Together with the airplane’s sudden descent, Tarasov’s watch tells him that they must be really close when the head of the Belarusian radio operator appears in the hatch leading to the cockpit.
“Hey, you guys from the New Zone! You better come and see this!”
Thinking that the crew member only wants to show them the New Zone, Tarasov and the Top follow him indifferently.
“Termez,” the navigator says, pointing forward in the glass cupola on the airplane’s nose.
What they see causes the two men look at each other with deep concern. The town appears to have been swept over by a tsunami of destruction; giant waves of sand have buried a long stretch of the Amu-Darya river and the refugee camps next to the town. Smoke rises from the airfield where the runways appear broken, as if torn to pieces by a massive tremor. A long column of vehicles is blocking the road to the north, probably cars trying to escape the disaster-stricken town. Mi-24 gunships are circling above. They appear to fire at targets on the ground.
“Holy mother of Jesus Christ,” the Top murmurs.
“What the hell happened here?” the Belarusian pilot asks in English. His accent is so heavy though that Tarasov seriously doubts if any ground control could understand him. Judging by his white hair and equally white moustache, he is not a regular aviator anymore but rather someone hired by Sultan’s cronies; probably eking out his meager pension by flying dangerous and usually illegal missions.
“That was a dust storm,” Hartman tells him. “My guess is those Hinds were shooting at mutants who crossed the river in the storm’s wake.”
“Good God!” the pilot exclaims. “Is that like a… vybros in the Exclusion Zone?”
“Yes,” Tarasov says. ”The local version of emissions.”
The veteran pilot slowly waves his head. “Last time I saw destruction like this was over Chernobyl, back in ‘86!”
“You better climb higher and keep clear of here,” Tarasov suggests. “There might be airborne anomalies!”
“Are you kidding?”
“Trust me, I’m not!”
“Blyad!”
Cursing, the pilot pulls on the yoke.
“It was not just a dust storm.”
Tarasov and Hartman turn away from the sight below to see Nooria standing behind them white faced.
“What’s going on?” Tarasov asks.
“Come… I have to tell you something.”
Once back to their place, Nooria grabs at Tarasov’s hand. She sounds concerned, if not terrified. “It wants me.”
“Are you okay?” Tarasov asks.
“No. I am not okay. I am scared. And this sickness—oh, how I hate it!”
“We’ll land soon, Nooria,” Tarasov softly says. ”If that’s why you’re feeling bad—”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Our child.”
“Uh-oh,” Hartman says. “You better be prepared for worse than a little sickness.”
“You don’t understand! The New Zone wants me because—my child. It wants my child.”
All fell silent. Pete whispers something to himself, but his voice is suppressed by the deep drone of the four turboprop engines.
“Mikhailo—our child will be stronger than you and more powerful than me. It is our child is who can destroy evil ravaging this land.”
Fear, disbelief and joy are all mixed on Tarasov’s face as he looks at Nooria.
“My son! He can end—all this?”
“No, Mikhailo. She will.”
“But how? How you know?”
“I just know. And she also wants to get to the New Zone. She didn’t let me kill Sultan.”
“Pete,” the Top says under his breath, “give me a thermometer from your first-aid kit, will you?”
Nooria’s eyes are flashing with anger. “I am not ill!”
“Okay… okay,” Tarasov reassuringly says and caresses her pale face. “Don’t worry, Nooria. As long as I can lift a weapon, I will protect you.”
“Not to mention me,” Pete adds.
“You don’t want to leave me out of this,” Hartman says.
“See? With the three of us around you’ll be safer than anyone.”
“I am scared,” Nooria says, but her fear makes way for sadness. “New Zone is in rage—it was reaching out for me. Its evil will try to defeat us.”
“Business as usual,” Hartman says and gives her a reassuring smile.
“What do you want us to do?” Tarasov asks.
“I must talk to my mother. Please, please take me back to our valley. Quickly!”
“I have an idea,” Pete says. “We’ve hijacked a train and stolen a car. What about hijacking this plane too?”
Tarasov gives him a smile. “Not a bad thought at all. The Alamo does have a landing strip after all.”
“Forget it,” Hartman says with a wave of his hand. “AA defenses would down us before we could say hello.”
“Ain’t there a radio on this junk?”
“Son, you’re as smart as an Army general,” Hartman says with a snort. “Let me tell you something. Two weeks before the nukes went up we were already busy fortifying the Alamo. Then one night a Chinook appeared. Said it took an RPG hit, has WIAs on board and needs to make an emergency landing. Okay guys, we said, come down, we won’t hurt you. Turned out to be full of Ranger boys coming after us. Since then, the fighters manning the anti-aircraft batteries are under orders to shoot first, ask later.”
“And what happened to the Rangers?”
“What’s your guess, Pete?”
“Jesus! You killed American soldiers?”
Hartman shrugs. “So did the Rangers, son. Our corpsmen running up to their Chinook to assist the alleged WIAs were the first they killed. Usually we don’t take prisoners but had eventually captured their commander with two of his men. They were given the chance to join us.”
“Or death, I guess,” Tarasov dryly observes.
“Leaving in shame and defeat. They stayed.”
“It was Driscoll, wasn’t it?”
“Told you already he’d been with us to the catacombs! It was Joe Collins. He’s one of the very few to be made Lieutenant even though joining us after we’d been touched by the Spirit. As a former Ranger captain he’s our SR, ambush and airfield seizure expert.”
“SR?”
“Special reconnaissance, avoiding direct combat and detection. Anyway, point is that everything that’s got wings avoids our little airspace except flies and mosquitoes!”
“What about Bagram?” Pete asks.
Tarasov waves the suggestion off. “The runway is blocked by wrecks and debris.”
“Bottom line, we’ll have to use our feet to get to the Alamo,” Pete observes.
Tarasov caresses Nooria’s hand discreetly. “Can you do that?”
“I am just worried and feeling weak. You won’t need to carry me yet!”
“Dunno about you but I can barely wait to feel solid ground under my feet again,” Hartman says. With anticipation all over his face, he stares through the window to the snow-capped Hindu Kush range and the dark Shamali plains beyond where their destination lies.
75
Abandoned airfield, New Zone
“Ubiytsa Odin. Namechennoe vremya pribitiya — pyat minut.”
“This is Hitman One, ETA five minutes,” Mac translates the pilot’s transmission.
“Uzhe slishim kak vi priblijaetes,” Bruiser replies, feeling very uncomfortable with Lieutenant Collins’ Beretta held against his nape.
“We can already hear you approaching.”
“Chista li zona prizemleniya?”
“Is the landing zone clear?”
“Da. Ubiytsa Odin, prichodi.”
“Yes. Hitman One, proceed.”
“Prinyal, zhdem.”
“Roger, standing by.”
Bruiser clears the channel. “That’s it. Will you let me go now?”
Collins doesn’t respond him and turns to Mac i
nstead.
“Watch this scumbag.” Then he calls on his two team leaders. “Two and Three, report status,” he says on the radio.
“Two. Barrack ruins. West. In position.”
“Three. Eastern ruins. In position.”
“Stay low until they start disembarking. Commence firing on my command. The word will be Bighorn.”
He opens the radio shack’s door ajar and peeks outside.
A tiny dot appears in the northern sky and slowly takes on the easily recognizable silhouette of a four-engine transport airplane.
“One to Sniper.”
“Standing by,” comes Ahuizotl’s reply through the radio.
“Watch out for the Charlie Echo. Neutralize tangos with heavy weapons like RPGs and machine guns. Report when done, over.”
“Roger.”
“Teams One and Two are in position. The command for moving in will be Bighorn. Point out targets once we move in. Over and out.”
“Roger Wilco. Out.”
“Welcome to Afghanistan,” Collins says, watching the descending airplane. Then he frowns. “What is that plane doing?”
Instead of continuing to descend, the low-flying Antonov performs a turn westwards and begins to climb.
“They’re turning back!” he shouts. “What did you tell them, you prick?”
“Nothing!” Bruiser nervously replies. “I mean, I told them to land!”
Mac nods. “He didn’t warn the pilots.”
Collins is about to give Bruiser a smash with his rifle butt when he sees a grenade box next to the crate on which the Bandits’ radio is placed. He quickly opens it.
“Smoke grenades?” he angrily asks. “You forgot to tell us about that!”
He takes a grenade, rushes out and pops a smoke. In a minute, purple smoke is rising from the middle of the dirt runway.
Back to the shack, he gives Bruiser an incapacitating blow and anxiously watches the airplane from the door. To his relief, it turns back and begins to approach the landing strip once again.
In a few minutes, the huge airplane touches down on the runway. The dark exhaust of the engines mixes with the purple smoke and the brown dust swirled up by the propellers.
Collins realizes that he might have made a mistake by arranging his own team behind the radio shack; with all the dust, the area around the Antonov’s tail and ramp is not clearly visible from this position. He hopes that the sniper has a better view from his vantage point. Even through the dust, Teams One and Two will lay down a deadly crossfire once he gives the word. The Bandits who will inevitably scatter around will give his own team still enough work.
All he has to do now is to wait for the sniper to finish off the Bandits’ leader to ensure disarray. Then his riflemen can begin their grizzly work.
“Glory to the Tribe,” he whispers in anticipation.
76
Antonov AN-12, approaching the New Zone
Bandits might be a reckless bunch, but when the pilot at last announces their impending touch-down even the most dashing among them has anxiety mixed into his excitement. Rifles are checked, balaclavas and helmets fastened, assault vests pulled over the light jackets.
“Time to revenge Bruiser’s boys at Ghorband,” a Bandit says pulling over the hood of his leather jacket. “I wanna kick some Tribe ass!”
“Can hardly wait to bag a bear,” boasts another one working the safety on his AKS-74U assault carbine.
Hearing all this Tarasov and the Top exchange a grin.
“Yeah, yeah, manchildren,” Hartman grumbles. “The more poop in your pants, the louder you boast.”
Buryat gives Ferret a grin. “Reminds me of—”
“Cut teasing each other for a minute,” Tarasov interrupts him in a low voice. “We’re all set?”
“Yes, boss,” Buryat nods. “But… what the hell is the pilot doing?”
Suddenly, they all feel the airplane climb. Hartman pulls a Bandit from the nearest window and peeks out. “He’s turning away!”
“Watch Nooria,” Tarasov barks. “Pete, on me!”
They dash into the cockpit. “What’s happening? Why don’t you land this damned plane?”
The pilot gives Tarasov an anxious look. “Something’s not right. Bruiser told me to land but he was supposed to pop smoke. Told him I’m standing by for the confirmation but he just said ’roger’ and cleared the channel!”
“I don’t care. Land the plane!”
“Put that gun away, you stupid Bandit! I don’t want to piss off Sultan by risking this flight!”
Tarasov puts his pistol to the pilot’s head. Pete follows suit and aims his rifle at the co-pilot who watches the scene with his mouth wide open.
“No, captain, it’s me you don’t want to piss off,” Tarasov barks at the pilot. “Land the airplane now or I’ll fucking shoot you!”
But the pilot is a veteran of many perilous flights with illegal cargo and not easy to intimidate.
“And who will fly my machine then, eh?” he shouts back. “Go back to your place, you bloody passenger!”
“I see the smoke,” the navigator shouts from his position. He repeats to make sure that his trembling voice is understood, “I see the smoke!”
“See, captain?” Tarasov says with satisfaction and holsters his pistol. “You’ve almost pissed off Sultan and me.”
Grumbling something in Belarusian about Bandits being sons of bitches and out of their mind, the pilot steers the Antonov back to landing approach.
“Guess that idiot Bruiser just forgot about the smoke,” the radio operator says from his seat behind. “I’m glad it came to his mind at the last moment!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll punish him for that with my own hands,” Tarasov responds with a grin. He holsters the pistol and waves to Pete to follow him.
“What happened?” Ferret asks him when Tarasov and Pete are back to the tail.
“We had a problem with ground control but everything’s fine now,” replies Tarasov. “Stalkers, get ready!”
———
Ahuizotl lies on his stomach behind the shrub covering the hilltop. He opens the flap covering the front lens on the scope of his M107. For the next minutes, his sight will be limited to what appears in the reticule. He wishes Mac were next to him watching over their position. However, his last scan of the surrounding area detects nothing.
He watches the airplane land and curses the dust swirled up in the process. All he can see from the Bandits swarming out through the lowered ramp is the long shadows they cast in the rays of the low sun.
The tribals will have a hard time hitting anything in this dust, he thinks.
Even so, he can make out his designated target: one Bandit stands out of the rest by a head, barking commands and holding a weapon that appears to be an RG-6 Bulldog grenade launcher.
The sniper grins.
Just like expected — the biggest son of a bitch with the biggest gun.
The reticule slides over to the head of his target. The Bandit leader appears to him particularly reckless because he is not wearing a helmet; he doesn’t even the hood of his armored suit pulled on. He is waving and shouting at the Bandits running down the ramp.
Ahuizotl narrows his right eye as he looks through the scope. Reading the Bandit’s lips it appears that the Bandit is barking English commands, as if shouting move, move! instead davai, davai! that a Russian-speaking leader would shout. He gives his doubts a mental shrug—there is no way to hesitate and even less so to consult Collins, nor is there a rule that Bandits can only be from the former USSR.
His ears perk as they detect a muffled noise, like a stone falling to the ground.
Relax… it must be the wind. Saw nothing moving a minute ago in a two hundred meters radius. Must be the wind.
Now he can make out his target’s grey hair and dark eyebrows too. Ahuizotl places his finger on the trigger. He forgets about seeing a human face; his mind reduces the spot on the grey temple to nothing but a target.
Exhaling long, he empties his lungs and waits for a clear pause between two heartbeats. Then he softly pulls the trigger.
“Bullseye!”
Startled by the voice behind him, Ahuizotl wants to jump but a rifle barrel pressed to his head forces him to stay prone. Looking up from the corner of his eye, he sees something completely unexpected. The sight of a Spetsnaz watching the airfield through his binoculars fills him with as much surprise as fear.
“Sorry to interrupt your concentration, Stalker, but we take over from here,” the Spetsnaz says without putting his binoculars down. “Sergeant! Position RPK to the left flank, PKM to the right. Let’s wait for the dust settle a bit. Then unleash hell on my command.”
“Yest, komandir.”
“You! Secure the sniper and give me his rifle.”
The sound of gunfire exchanged erupts from the airfield.
“Such a mess,” the apparent commander says. ”Now those scumbags have started killing each other! One could’ve expected the Bandits to turn on each other, but so soon? Anyway, that makes it easier for us.”
Someone steps on his back, making Ahuizotl emit a whimper of pain. Two strong hands force him to cross his arms behind his back. In a moment his hands are tied.
“A Barrett M82,” the Spetsnaz commander says eyeing the rifle. “Lovely.”
“It’s an M107, moron!” Ahuizotl groans and looks up angrily. Now, with the Spetsnaz’ binoculars lowered and the eye protectors pulled up to his helmet, the face of his captor is visible. Before a boot presses against his spine and forces him to lie motionless with face to the ground, Ahuizotl makes out hardened features and a black eye patch over the left eye.
“Shut up and have more respect for the Captain,” says the soldier holding him down. “Right, Captain Maksimenko?”
“Glad you learned your lesson, Bronsky.”
Bolt action rifles are nothing new to Captain Maksimenko. He assumes a perfect position to fire the weapon while kneeling and scans the airfield. His hand stops in motion at a point and he makes a low whistle.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2 Page 54