasov pushes his weapon down and slowly shakes his head.

  The Stalker shrugs. Then he takes a bolt from his pocket, aims for a second and throws it in a long arch towards the helicopter. Through the splatter of rain, Tarasov’s ears detect the faint noise of metal hitting metal.

  The guard tosses his cigarette away. He aims his weapon and peers in the direction where the bolt has hit the helicopter.

  Tarasov hears a muted command. “Move!”

  With quick steps, Tarasov passes the brightly lit section. Reaching the other side of the barracks, he ducks at the bottom of the wall made from pre-manufactured concrete slabs. Nothing is between him and the fog that would safely hide him, even if his escape would be detected. He has to wait for the Stalker, though.

  Having found nothing out of the ordinary, the soldier shrugs and swears in a low voice. He steps back under the wings and pats down his armored vest, probably looking for his pack of cigarettes.

  The noise of a TV comes from behind the boarded windows of the barracks. Judging by the explosions and gunshots the soldiers inside must be watching an action film. He hopes it is exciting enough to keep them in front of the screen.

  “Vitka! You still got any smokes left?”

  It is the helicopter guard shouting at his comrade in the watchtower.

  “Yes! Come over here!”

  Yes, Tarasov thinks. Go to Vitka. Get your cigarettes. That’s an order, goddammit!

  “No! You come over here!”

  “No way, buddy! I’m still dry here, it’s you who’s already soaked!”

  Cussing under his breath, the helicopter guard leaves his position and walks to the watchtower. Using the moment when he fully concentrates on catching the box of cigarettes tossed from above, the Stalker swiftly crosses over to the bush where Tarasov is hiding.

  “Thank goodness for bad habits,” Tarasov sighs.

  The Stalker is not in the mood for chatting. He signals him to move on.

  “There’s barbed wire,” Tarasov whispers when he sees the direction the Stalker is taking, “and a minefield behind!”

  Undeterred, the Stalker moves northwards with quick but cautious steps. Tarasov realizes his savior walks with a slight limp. Soon, they reach the barbed wire fence separating the outer perimeter of the base from a sp
arse forest.

  “Up that tree,” the Stalker whispers.

  After leaving the brightly lit helipad, Tarasov’s eyes have not yet fully accustomed to the darkness. First he doesn’t see much, but straining his eyes, he soon makes out a tree fallen over the fence. If moving carefully enough and without his feet slipping on the wet wood, a man could vault the fence.

  Cautiously, always looking for a branch to hold on should his feet slip, Tarasov balances his way over the fence and jumps. The Stalker follows suit, although his descent from the tree is more cautious.

  “Keep right, as close to the old barbed wire as you can!”

  Just a few steps away, a minefield lies. It is the outermost protection of the army base. During his times at the base, Tarasov had seen more than one dumb mutant being blasted by the anti-infantry mines hidden under the fallen leaves. Hoping that the Stalker knows what he is doing, he follows him along the barbed wire. His Spetsnaz training kicks in and he holds onto the Stalker’s rucksack, tightly enough to prevent them from getting too far from each other in the dark but not too strong either to hinder the Stalker from quickly changing his stance should he detect danger ahead.

  The fog sits thick among the trees, but Tarasov sees two bright spots not far to their left. Bushes rattle. They near a noise, halfway between a grunt and a growl.

  “Boar to our nine,” Tarasov whispers.

  They both halt. With his heart beating fast, Tarasov hopes that the mutant will not attack them. He would have to fire the rifle, which would immediately expose them to the guards. The base is still less than fifty meters away.

  The boar doesn’t approach them. Tarasov is about to sigh with relief when more rattling comes from the bushes. It must be one of the fleshes usually lurking together with a boar. He hears the noise of several mutants galloping away.

  Then an ear-piercing detonation comes. Immediately, the base comes to life.

  “ALERT! STALKER DETECTED!”

  The guard’s warning through the megaphone is followed by the wail of a siren. The searchlight from the watchtower swings over to the northern perimeter.

  “Run!” the Stalker shouts.

  The leafless trees wouldn’t conceal them from the searchlight that is now scanning the woods, getting closer to the fugitives with each second. With the minefield to their left and the barbed wire fence to the right, they have only one way left—forward, to the north.

  The soldiers in the base become more agitated. Amidst indiscernible shouts, the guards begin to blindly fire their weapons into the woods. Someone is frantically shouting commands.

  “MEN DOWN! THE PRISONER HAS BROKEN OUT!”

  He hears the growl of the boar and the agitated squeaks of his harem of fleshes. Rifles fire bursts and one more explosion shatters the ground. By the time the mutants’ noise ceases and the soldiers’ firing becomes sparse, Tarasov and the Stalker have reached a safe distance from the base.

  They soon reach the eastern slopes of a hill overlooking the base that is now to the far south. Beyond the road leading to the northern areas, an abandoned village lies to the west.

  Stopping, the Stalker gives Tarasov the sign to halt and kneels down. When hearing the low, pulsating hum, Tarasov immediately knows that even bigger peril lies ahead.

  The Stalker throws a bolt. A tiny light flashes and the bolt disappears into nowhere. For a split second, the pulsating drone changes to a sharp crackle. Then the anomaly ahead continues to hum.

  One more bolt flies. They can take two steps ahead. The third bolt is again consumed by an anomaly. The fourth shows them a safe path through. Following the Stalker, Tarasov finds himself in a small circle of boulders. It might have been a sacred site in historical times but now it’s a safe refuge, hiding them from the sight of anyone following them. There is a makeshift rain shelter too, made up from a canvas pitched between a boulder and two sticks.

  Another Stalker, apparently guarding the place, lowers his Dragunov when he sees them approaching.

  “Phew!” The Stalker with the pistol loudly sighs. He powers his night vision down and switches on his headlamp. “If any grunt follows us here — he deserves a damn medal!”

  “Strelok?” Tarasov asks wiping rain water from his face.

  “I hope you didn’t expect Sidorovich,” Strelok replies with a grin. They shake hands and embrace each other. “That’s Guide over here. Without him we’d never made it here in time.”

  “Thank you, Strelok. I thought they really screwed me this time,” Tarasov thankfully says and bows his head towards Guide. “Guide? The legendary man himself? Most Stalkers think you don’t even exist!”

  “That’s correct,” Guide says, smirking. “Because I do not exist for most Stalkers.”

  “You guys know anything about Nooria? The girl they captured together with me?”

  “Let me think,” Strelok says. “I heard some rumors that she was to be interrogated, raped, abused and her baby aborted—”

  Tarasov grasps Strelok’s shoulders and shakes him hard.

  “What?!”

  “—but then she killed the female agent trying to do all these things to her, left your buddy Maksimenko shackled naked to a radiator, killed two SBU guards and then a pimp on Volodymyrska, made her way to a gangsters’ club where she hooked up with Sultan and tried to set one of his prostitutes free but found her ear next day in a package that Sultan’s henchman gave her when she dumped her on the edge of Zaton—”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “—where I literally stumbled into her. So, we made our way to Noah’s Ark when an emission hit. Bottom line—she cured me out of my chronic headache!”

  “Are you high? Spending too much time with Freedomers or what?”

  “Indeed, it was high time for me to get free. Because thanks to your witch, I am no longer anyone’s errand boy!”

  “Will you at least tell me where she is?”

  “I am here!”

  Tarasov spins on his heels and almost falls over when a joyful Nooria appears from the rain shelter and throws herself into his arms.

  “I had to tell you her story to see if I believe it myself, you know,” Strelok and Guide exchange a grin. Seeing that the couple’s emotional reunion is not going to end soon by itself, Strelok impatiently continues. “Hey, love birds! That’s already more romance than the Zone has ever seen. Come, we have important things to discuss!”

  “Let’s move to the Rookie Village,” Guide suggests.

  Tarasov is still embracing Nooria who cuddles against his chest. The rain on her face blends with tears. He pats her back, gives her another kiss and turns to the Stalkers.

  “No. The Rookie Village is the first place where the grunts would start looking for me. It’s the Swamps where we go. My companions are still waiting for me there, or so I hope.”

  “You know about the tunnel in the hill, south of the village?”

  “Sure. Hopefully it’s not blocked.”

  “It isn’t,” remarks Guide.

  “There’s something we need to talk about at last.” Strelok looks up to the dark sky. “Damn rain… let’s get under that canvas.”

  The canvas keeps the rain outside of the tiny shelter but doesn’t protect from the chilly wind. Strelok looks towards the base and risks lighting a campfire from a small pile of firewood. Initially, the damp wood doesn’t burn but after the Stalker has wasted half a box of matches, the flames slowly begin to emanate soothing warmth. All three of them move closely around the weak fire.

  “Have some havchik,” Strelok says opening a can of ‘tourist’s breakfast’. Tarasov gladly accepts it. “Nu, delo bylo tak…”

  “Better in English,” Tarasov says, ”so that Nooria can understand you.”

  “I’ll try to keep it short. You know, I used to do jobs for the SBU from time to time—Nooria will tell you why I was depending on them. Kruchelnikov ordered Maksimenko to bag you.”

  “Colonel Kruchelnikov? Now I realize what deep shit w
e’ve been in. That man is a monster.”

  “And Maksimenko his shrewd minion. He made me send you a message to lure you back to the Zone. Then they wanted to bag you when you contacted me.”

  “It worked out after all, just the other way round.”

  “What the bastards didn’t know was that I wanted to talk to you anyway. Did you get my first message as well? Good.” Strelok reaches into his rucksack and fishes out a bottle of vodka. Tarasov gladly takes a swig. He is about to give the bottle back to Strelok when Nooria grabs at it.

  “Do you mind if I drink a little?” she asks.

  “Of course not.”

  Nooria quaffs, coughs and grimaces, but then gives a satisfied sigh and cuddles back against Tarasov.

  “Since when do you drink?” he asks with surprise.

  “Pertsovka reminds me of a friend.”

  Before Strelok puts the bottle away, he too takes a swig. “Cheers! Now let me finish my story before we all get drunk. Two years ago, when I opened up the X-18 vault, I found documents describing how and when the secret labs were established here. To cut a long story short: when the USSR realized that the Afghan war could not be won by conventional warfare, Soviet scientists began to develop psychotropic weapons.”

  “I should have guessed,” Tarasov wearily says.

  “The first laboratory was located in the Panjir Valley. According to the documents I found, the scientists made some progress but the USSR gave it up before they could had have completed their research. Their lab had to be evacuated. Guess who was in charge of the evacuation—a lieutenant from the GRU, Soviet military intelligence, called Kruchelnikov.”

  “I’m not surprised. When I first heard Stalkers gossiping about the New Zone in Afghanistan, I thought they had too much vodka at the 100 Rads. Once I knew it better, I realized that the two Zones are not only similar but also connected by a thousand things. Among them the shadows of the USSR.”

  “Until it lasted, that is. In the chaos around 1990 nobody cared about the scientists’ research, but they decided to keep on experimenting—” Strelok stops for a moment to sneeze. “Damn! My suit protects me from radiation, biohazard and even small-caliber bullets but can’t hold off a little flu! God, right when my nose is in shambles!”