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

by Balazs Pataki

  “Ashot?” asks Ferret with eyes wide open. “People told me he is living in a cave with a female bloodsucker!”

  “Cut the bullshit, Ferret. Last time I saw your trader was through the ironsight of my assault rifle,” says Buryat. “Anyway, the plan is good. It only needs to work.”

  “Go and gather our friends. Start a game of cards and say you want to continue it on the plane so that the group stays together.”

  “But I don’t play cards,” Ferret says.

  Like always, Buryat is quick to tease him. “Come on, buddy. Everyone will understand that a Freedomer needs to stick with the tough guys to cover his ass!”

  Tarasov recaps the plan to his companions. Hartman has no better idea and Pete also agrees, only Nooria seems to be at odds with it.

  “I want to kill Sultan,” she says frankly. “If we escape, I don’t know if I’ll ever have a chance!”

  Tarasov frowns. “That has to wait. I’m worried, Nooria… If the Bandits appear there, soon we’ll have an all-out war raging. We must get back to the New Zone as soon as possible.”

  “Why?” the Top asks. “A single squad of my warriors would wipe these scumbags out.”

  “No doubt about that,” Tarasov says. “You know the difference between Bandits and Stalkers, Top, because you’ve been with me to the Exclusion Zone. But if the Bandits are foolish enough to harass the Tribe, the Colonel won’t make a difference between them and free Stalkers. As far as I know him, he will move to exterminate them all.”

  Hartman bows his head. “That would be a dire mistake.”

  73

  Abandoned airfield east of Charikhar, New Zone

  A gloomy dawn looms over the New Zone, making the wide-spread ruins of Charikhar village appear even more foreboding in the twilight. The weak November sun stays hidden beyond the dark clouds. Fog covers the mountain ranges to the west and grey mist wreathes over the plains east to the ruins where, barely discernible from the rocky earth, a landing strip is aligned due south. A few campfires burn among the decrepit buildings scattered around it. They might have been warehouses or barracks long ago, but by now have fallen to ruins. Only one has a makeshift roof made from wooden beams and rusty metal plates. A tall antenna extends through a hole in the roof.

  On the top of a low hill about two hundred meters from the abandoned airstrip, there is the wreck of a mobile radar station. The tires of the URAL truck with a radio compartment on its flatbed have long rotten away and graffiti covers its rusty body. Anomalous moss is hanging like torn curtains from the antennae and radar dish and emits a faint green glow.

  Two Bandits are shuddering in the cold while they keep watch over the hilltop that is the only vantage point in area around the airstrip. Three dead jackals are proof of a perilous night watch. The guards are apparently relieved when the shapes of three men appear on the path leading uphill.

  “It was about time for you to show up,” one of them shouts. “You cocksuckers were supposed to be here half an hour ago!”

  “This bloody cold makes the shit freeze in my guts,” the other guard adds. “Did you bring us vodka?”

  “Net.”

  The two Bandits have no time to get surprised over hearing a female voice. A short burst is fired from a noise-suppressed F2000 assault rifle and sends the first Bandit to the ground. The other one who asked about vodka is about to fire his AKS-74U from his hip when a 9mm bullet hits his chest, fired from a silenced Beretta M9 pistol.

  The three shadows quickly check the hilltop for more hostiles with a well-coordinated sweep, then exchange muted shouts.

  “Left clear!”

  “Right clear.”

  “Objective is cleared,” the leader says on the radio. ”Squad, keep your position.”

  Two clicks crackle in the radio to signal acknowledgement. Holstering his Beretta, Lieutenant Collins gives Mac a grin. “Good shooting, Stalker.”

  “So far so good,” she replies reloading her rifle. “But don’t get too close to that wreck. My Geiger counter goes off scale only by me looking at it.”

  “If it weren’t for the mist, I could put down suppressive fire from here while you clear the ruins,” says Ahuizotl, the third attacker.

  Collins looks over to the ruins. “Yeah, that would come in handy… We’ll do this the hard way, then. You two stay here while we move in. Should the fog lift, look for targets of opportunity. Try not to hit any of us, okay? I’ll tell you when we move in. The signal will be… let’s say, Geronimo. Brings luck, usually. Once the airstrip is secured we’ll decide what’s to do next. Clear?”

  The sniper nods. “Clear.”

  “Can I go in with you?” Mac asks.

  “I’d have you rather here watching my back,” Ahuizotl replies.

  “Agreed,” Collins says. “Sorry Mac, but the men in my squad are a team and know their drill. A stranger among us would be a liability, no matter what a good shooter she is.”

  “But—”

  “I said no. Stay put and keep your eyes peeled. That’s even more important than having one more rifle in my team.”

  The Lieutenant leaves the hill to rejoin his men waiting below. In a few minutes, he has gathered them around him in the cover of rocks and dense shrub.

  “Textbook breach and clear, men,” he says. “I will move up from the southern end of the strip with Team One. Harper, your team is Two—proceed and take up position hundred and fifty meters to the west. Walker—Team Three, two hundred meters, east. Report when you’re ready. The word will be Geronimo. Infiltrate and clear the ruins. Have grenades at hand. Stay clear of the strip until I tell you it’s clear to proceed. Our objective is probably in the building with a roof, because I’ve seen an antenna that tells of a radio inside. We must take the command element alive. Any questions?”

  “What if he resists?” a fighter asks.

  “If I don’t get there first, use a flashbang when breaching and non-lethal force to subdue him or whoever is inside. Remember — our primary objective is grabbing the commander or at least the radioman. Are we set?” Seeing that all men have understood the plan, Collins nods. “Lock and load!”

  He knows that the fighters spreading out to his left and right have their weapons already loaded, but no self-respecting officer would ever miss an opportunity to bark this adrenaline-boosting command.

  In his estimation, visibility in the fog is limited to thirty meters. Fifty before the southern end of the runway, he raises his fist and ducks behind the sparse scrub. Then he puts his left wrist behind his back, signaling to his men to assume wedge formation.

  Wishing mentally for a scope with infrared capability, the Lieutenant perks his ear to get an idea about the Bandit’s location. The faint Russian chatter betrays three or four of them around the nearest campfire.

  “Blooper!” he calls out under his breath. He points to the campfire and uses another hand sign to tell the squad grenadier: prepare your M203 grenade launcher. Then he waves to the squad automatic weapon’s operator to move up with his M249.

  A subdued voice crackles in his radio.

  “Two. In position.”

  “SAW ready,” the gunner whispers.

  Collins waits for the other squad to report in. He has Team Three move up further for two reasons: first, to avoid the risk of friendly fire; the two infiltration teams had better not meet each other face to face. Second, having the infiltration point further away should also make sure that no hostiles escape to the north or fall into Team Two’s flank.

  At this moment the wind rises and stirs up the fog. Collins sees that his estimation was right—four Bandits are squatting next to the campfire.

  “Three. In position.”

  “One. Two and Three, fog is lifting. You have visuals?”

  Four clicks in the radio come in reply, an affirmative double-click from each team.

  Collins nods to the grenadier who aims his rifle with the under-barrel launcher. At the same moment when the projectile is released with a clack, the
Lieutenant yells into his microphone.

  “Geronimo! Geronimo!”

  His second call is suppressed by the detonating grenade that goes off right in the campfire.

  “Fire mission!” he barks to the machine gunner. “Front, traversing! One hundred, sustained! Fire!”

  The M249 begins to sweep the area ahead with a long, uninterrupted burst. The Bandits not incapacitated by the grenade are riddled with the machine gun’s hard-hitting M855 ball rounds. With every fifth a tracer, the arc of fire appears like a deadly fan covering the airstrip between the row of ruins. The three hostiles at the campfire further ahead are equally hit, sticking to the ground and firing blindly into Collins’ direction. Detonations and small-arms fire comes from the ruins where Teams One and Two have begun the infiltration. The door of the radio shack opens but is immediately closed again as bullets impact on the ground and in the mud bricks. A few Bandits foolish enough to follow their instincts and leave their cover to see what’s happening are mowed down. Those staying among the ruins will now be the job of Teams One and Two.

  “Cease fire!” Collins yells and waves his hand in front of his face to ensure that the machine gunner understands the order. “Two and Three, proceed! One, on me! Let’s go!”

  Using the ruins to their advantage, Collins’ team quickly moves forward. The distinctive barking of Kalashnikovs can be heard from where the other teams move among the ruins. The lighter muzzle noise of the Tribe fighters’ M16A4 and M27 rifles answers, but it is mostly the blast of a grenade detonating inside the roofless buildings that makes the final point.

  Three swift-limbed fighters of Team Three reach the radio shack first. One smashes the rotten boards covering the window with his rifle butt, another throws in a flashbang. A deafening blast sounds inside. The third kicks the wooden door open and dashes inside with his weapon aimed, immediately followed by the other two.

  “Freeze! Drop your weapons! Weapons down!”

  Panting and spitting dust, Collins reaches the shack with his men. In a minute he has them arranged around the perimeter. By now, fighting goes on only in the sector to the north west from where defiant Russian and English cusswords mix with Kalashnikov fire.

  “Ya tebya kak sobaku strelayu!”

  “Give it up, suckers!”

  “Kushay granata, pindos!”

  “Grenade incoming!”

  The men sparheading Team Three duck to avoid the worst of the blast. Someone shouts in pain.

  “Fry those pigs! Grenades!”

  “Tvoyu mat’!”

  ”Fire in the hole!”

  Three blasts shake the Bandit’s last point of defense. A long scream ends in Russian swearing, ended with a single shot from an M16A4. Then silence falls.

  Lieutenant Collins’ ears are slightly numb from the firefight, especially the SAW’s deafening bursts. He can barely hear the crackling voices through the radio, though now they are spoken out loud.

  “Two. Clear. One WIA. Gunshot.”

  “Three. Clear. Two WIA. Damned grenades.”

  “One. Objective secured, all clear,” Collins says on the radio. He looks around and is relieved to see that everyone in his team appear unharmed. Then he notices the stinging pain in his shoulder where a lucky bullet went through the exoskeleton’s Kevlar pates. “One WIA,” he adds, thinking: shit!

  The squad corpsman is already there to see to his wound. Collins waves him away. “See to the others first.”

  He himself takes off his heavy rucksack, glad that the painful grimace coming to his face remains hidden under the shemagh he has wrapped around his face, like most of the others.

  The man lying before his feet, wearing a black trench coat with a skull patch on the arm sleeve, has no option to hide his face. The fighters who captured him have already pulled his balaclava off. His eyes might appear intelligent in other circumstances but now reflect the fear of a captured animal.

  “Objective secured,” Collins repeats, now directing his words to the two Stalkers. “Sniper, come down. Mac, keep watching the area.”

  Then he turns to the captured Bandit.

  “You smelling of fear,” he says without exaggerating. A dark stain on the prisoner’s groin tells that he has wetted himself. “You speak English?”

  “I do, sir! Please don’t hurt me!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bruiser, sir!”

  A few fighters grin. In his present state nothing justifies the Bandit’s pretentious nickname.

  “Calling me ’sir’ won’t help you, Bruiser,” Collins says, he too smiling under the shemagh. “If you want us to be friends, you have to be cooperative. If you want us to be enemies—”

  “No, no!”

  “Attaboy. First question: is this your only base?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you expect more Bandits to arrive, and if yes, when and how many?”

  “Today. About three hundred.”

  Collins frowns. “What? Three hundred?”

  “Yes. With two Antonovs… see, I’m cooperative! Please don’t hurt me!”

  “When exactly?”

  “In about two hours.”

  “Call signs, passwords, landing protocols?”

  “Hitman One and Two. They will make contact before landing. I will tell them if everything is clear on the ground. Hitman One will land first with enough men to secure the area, then the rest will disembark.”

  Collins turns to his two team leaders and Ahuizotl who has just arrived. “Let’s get outside for a minute.”

  Away from the Bandit’s ears, the Lieutenant gives the three men a concerned look and recaps the situation for the sniper.

  “Three hundred hostiles expected in two airplanes, due in two hours. How do we deal with this?”

  “What kind of airplane?” the sniper asks.

  “He said Antonovs. Probably Cubs, since nothing bigger can land here.”

  “You mean the An-12.”

  “Yup.”

  Ahuizotl reflects over their options and shakes his head. “I can take down a chopper by hitting the pilots. An Antonov — no way. Not from this angle.”

  “We could just scare them away if we send enough bullets in their direction,” team leader Walker suggests.

  “Risky,” Ahuizotl says. “They might have tail gun turrets and blast us from above.”

  “Besides, we need to annihilate them and not just scare away,” Collins observes. “The whole thing wouldn’t make much sense if they come back later. Three hundred of these sons of bitches, Jesus! We need more firepower than we have.”

  “It’s a small airstrip,” Harper says. “They can land one airplane at a time. Means we’ll have to face only a hundred and fifty, I guess. If we have good cover, and use the SAW and blooper wisely… it could work.”

  “Those Antonovs have rear ramps, right?” Collins asks.

  Getting the Lieutenant’s idea, the sniper points to the airstrip. “They will probably land from the north. The fighter is right—if we have the machine gun positioned at the right angle, we can hit the tail gun to neutralize it and then the ramp as soon as it goes open.”

  “Gonna be like bloody Omaha,” Walker remarks.

  “I don’t like the idea,” Collins says after a moment of thinking. ”If I were aboard and see this happening, I’d raise the ramp immediately, turn the aircraft around and take off. One SAW won’t be able to stop a big airplane.”

  “Then what do you suggest, sir?”

  “We’ll have to wait until they begin disembarking. The airplane will be a sitting duck while the men and cargo inside are being unloaded. First, you’ll take out their command element with the long rifle. Then we strike from behind the ruins.”

  “What about the second airplane?”

  “We’ll have to deal with that another day.”

  “How will the sniper identify the Charlie Echo?” Walker asks. “These Bandits or whatever look all the same to me.”

  “Bandits are li
ke Neanderthals,” Ahuizotl says with a smile. “Look for the biggest, meanest son of bitch and you’ll find the boss. I’m sure he will make for a nice big target.”

  Collins nods. “Then we mow down the rest. Go back to your position on the hilltop and send the girl down. I need her to listen to what that bastard says in Russian when the airplanes report in.”

  “Will do,” Ahuizotl replies and hastily makes his way back to the hill.

  74

  The Bandit’s Antonov AN-12, somewhere over southern Uzbekistan

  The Antonov An-12, Russia’s reply to the C130 Hercules and bearing the NATO call sign Cub, has a cruising speed of 415 miles per hour. With a normal payload of 44,000 pounds, it would take about five and a half hours to cover the distance between Minsk and the New Zone. However, each of the two Antonovs arranged by Sultan have about a hundred and fifty men cramped inside, much more than the ninety passengers the aircrafts would normally carry. The conveyor belt with crates holding ammunition, weapons and other supplies make the cargo bay even more congested. To make fuel consumption cope with the heavy load, the airplanes fly below cruising speed; this adds two more, painfully long hours to the haul.

  Cramped in the cargo bay without any comfort, the Bandits who were in such high spirits when leaving the Zone soon started to grumble. After a while, the first fights broke out over places that appeared just a little more comfortable than the cargo bay’s bare metal floor. A veteran Bandit knocked a former Stalker out when the latter retched next to him, prompting other Loners to take his side. The ensuing brawl resulted in a few bruised noses and blue eyes on either side, making Tarasov wonder if these self-proclaimed conquerors of the New Zone would begin killing each other as soon as they reached it.

  The boring and uncomfortable flight took a heavy toll on Nooria. She became sick twice, using the empty wrappers of the last US-made rations they had as a vomit bag. A Stalker who was about to scold her quickly changed his mind upon seeing the scorn in Tarasov’s eyes.

  At least they had their own corner close to the cockpit, separated from the Bandits by Ferret, Buryat and the few Stalkers on their side. As time passed, Nooria and Hartman looked out of the bullseye window more and more often, hoping to at last see the ochre, undulating terrain of the New Zone’s northern reaches appear.