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

by Balazs Pataki

“Boooorin’!”

  “And I’m kind of a drug addict as well, like the kid was.”

  “Me temper is bad enough without ye borin’ me like dat!”

  “I am addicted to the drug called blood. I love spilling my enemies blood and piss on their bodies.”

  “Dat’s whad everyone wearing a uniform is bragging about.”

  Hartman takes a deep breath. “I am a well-trained soldier and struggled with fighting a war with one of my hands chained to my back. Then came the day when we went deep below the New Zone where lots of our bravest fell. The price waiting for those who made it through was freedom. We chosen few were touched by the power of the New Zone. It liberated us from the shackles of loyalty to a corrupt country that no longer deserved our sacrifice. We became the rabid stray dogs of war. We became victorious at the price of countless deaths on our hands. Yet it was still treason and desertion. I am a traitor and deserter to my country and I try to deny it by being loyal to my Tribe and my leader till I die and beyond. But I am still a traitor and deserter. I spill our enemies’ blood to wash that shame away, yet it will always tarnish my soul. Lawyers can acquit me but I will never be able to. The great Spirit has touched me and the part of my sanity it has left keeps calling me a traitor. This is the sin I would ask God to forgive but He has fallen silent on me long ago. If you lousy lowlife dare open your filthy mouth to insult me by telling that all this makes me fit to join your scum—I swear I will tear your head off, so bless me God. Because if we are talking sin, I’m not merely fitting in but should be your goddamned general.”

  Hartman’s slow-spoken words seem to have made an impression on Friar.

  “We already have a general,” the Bandit quietly says. “His name’s Sultan. Though I didn’t vote for him… should we ever elect our leader by votin’, ya can count on me.”

  He unslings the Obokan assault rifle from his shoulder and fires a burst into the ceiling. “Ye are hereby absolved from yer sins by me welcomin’ ye into our ranks, for here we are all brothers in crime. Wadever ye’ve been judged and cast out for by da ignorant world outside will be yer source of pride with us. Rise and be proud, brothers, for yer sins make you worthy of becoming Bandits!”

  “That’s it, then?” Tarasov asks standing.

  “What did ya expect? Prickin’ yer trigger finger and drippin’ blood over a damned religious icon? Ya better make a Loner bleed until he tells ya where he hides his stash, haha!”

  Tarasov, Hartman and Pete leave the bizarre room, shunning each other’s eyes.

  64

  Container Warehouse, Exclusion Zone

  Daylight fades and a chilly dusk descends over the Zone. Without anything else to do but wait, the four travelers kill time at a campfire, not in much of a mood to chat. Nooria appears to be lost in her thoughts and the three men still feel embarrassed over their confessions, as if they were forced to strip their very souls naked in front of each other and are now fighting with the subsequent embarrassment.

  Tarasov is in a particularly foul mood. Having made camp in one of the containers between the tougher Stalkers’ and the veteran Bandits’ quarters, the chatter all around them begins to nerve him. The Stalker-turned-Bandits ceaselessly brag about their own toughness and the treasures they hope to find in the New Zone, spicing the conversation with the dirtiest jokes. He is glad Nooria can’t understand them. A former Dutyer, who Tarasov recognizes as the newcomer who was switching arm patches earlier, is the loudest of them all. He and the Bandits nearby don’t bother them, though; the apparent deserter has obviously found an easy mark for verbal target practice in the form of a newcomer wearing Freedom armor.

  Four men appear and make their way to the container of Tarasov’s party. Their faces are open and reveal dark skin and black eyes. The conversation at the nearby campfires goes quiet.

  “Uh-oh,” Pete says. “These fellows look like trouble.”

  Tarasov looks at the four sinister men. “Chechens,” he quietly observes.

  “They’re kind of a mob?”

  “Not kind of because they are the real mob,” Tarasov explains. “It’s called obshina.”

  Hartman’s eyes flash and he reaches for his pistol. He looks at Tarasov who shakes his head in a sign to stay cool.

  One of the men steps to the companions’ campfire. His black eyes gaze at them inquisitively under a thick unibrow.

  “Assalamu ’aleikum,” the Chechen says to Tarasov. “Mukha vo ho, vasha?”

  “Let’s speak Russian, vasha,” Tarasov grumbles for a reply. “I have nothing to hide from my friends.”

  The Chechen shrugs and continues in Russian. “Nu khorosho. Word has it you are one of us. The brothers want to meet you.”

  He jerks his head to the three others behind him.

  “Nooria,” Tarasov whispers in English, “remove your balaclava and show your hair. Now.”

  Slowly, Tarasov gets to his feet. Meanwhile Nooria, though surprised, does as he has commanded.

  When her long hair falls over her shoulders, the Chechen gasps with surprise. Tarasov steps closer to him.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Is she your wife?”

  “Yes she is,” Tarasov shouts at him, ”and I will teach you manners!”

  He lands a kick in the abdomen of the Chechen mobster who bends forward with a gasp of pain. Tarasov grabs his arm, turns him around and pulls him backwards over to himself. He takes the head of the Bandit between his hands and twists it violently. Vertebrae break with a faint crack. Tarasov lets off the dead mobster collapse at his feet.

  The three other Chechens have barely realized what was happening in the past few seconds. By the time they reach for their weapons, Hartman already has his M1911 pointed at them.

  “Back off, whatever crazy lingo you speak!”

  Tarasov gives them a cold look.

  “He was looking at her in a bad way,” he says, then points to the Chechen’s body where the head is jolted over the shoulder in a disturbingly unnatural way. “Now he is looking at her in a good way.”

  The three Chechens exchange looks of shock. Then the tallest gives Tarasov a killer’s gaze.

  “You will die for that.”

  “No. I will kill you if you approach her ever again,” Tarasov says. “I don’t want to do anything with scum like you who call me a brother but don’t give a woman under my protection the respect she deserves. Now take your vasha and get out off my sight!”

  Eventually, the three Chechens back off and leave without a word, carrying the body with them. Their silence appears more menacing than if they were cursing and threatening.

  “Phew,” Hartman sighs. “Next time you tell me in advance, will you?”

  “Was that really necessary?” Nooria asks.

  “First, I made sure that no one will ever set an eye on you. Second, they would have blown my cover in a moment. Third, these obshina guys are the most dangerous in all the Russian underworld. Don’t shed any tears over him.”

  “Now you’ve made an enemy out of the obshina or whatever they are called,” Pete says with a headshake. “Bravo.”

  “An enemy?” Tarasov snorts. “Why, do we have any friends here? All I see is enemies.”

  “You’re wrong, brother,” someone says nearby. The voice is English but obviously spoken by a Russian. “Those cocksuckers were bullying us long enough. Guess I’m not the only friend you’ve just made!”

  It is the man in Duty’s light black armor speaking.

  “Yes, I’m meaning it. You’ll have all the rookies’ gratitude for teaching them a lesson!”

  “Bandits skinning Bandits?” Pete says. “This place is more screwed up than I had thought.”

  “Every man for himself, might makes right—pick your meaning,” the Dutyer shrugs.

  “Ain’t that Jack character supposed to keep order here?” the Top asks.

  “He does. Shit flows down, loot goes up. That’s the local law. Anyway—”

  The Dutyer cuts his
sentence when Jack himself appears and approaches the campfire with two Mercenaries in tow. The Bandit who they saw sleeping in his headquarters is also with him, still yawning but looking very martial with a grenade belt over his assault vest and an RG-6 grenade launcher in his hands.

  “You bloody newcomers just don’t know how to behave,” the Bandit leader snaps. “If you weren’t with Margarita I’d just kick your fucking butt into an anomaly. Whaddafuck were you thinking, huh?”

  Tarasov gives him a bold grin. “What did you expect? Solving our differences with peaceful dialogue or what? That prick was looking at Margarita with eyes bulging, goddammit!”

  “And then you break his fucking neck? Just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fucking savages… Luckily for you, I need a badass like you. See, you’re my ’ace in the hole’, as they say in America. I have a stone in my shoe. You can remove it.”

  The Top quietly coughs.

  “I’m all ears,” Tarasov says trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “Sultan needs us to secure three positions in the area. This Warehouse and the Jupiter Plant are already ours. Now I need you to take a few hardy fellas and clean the helipads. Some crazy Loners have nestled in there. We need to press alt-control-delete on their activities.”

  “What’s the big fuss?” Tarasov asks suspecting a snatch. “You have many men here, some of them armed much better than we are. Why don’t you just wipe those Stalkers out?”

  “I give you a dozen badass brothers but someone needs to lead them. Friar told me you are pretty good leader. Is that right?”

  “Fuck that cretin,” Tarasov grumbles.

  “I take that as a yes. You must make sure that this fellow gets in one piece to the wrecked chopper blocking the landing pads.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  That’s Abdul, our man from Dagestan,” Jack gives the sleepy Bandit a patronizing pat on the back. “You love blowin’ things up, right?”

  “Bombs are great!” the Bandit called Abdul replies with an eager nod.

  “He’ll take care of that wreck. He’s also the only one in your team who speaks English.”

  “A Dagestani who speaks English?”

  “Grew up in Northern London, mate,” Abdul says with a genuine Estuary accent. “Finsbury Park. Suppose you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

  “If you want to help us, get moving,” Jack impatiently says. “If you don’t — there’s no such option.”

  “What about her?” Tarasov asks pointing at Nooria.

  “She’ll stay.”

  “Then you were wrong about refusing to help you not being an option.”

  “You nuts? She is Sultan’s own assassin. No one dares to hurt her, especially after you broke that darkie’s neck!”

  Tarasov looks at Nooria who just looks at her feet and chews on her lips. However, this is not a time to ask her questions.

  In ten minutes, Tarasov, Pete and Hartman are on their way to the helipads with a group of Bandits. The Dutyer is among them and, breaching every sound discipline, exchanges loud insults with the Bandit wearing a Freedom suit.

  “Hey, anarchist. You’re wearing your armor the wrong way. The Kevlar shouldn’t cover your chest but your butt. That’s where most of you get shot at, you know?”

  “You can’t talk about armor. Even the meat inside my can of tourist’s breakfast is better protected than you in that black ninja suit.”

  “You two!” Tarasov says. “Keep your voices down! Where do you think you are, on a stroll in a park or what?”

  “Sorry, boss,” the Freedomer replies in a low voice.

  “Tell me something,” Tarasov continues, keeping his voice down too. “You know that veteran Bandit with the Vintorez and army-issue Mark-II exoskeleton?”

  “You must be meaning Dimitry Molotov,” responds the Dutyer. “Strange guy. Mostly keeps to himself, though. Why?”

  “I didn’t like the stare he gave me when I arrived.”

  “Why, did you expect a kiss on your mouth or what?”

  “Well, never mind. Fuhgeddaboutit.”

  “Hope dis guna be like me last raid,” a Bandit remarks behind them. “Went to da Garbage with a few fellas. See a free Stalker comin’ from da north. I says, now whatta strange guy that one is, strollin’ down da road as if it were his own. So, I ask him, yo tipa, ya gotta pay a road toll. He says fuck you and draws his AK. Then all the fellas come chargin’ from them bushes. Stalker tries to run away and then, bang! steps into a Vortex and all we see is him flyin’ up with a whoosh and then boom, we just stand there, body parts rainin’ out on us. His liver there, his arm here, and his rucksack right at me feet. All I had to do was to pick it up, hahaha!”

  The Bandits laugh with him.

  “What was so funny?” Hartman asks.

  “Just pointless bragging,” Tarasov replies.

  65

  Helipads in the Jupiter factory area, Exclusion Zone

  Their group has now reached an intersection with a fenced-off structure to their left and a wide, ascending slope leading to the helipads to their right. Tarasov signals the men to halt and moves forward to observe the area.

  Covered from the Stalker’s sight by a bush, he observes the helipads through his binoculars. The Stalkers have not only made a campfire behind the wreck of a BTR personnel carrier, but erected a defensive perimeter using it as barrier. It could be taken by storm; the only thing Tarasov is worried about are the mines between the road and the helipad. He hopes that Jack had been right about stray mutants having virtually cleared the minefield. At least the decomposing carcass of a boar close to the helipads proves such optimism.

  There is a wrecked Mi-24 close to the Stalker’s campsite. Seeing it makes Tarasov smile bitterly. The helicopter had been one of the aircrafts carrying him and his Spetsnaz comrades to Pripyat during Operation Fairway, call sign Stingray One. He sighs and makes his way back to the other men.

  “We’ve a position to take. It’s built into a hillside and surrounded by a minefield on three sides.” Tarasov draws a rectangle into the mud and pricks his finger around it to make dots indicating mines. ”It can’t be approached from the front because there’s no cover at all and the defenders will shoot us like sitting ducks. However, the wall is supported by buttresses every five meters.” He draws a second line along the longer side of the rectangle. “The defenders can easily keep it under fire from here—” He puts a pebble into the square to symbolize the Mi-24 and another for the BTR. “—and here. We can’t lay down fire from the hill because it’s mined. We can’t attack from the north where the approach is open, because there’s no cover. How would you do that?”

  “Well… a mortar should do the job with a few high explosive shells, but we have no mortar.”

  “Abdul’s launcher has an effective range of three-fifty.”

  “Should work.”

  “He’ll need an eternity to recharge it if the first volley isn’t effective enough. Let’s still think a little.”

  “Laying a smoke screen, sneak up the walls and keep the defenders under suppressive fire until we all get close enough to charge them?”

  “Abdul, you have GRDs?”

  “I have only one and it’s my lucky smoke grenade!”

  “Looks like you just ran out of luck. Load it.”

  “But—”

  “Load it or I open a path through the mine field by making you run through it. Your fat ass would make a pretty big bang.”

  “But I’ve kept it since Beslan! It is my lucky charm!”

  “I thought the Spetsnaz killed all the terrorists,” Tarasov says with narrowed eyes.

  Abdul gives him a wide grin. “Why do you think it’s my lucky charm, huh?”

  The Top and Tarasov share a quick glance.

  “Wait a minute, Abdul,” Hartman says. “You took part in the attack on that school?”

  “Yeah, so what? And how many of my brothers and sisters did you Yanks kill in Iraq and Afghani
stan?”

  “Brothers and sisters, really? If you’re such a believer, how come your breath reeks of liquor?”

  There’s a chill in the Marine’s eyes that promises nothing good for Abdul’s future, but Hartman gives him a smile nonetheless. Seeing the former Marine’s blue eyes turning icy, Tarasov reckons that Abdul is a dead man.

  “Allah is too busy preparing hell for those Stalkers to watch me,” the now fumed Dagestani replies.

  “You know what I think, Abdul?” Hartman’s smile hardens. “You were too much of a coward to die a martyr’s death. That’s why you drink. You’re an Al-lah-coholic, eh?”

  Tarasov quickly intervenes before the ex-terrorist and the ex-Marine can start up a fight. “Shut up, both of you! Here’s our plan: Abdul, you’ll fire your smoke on my command. Then one of us will move in, take cover behind that UAZ and lay down suppressive fire until the rest catch up. Meanwhile, you’ll launch a grenade each time I tell you. When the assault team has caught up with the man up front, they will throw a volley of grenades and then charge the Stalkers down. If your grenades are accurate, they will be shaken enough to make the rest of the job easy. Understood?”

  “I’ll volunteer for the UAZ,” Hartman says.

  “Negative, Top,” Pete says. “With all due respect, but you move like a rhino. I’m quick and offer a much smaller target than you.”

  “Outstanding progress, son! You’ll become a real warrior in the end.”

  Pete grins and shakes his head. “Actually, giving suppressing fire means I don’t necessarily need to kill those Stalkers.”

  “Where did you find this guy?” Abdul asks. “Amnesty International?”

  “Exactly,” Pete says. ”That’s why I’m siding with criminals and terrorists like you, Abdul.”

  The Dagestani’s reply would probably be an angry one but Tarasov cuts in.

  “Weapon check,” he says and continues in Russian to make the rest of the team understand. “Proverit oruzhie!”

  In a few words, he recaps the plan and the orders to the Bandits.

  “Locked and loaded,” Pete and Hartman say.