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

by Balazs Pataki

  “Good. Now wait, all of you. I want to give those fellows a last chance.”

  Ignoring the frowns of his men, Tarasov shoulders his rifle and leaves the cover of the bushes. Standing up, he shouts out.

  “Don’t shoot! Stalker coming through!”

  Keeping as close to the wall as he can and watching out for every suspicious spot in the mud, he slowly approaches the tarmac with the helicopter carcass.

  “Stoi! Stay where you are!”

  The Stalker shouting from behind the BTR has his AK pointed at him.

  “I am unarmed!” Tarasov shouts back, raising his hands.

  “And I am Valentina Tereskova, talking from outer space! Hands up!”

  “They are already! What’s wrong with you?”

  He hears several men laughing behind their safe cover.

  “We are the Reapers and don’t talk to Bandit scum!”

  “You are—who?”

  “The Reapers! A new faction! Soon we’ll own of the Zone!”

  For a heartbeat, Tarasov hesitates between taking the Stalker for either mad or drunk even beyond Zone standards.

  “That might be so, but there’s two dozen Bandits out there wanting to kick your butts. Listen, why don’t you just leave? There’s no need for bloodshed!”

  “You don’t frighten us, Bandit pigs! Go and boil your bottoms, sons of bitches! Soon we’ll have the Heart of Oasis artifact and then we’ll blow our noses at you!”

  “Now listen, brother — that artifact has already been found!”

  “Don’t try talking us out of it, you boar-headed son of a blind dog bitch! We know it’s close! We’ll find it, get dirty filthy rich and own the Zone!”

  “God damn you, Stalker! Trust me, it wasn’t such a big deal anyway!”

  “You lie, ass-face! It’s gonna make us invulnerable and then we’ll rape you Bandits in the butthole!”

  “Don’t die searching for a stupid legend, Stalker!”

  “I don’t want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed bloodsucker food!”

  “Is there someone else there I can talk to?”

  “No! Go away!”

  The Stalker fires a warning shot to underline his message. Tarasov gives himself beaten and carefully retraces his steps along the concrete wall.

  “What a strange person,” Abdul whispers when Tarasov rejoins the others. “He’ll be a dead person now, won’t he?”

  “Bunch of lunatics looking for the Zone’s Holy Grail!” Tarasov heaves a sigh of frustration before prepping the team. “They leave us no choice. All right then—take up position at the wall. Abdul, you and me stay in the middle. When the suppressing fire starts, we all move in. Aim carefully. Clear?”

  “Clear,” the Bandits nod.

  “Pete, stick to the wall and move from buttress to buttress. Once you reach that car wreck, duck, fire that AK without peeking out, and try to stay in one piece. Hartman and the others will be there in about ten seconds.”

  “They’d better will.”

  Tarasov is about to follow Abdul to the agreed position when Hartman signals him to wait.

  “The less of this scum reach the New Zone, the better,” he coldly says when he is sure that Abdul can’t hear him. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” Tarasov whispers in reply. “But I don’t want the deserters to get hurt. I mean the two guys in black and woodland camouflage armor. They could be useful later.”

  “Just get them separated from the Bandits.”

  “Let’s move,” Tarasov says and adds, “Watch Pete’s back.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Tarasov joins Abdul who is lying prone behind a bush. When everyone is in position, he gives him a nod.

  “No wind,” the Dagestani whispers. “Good for smoke. God has blessed us.”

  He aims the grenade launcher. With a muted thump, the projectile darts out in a long arch and hits the tarmac right between the UAZ and the BTR. A second after impact, thick smoke rises and wreathes the helipad.

  Agitated noises come from the crazed Stalkers’ perimeter. Tarasov watches Pete who proceeds with a cat’s dexterity.

  “Careful, kid, careful,” he whispers under his breath.

  He is sure that by now the Stalkers know that doom approaches. However, by discipline or lack of ammunition, they don’t start shooting blindly into the growing smoke.

  Meanwhile Pete has reached the edge of the tarmac and disappears into the smoke that already engulfs the UAZ wreck. Three seconds later his AK starts barking in short bursts.

  “Abdul, fire!” Tarasov commands. “Do not hit the kid!”

  The concrete walls surrounding the helipad amplify the thundering explosion. By now the assault team’s rifle fire adds to the hellish noise of gunfire echoing in the compound.

  “One more!” Tarasov shouts.

  The smoke screens what’s going on from his view but after the next deafening bang, Tarasov hears cries from the direction of the Stalkers’ perimeter.

  “Nice shot,” he shouts, “let’s move!”

  Moving along the wall they hurry towards the fight. Tarasov draws his pistol, knowing that at close quarters, with the smoke still hazing the scene, his rifle with the attached scope would be useless. A defiant shout comes from behind the BTR.

  “Eat this, cocksuckers!”

  Before anyone can shout ‘cover!’, a grenade is thrown and goes up in a blast close to the UAZ that now takes shape in the smoke. Feeling safe tarmac under his feet, Tarasov dashes to the car wreck.

  “Still in one piece, kid?”

  “Yeah,” Pete shouts back. His eyes are wide open from the adrenaline rush that has made him ignore the blood gushing from a wound on his left arm.

  “You’re wounded!”

  Another grenade detonates and both of them instinctively duck.

  “What?”

  “Keep low! You’re wounded!”

  “Aw shit!”

  “Where’s the Top?”

  “Moving around the chopper to flank them!”

  Rifle fire comes from the wrecked helicopter, hitting the defenders from an angle where they are only protected by wooden crates and a few metal boxes. The agitated shouting of the Stalkers behind the BTR becomes panicked as the Bandits’ assault rifles spray them with automatic fire through this less than adequate cover. Hartman’s voice bellows over the gunfire.

  “Frag out!”

  Three hand grenades detonate behind the BTR where the defenders are now hopelessly cornered.

  “Give it up!” Tarasov yells. “Give it up, fools!”

  “Die, Bandit!” comes a desperate but defiant reply.

  The thud and whine of gunfire comes from the direction of the chopper wreck. Bullets hit the BTR and ricochet with a sharp whizz. Then the last Kalashnikov of the defenders ceases firing.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Tarasov commands.

  “Hey hey, buddies, it’s too soon to hide the guns!” a Bandit shouts in reply.

  “Top, on me! Let’s check the command post!”

  Hartman kicks the rusty metal door open and Tarasov, holding his pistol at ready, quickly surveys the interior. Hartman follows him. Save for a few dirty mattresses and a few worthless items, they find the rooms empty.

  “Clear!”

  “Clear,” Tarasov replies and holsters his weapon.

  Oblivious of their three dead comrades who lie between the UAZ and the helicopter, the Bandits and a few Mercenaries are already moving into loot the dead Stalkers.

  “Hehe, this little stiff’s a kind one, he’ll share, won’t he? Hmm, this one was an idiot—no supplies, all shit—”

  Tarasov fires his pistol in the air.

  “Stop looting,” he says once all eyes are on him. “We still got a job to do. Abdul, the stage is yours. Until he places the explosives, let’s all move to a safe distance. That includes you, trench coat! Those bodies won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you better move into that command building,” Abdul s
ays removing his rucksack. “This one’s going to be a big one.”

  Tarasov watches him take several blocks of C4 explosives from his rucksack and begins to position them at the weak-spots of the wreck.

  “Perhaps you want to report Jack that the helipad is ours?” Abdul asks while attaching a radio receiver to a block of explosives.

  “When you’re done, Abdul.”

  After five minutes, they all throng inside the windowless first floor of the command post. Tarasov grimaces as he feels the smell of cordite mixing with the reek of stale sweat and dirty fatigues in the confined space.

  “Duck, keep your mouths open and ears covered,” Abdul warns them putting plugs in his ears. “Ready? Three… two… one. Bismillah!”

  He presses the button on the detonator.

  When the chemical reaction inside the C-4 is trigged, it releases a blast of nitrogen and carbon oxides that sucks most of the gas out from the center of the explosion. When the gases rush back in to the vacuum, they create a second wave of energy, this time inward. To the men ducking inside, the only observable feature about all this is a detonation that shatters the command post and almost kicks them to the ground.

  Small metal parts clink as they fall to the tarmac.

  “Ooo-kay,” Abdul shouts. “Now let’s have a butchers at what we’ve done.”

  Low smoke lingers over the tarmac. All that remains from the Mi-24’s wreck that had stood there a minute ago is a pile of metal debris.

  “And now — let’s loot,” a Bandit says cheerily.

  Hustling like shoppers would at sales time, the remaining Bandits scramble to the now ruined perimeter and begin to pat down the bodies and force the containers open.

  Tarasov stops the deserters. “Hey, you two! Back into the command post. Pete, you too. Check it for anything useful.”

  “But there is nothing but junk,” the Freedomer protests.

  “Do what I said, goddammit!” Tarasov shouts at him.

  Realizing what’s coming next, Hartman rubs his hands.

  “Scavengers,” he grumbles and gives the looters a scorn.

  “Hey!” Tarasov shouts to the machine gun Bandit. “Trench coat! Let me see your PKM!”

  “Ain’t for sale, tipa!”

  “I can see from here that it’s jammed. Let me put it right until you’re busy. What if mutants show up and you stand there with just your dick in your hands?”

  “Whatcha mean? This one’s in perfect condition,” the Bandit says but hands over his light machine gun nonetheless. “But if ya wanna clean it for me, go ahead!”

  With a wink from his eye, Tarasov hands the weapon over to Hartman who gives it the look of a specialist.

  ”How do you say in Russian, ’comrade, the condition of your weapon brings shame on you, now give me twenty’?”

  The former Marine opens the breech, removes the ammunition band and pulls it through again. Then he closes the breech and works the bolt carrier. With a loud click, the bolt moves back into position, ready to fire.

  “No longer jammed?” Tarasov asks drawing his pistol and rocking the safety off.

  “There’s only one way to find it out!”

  The Bandits look puzzled. They were listening to their conversation but didn’t understand it. One of them is about to make a joke when his eyes open wide with dread.

  “Patsani…”

  If he wanted to shout a warning, it came too late. The PKM’s hail of bullets hits the Bandits who have neither a chance to escape nor time to draw their own weapons which they have carelessly slung over their shoulders to make looting easier. While Hartman relentlessly fires the machine gun, Tarasov points his pistol at Abdul who stands there taken over by complete surprise, watching the slaughter with a horror-stricken face.

  “Stay where you are, dagi!”

  The machine gun fire ceases. For a second, empty cartridge shells keep jingling as they fall to ground around Hartman’s feet.

  “Jesus Christ, what was that?”

  Pete and the two deserters rush from the command post. Seeing the pile of dead Bandits, Hartman with the still smoking machine gun and Tarasov keeping Abdul in check, they drop their jaws.

  “What the fuck are you staring at?” Hartman asks. ”We’re mobsters now. Ever heard of Valentine Day’s Massacre?”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Tarasov tells in Russian to the two deserters, watching Abdul from the corner of his eye. “Top, take their rifles until I deal with this terrorist here.”

  “And now let’s kill that fucking raghead,” Hartman says.

  “Sorry Top but this is personal.”

  “Suit yourself,” Hartman says with a shrug and adds, loud enough for Abdul to hear it, “I’ll kill enough ragheads once I’m back to the New Zone!”

  “Who the hell are you?” Abdul asks with slowly moving lips.

  “Who I am is none of your business, but I’m proud to give you to Sergeant Major Hartman,” Tarasov says with a grin and jerks his head toward the Top. “He’s from the Tribe. You heard of them, I guess. Renegade Americans, addicted to kill bastards like you who blew up schools in Russia and sprayed acid into girls’ faces in Afghanistan. Like your ’brothers’ did with my girl.”

  “Oh God,” Abdul mutters.

  “Take off your ammo belt and run — I’m giving your god a chance to save you.”

  Hoping to make a quick dash and escape in the twilight, Abdul starts running across the open area where the minefield once was. Keeping his eye on the fleeing terrorist, Tarasov holsters his pistol and unslings the scoped Val from his shoulder. He takes his time for an accurate aim.

  “This is for Stingray One,” he whispers as he watches Abdul’s back in the reticule.

  Softly, he pulls the trigger.

  The muzzle blast is barely more audible than the faint whizz of two sub-sonic bullets and the hard clack of the receiver ejecting the spent cases. The reticule jolts upwards from the recoil. When it flattens back a moment later, Tarasov sees Abdul fall forward with arms outstretched. Then comes a sudden and blinding blaze, accompanied by the blast of a detonation.

  “Wow!” Hartman says with a satisfied grin. ”Now I understand why that bastard was so attached to his lucky charm!”

  “Fitting death for someone fond of explosives,” Tarasov observes and shoulders his rifle. “You feel like making a little noise? Take his launcher and fire a few grenades to where he fell. Just in case there’re more mines.”

  “Oh yeah,” Hartman says gleefully, taking Abdul’s orphaned RG-6 from the ground. “This is my grenade launcher. There are many like it, but this one’s mine!”

  “Hey, you two!” Tarasov shouts to the deserters. “Come over here. Let’s have a chat.”

  Mistrust is written over the two deserters’ faces as they approach him.

  “You belong to self-respecting factions. How on earth did you end up as Bandits?”

  “I want to see the New Zone,” the Freedomer says. ”Heard that Bandits are looking for men to beef up their ranks and move there. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind checking out the rumors about extra-large weed growing there either. That’s all.”

  “I’m amazed,” the Dutyer says feigning surprise. ”If they are looking for men, how did they let you join them?”

  “But I do know why they let you join, buddy. Friar told me being a Dutyer is the greatest crime against humanity.”

  “Stop that banter for a minute,” Tarasov says tiredly. ”What about you, Dutyer?”

  “Unlike this junkie, I’m a reasonable person. Realized long ago that this war with Freedom will never end. But if I became a Loner, my comrades would hunt me down for desertion. That left me with the Mercs and Bandits to choose from. Guess if I join the latter and go with them to the New Zone, I can be free there.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Buryat. Before you ask—I’m Russian but was born in Ulan-Ude, Buryatia, that’s why.”

  “You, Freedomer?”

  “Name’
s Ferret. Where I was born is none of your business. And what about you? Been with the army, huh?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Come on, patsan. You’re used to ordering men around, no reason to deny it. Are you a deserter?”

  “I prefer to think of it the other way round: my army deserting me.” Tarasov stirs as a grenade from the RG-6 detonates with a loud bang. “Looks like neither of you is committed to Bandit business. That means we’re in the same shoes because all we want is to get back to the New Zone, just like you.”

  “You’ve been to the New Zone?” Buryat asks. “How is it there?”

  “Everything’s kind of bigger. If we stick together, we have a better chance to deal with the Bandits once we’re in the New Zone.”

  “How do you want to deal with them?”

  Tarasov cocks an eye at the spot where the dead Bandits lie. The two deserters exchange a grin.

  “Besides, the New Zone is a tough place. Local equivalent of the Bar is Bagram. I can help you get there. All in all, it’s your best interest to side with us.”

  Not to mention a trigger-happy Hartman who’d shoot you without fluttering an eyelid if you don’t, Tarasov mentally adds.

  “Fine with me,” Buryat says.

  “You, Ferret? With or against us?”

  The Freedomer nods. “Count me in, but I beg you not to take the Dutyer. Duty’s presence is bad for the mood.”

  “And yours for morale,” Buryat grumbles.

  “Guys, I don’t want you to suck each other’s yalda but please, try not to stab each other in the back until we’re in Bandit country. Is that too much for me to ask?”

  “I’ll try,” says Ferret.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, ’Chekh’. A Dutyer would never stab anyone in the back. Only black-hearted anarchists do that.”

  “Let’s make a campfire,” Ferret says. He rubs his hands together. “It’s freezing!”

  “What will you whine about next?” the Dutyer asks. “Your sausage is too small, huh?”

  “You should try Freedom sausage, buddy. It’s bigger and longer than what you Dutyers are used to!”

  “Stick it up your anarchist butt and rotate!”

  Leaving the two quarrelling men to themselves, Tarasov sees the time fit to report back to Jack — including the final body count. Having secured Buryat’s and Ferret’s loyalty, it is no longer necessary to dispose of them and extend the casualty list. He presses the switch on the radio set.