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

by Balazs Pataki

  “Yes. And you must be Misha’s legendary girl, I take?”

  “Legendary?”

  “I got the frequency,” Collins interrupts them. “Corporal, it’s your turn.”

  Tarasov needs a moment to understand that the Lieutenant was meaning Pete.

  “I’d better be back to the cargo bay,” Degtyarev says. “Swapping stories can wait till we’re out of this mess.”

  He gives Tarasov and Nooria a faint smile and leaves through the hatch. Meanwhile, Collins has taken the headset from the radio operator and is already talking on the radio.

  “This is Lieutenant Collins calling the Alamo… Alamo, I know you have a copy on me. Come in.”

  “Our call sign is Bravo Lima Charlie Four Seven Nine Tango,” the pilot says. “At least that’s what appears on radar screens.”

  Collins transmits the call sign on the radio. “I repeat, I am aboard a cargo airplane, approaching the Alamo from…”

  “Just say west-northwest,” the pilot observes.

  “…west-northwest. Alamo, I know you have a copy on me and have direct orders not to respond, but you’d better listen to this transmission.”

  Having said this, Collins hands the headset over.

  “What am I supposed to say?” Pete asks the Lieutenant putting on the headset.

  A smile appears on Collins’ face. “Maybe hi, dad would do for a start?”

  “That would send him the wrong signal,” Pete says wrinkling his forehead. “I always had to call him sir.”

  77

  Abandoned airfield

  “Haha!” Bronsky snorts watching the chaos on the runway. “We are triumphant!”

  “Who told you to stop firing?” Captain Maksimenko angrily shouts back at the Spetsnaz.

  Bronsky continues to pepper the already scattered Stalkers with sustained fire from his PKM. On the right flank. Volkov does the same with the heavier RPK machine gun. The heavy bullets take a horrible toll on the coverless Stalkers.

  When the Spetsnaz realized that a few men return fire from the cover of the ruins, Maksimenko let the two automatic weapons shift their fire to deal with the new enemy. The 7,62mm cartridges easily penetrate the brick walls. However, hitting the defenseless Stalkers is more rewarding and the machine gunners soon shift their fire back to the runway; well-covered by the rocks on the hilltop as they were, their enemy had no chance to effectively fight back at them anyway. The battle is going well.

  Captain Maksimenko watches the onslaught below with a victor’s smile. But when he sees the tail turret rotate and the twin-barreled autocannon take aim at their position, his smile turns to a scowl.

  “Fall back!”

  The Spetsnaz have barely time to leave their positions before the Antonov’s twin autocannon begins to pound the hilltop. Splintering rocks and spraying earth where they hit, the devastating burst of 23mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds rip the dilapidated radar truck to shreds and set its rotting electronics ablaze.

  The Spetsnaz run down the hill. When they reach the slope and have the hilltop between them and the airplane, Captain Maksimenko tears his helmet off his head and smashes it to the ground.

  “Pizdets!” he cusses looking after the climbing airplane, “fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  If Sergeant Vlasov is equally frustrated, he is more level-headed than his captain to let himself be carried away by it.

  “Spetsnaz, report status,” he shouts.

  “Tokarsky’s bought it, sarge,” reports Wargo, the former officer. ”Maslak and Kushnik suffered light wounds. Brechko is patching them up.”

  “Where’s the Stalker?”

  The Spetsnaz look at each other.

  “Crap,” Bronsky says. “He’s either dead or…”

  “What are you waiting for?” Vlasov snaps at him. ”Back to the hilltop and find him, davai!”

  He walks to Maksimenko who is kicking around lose rocks and cursing Tarasov with such foul words that make even the hard-boiled Spetsnaz grimace.

  “Kapitan, there’s no reason to be upset,” Vlasov says. “We can report that our secondary goal is accomplished. No more Bandits will fly in here, that’s for sure.”

  “This is not fucking happening to me!” the still enraged Maksimenko shouts. “I had that bastard right there and again—“

  Vlasov shrugs. “Kiev doesn’t know that he was on that plane. So far so good, I’d say. I suggest we move to that facility and establish a perimeter. Then we see what’s next.”

  Still tense, Maksimenko is about to snap him when a howl comes from nearby.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Sir, I suggest we move quickly.”

  Bronsky arrives.

  “No trace of the sniper,” he reports, fighting for breath.

  “Screw him,” Maksimenko snaps. “He can’t get far with his hands tied anyway.”

  Another howl comes from much closer, followed by several more.

  Bronsky pales. “Mutants?”

  “Must be coming for the corpses on the airstrip,” Vlasov observes anxiously. “We better get ready!”

  “Shit!” Captain Maksimenko takes his helmet from the ground and straps it back on. “Get back to the hill and prepare for defense!”

  78

  The Alamo

  Smoke rises from the ruined mud houses in the Alamo’s living quarters, concealing the mountain across the valley from the Colonel’s sight.

  He doesn’t see the besieging enemy but knows they are out there, probably preparing for a last assault to break the Tribe’s battered defenses. At least that’s what he would do if he were the attacker and the defenders pushed back behind their last line of fortifications.

  It all comes down to a last stand, he thinks.

  In the years past, everything had been done to turn the ancient citadel into a stronghold that could easily withstand any attack from outside. In hindsight, the trick of the attackers appears so logical and easy, but then no one could have suspected that anyone knew about the underground vaults. Apart from the Tribe, the only ones who had ever seen it were Tarasov’s Stalkers on their way to the City of Screams. The Colonel would never believe that they betrayed this secret to the Taliban, or the dushman as the Stalkers call their mortal enemies. Money could always prevail over enmity, of course, but knowing of their weak point would not have been enough — one needed the perfidious idea of using that strange creature to find a point where the underground walls could be broken through. Even so, the attack could have been easily repulsed if their human enemies hadn’t been supported by the smiters.

  But Colonel Leighley knows that all speculation is in vain now. Soon, the smiters will charge, followed by the human waves of ragheads that will sweep over the Tribe’s last defenses like the rising tide would sweep away a sandcastle built on the seashore.

  His room is only dimly lit by a nick in the boarded up window and a lamp on his field table. He steps to the sink and glances into the shaving mirror fastened to the wall to check his combat armor, then adjusts the bars holding the ribbons of his decorations. Today is the day to wear them all.

  Below the Navy Cross with two award stars, the Navy Distinguished Service Medal and the Silver Star, four rows of ribbons — several with award stars and valor device — tell about a more than distinguished military career; they include the Legion of Merit, the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart and the USMC Good Conduct and Expeditionary Medals. The lower rows hold ribbons for service and several campaigns.

  It’s been a long way from Parris, he thinks. Today it will come to an end.

  The thought of this battle probably earning him the button, as Marines refer to the Medal of Honor, makes him give his own reflection a grim smile. Nobody will know of this last stand, yet for him and his men who are about to die, it will be a fight for honor indeed — a very much unneeded proof of their valor. And anyway, what’s good in a posthumous award to a soldier, a real warrior, who dies with the thought that his honor needs not to be confirmed by politicians and generals
?

  A freshly cleaned M4 and a pistol lay on his field table. He shoulders the carbine and takes his sidearm too. It is a MEUSOC, the standard-issue firearm of the USMC’s force recon units. It has none of the extra components usually found on these weapons and looks like any of the over 2 million M1911A1s produced in the past century, save for the white lettering on the slider: To Colonel James W. Leighley for 25 years of faithful service. SEMPER FI.

  The shadow of a smile plays around his lips as he glances at the pistol. The black gun metal bears the promise of faithful service to the end. He lets the magazine eject and removes all bullets inside except one.

  “That should suffice, should need be,” he tells Lieutenant Bauer who is patiently waiting at the door. “How are the warriors feeling today?”

  “We all are eager to fight, sir.”

  “Do they think they’ll die in vain?”

  “No, sir. They know that no man dies in vain who dies for his ideals.”

  “Too bad our enemy thinks the same.”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir? It is not our enemy who beats us, sir, but this land itself. The ragheads will not enjoy victory. They know that if it hadn’t been for the smiters they would have never bested us.”

  Seeing the Colonel’s agreeing nod, Bauer carries on.

  “As to us, there is no shame in falling to a superhuman force. As to our enemies, there’s nothing honorable about using such power to overcome us. No sir, our enemy shall not rejoice.”

  “Is that your opinion, Lieutenant, or that of the rest as well?”

  “Sir, this is where we all stand.”

  The big man bows his head. Silence descends over the two men.

  Suddenly, the Alamo’s anti-aircraft battery reports in the radio.

  “This is Hawkeye.”

  Colonel Leighley takes the headset and mike. “Hawkeye, proceed.”

  “Reporting an airplane identified as a Belarusian cargo carrier. Approaching fast and attempting to contact us.”

  “Break contact. You know the drill, Hawkeye.”

  “Sir—with all due respect, I suggest you listen to this.”

  The Colonel frowns. “Have it transferred it to my radio set.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  After a few seconds of crackling radio noise, a young male voice comes through the channel. The Colonel turns pale upon hearing it.

  “Corporal Leighley aboard BLC 479T calling Colonel Leighley. Come in, over… BLC 479T, Alamo, come in, over…”

  “Sir! It’s—” Bauer wants to shout but a flash of the Colonel’s eyes shuts him up.

  “Calling Alamo, come in. BLC 479T inbound. Alamo, come in, over.”

  Leighley emits a sigh that makes his nostrils tremble, then clears his throat.

  “Alamo to BLC 479T. You must break off your approach.”

  The reply on the radio sounds relieved.

  “Sir! We are low on fuel. Need Alamo runway for emergency landing. Aboard are Major Tarasov, Lieutenant Collins with his SR squad, Nooria and a friendly force. We have several WIAs and POWs.”

  “What is the Sergeant Major’s status? Why is it not he who reports?”

  “The Top is KIA, sir.”

  Watching his commander, Bauer is certain that if by a major miracle he still had a long life ahead he would always remember the pain appearing on Colonel Leighley’s face.

  Yet it takes only a second for the big man to recollect himself.

  “Corporal, Lima Zulu is hot, I repeat—Son, you must not come here! The enemy is about to overrun our defenses. Turn around and do whatever you can to join First Lieutenant Driscoll’s force in the Bagram area!”

  “Negative. You must also tell your henchman not to attack the Stalker base.”

  “Corporal! Let me talk to Lieutenant Collins. Now!”

  “Sir, with all due respect but fuck the chain of command. This is between you and me.”

  “Son, listen to me! Our enemy cannot be beaten this time. Coming here would mean the death of all of you. Do what I say and turn back!”

  “No, sir, negative—absolutely negative! You will not give up on me so easily. Not this time! Shoot this plane down with all of us aboard if you want but we are rolling in. Over and out.”

  The Colonel stands like a statue, his hand clutching on the mike with a force that is almost crushing it. His lips are trembling as he replies.

  “Welcome to the Alamo, son.”

  A moment of silence falls, then the affirmative clicks on the radio, by which the AA battery confirms the unspoken yet clear command, is suppressed by the thundering battle cry and mutant roar outside. The final charge is about to be launched.

  The big man unholsters his commemorative sidearm once more. He takes one more of the discharged bullets from his table and loads it into the magazine. He grabs the radio mike but hesitates before giving his next command. Then, with a sigh, he presses the button to open the channel.

  “Put me through to the First Lieutenant.”

  79

  An-12 approaching the Alamo

  “And I thought dealing with drunk air control in Lagos was bad enough,” the pilot says when the conversation is terminated and Pete gives the headset back.

  Degtyarev arrives from the cargo hold. “We better land quickly. It’s like a slaughterhouse back there.”

  “Landing approach approved as requested,” the radio operator reports.

  On the top of the mountain around which the Tribe’s defenses are laid out, the rocky outcrops and ancient ruins have been cleared off to make place for a runway. The pilot shouts out a Russian curse but it is not the sight of the perilous landing strip that scares him.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  Where the Alamo’s medieval-looking living quarters were, now smoke is rising from smoldering ruins. The lower ramparts appear intact but there is devastation everywhere as if a hostile force had appeared right inside the stronghold. Up to the last line of fortified positions and ramparts crowning the mountain, every square meter bears witness to heavy and desperate fighting in which the attackers slowly gained the upper hand.

  A mass of humans is storming down the slopes of the mountain across the valley. Tall, humanoid mutants move ahead the assaulters like boulders carried by a wave crashing on the shore. Tarasov sees the tracers of the defenders’ fire raining down on the assaulters but it can’t stop them — their first ranks, led by the huge mutants, have already reached the ruined living quarters and continue to press forward and up the mountain.

  “Oh my God,” groans Tarasov, “oh God!”

  “Napalm,” Collins says, “all we need is napalm! Good God, how I wish we could burn those motherfuckers!”

  “Holy Christ!” the pilot yells. “Our fuel’s not leaking but pouring!”

  Kerosene. Second best to napalm, flashes to Tarasov’s mind. The memory of the Top’s gung-ho joke gives him an idea that could turn the tide of the battle raging on the ground.

  “Captain! Dump the kerosene!” he shouts to the pilot.

  “We’re flying on jet fuel, not kerosene!”

  “Burns all the same, right?”

  “If one ignites it, yes!”

  “Then dump all the fuel! Let it rain on the attackers, then Alex will light them up with the tail gun!”

  “Are you out of your mind?” the pilot protests. “If you fire that, it will incinerate the fuel vapor and kill us all!”

  But Degtyarev gets the idea. “Yes! Dump the fuel over them, captain! Do it, now!”

  Seeing him drawing a Makarov pistol the pilot hisses a swear. “I’ll do it, goddammit, just keep that shooter away from my head!”

  Tarasov grabs the radio mike. “Alamo! We need an HIE mortar fire emission! Alamo, come in!”

  “Major, we don’t have enough firepower to—”

  “Listen, Alamo! Prepare incendiary shells, watch the airplane and you’ll know what you’ve got to do!”

  Probing his way through the thin air, the airpl
ane quickly descends at 2000 feet per minute, dodging peaks and ridges with 90 degree turns.

  “How long is the runway?” the pilot asks.

  “3200 feet, unpaved,” Collins responds. “Enough for a C-130!”

  “Gonna be rough but we should make it,” the pilot says.

  “That’s suicide!” the navigator shouts.

  “If these crazy cowboys can land with a Herk there, so can we!”

  “Your bragging will kill us all!”

  “Shut up and get into Yuriy’s seat, Stepan! Hey, yankee, move to the nose and tell me when to begin the dump! And you guys make yourself useful and get that body out of my cockpit!”

  “Sorry about him,” Tarasov says as he and Degtyarev drag the co-pilot’s body from the seat.

  “He was the worst flying bitch I ever had,” the pilot coldly observes. “But who’s that woman with the knife?”

  “My wife.”

  “Oh boy. And I thought I was in deep shit!”

  “Descending at 2000 feet per minute,” the navigator reports from the copilot’s seat.

  Probing his way through the thin air, rapidly descending and dodging peaks and ridges, the aircraft roars over the valley.

  “Dump it over the eastern ridge!” Collins shouts from the navigator’s position in the nose. “Port, 90 degrees!”

  “Stepan, read speed!”

  “Two five twenty—two five zero—”

  A voice from the besieged stronghold calls on the radio. “Alamo. Fire mission is Sierra Bravo.”

  “Fasten your seatbelts,” the pilot yells. He crosses himself and glances at the icon fastened to the instrument panel. Then he steers the plane into a sharp port turn and works several switches on the overhead panel.

  80

  Siege camp, east of the Alamo

  Commander Saifullah studies the Alamo’s smoke-covered ruins. Forcing the hitherto unbeatable Tribe to retreat behind their last line of defense would have been reason to rejoice and praise God. However, looking at the hulking smiters who now are waiting for Skinner’s command to unleash their final charge, he feels a certain bitterness.