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

by Balazs Pataki

  Saifullah has no doubts at all that eradicating the Tribe will please God — but with such an ungodly ally? The Prophet’s flag will fly over the Alamo soon enough but in God’s eyes, this victory will be spoilt. The thought of entering into a pact with these hellish creatures and their master, this half-mutant abomination, makes him feel guilty and unclean.

  There can be only one way out, and Saifullah calms himself with the thought of all this being done for God’s greater glory. Skinner might be an abomination, but his plan was perfect: without their stronghold and probably already decimated by the infidels at Bagram, the remaining forces of the Tribe will be no match for God’s holy warriors. They will take the Alamo today, and the rest of these lands too will soon be purged of foreign intruders. How great is God indeed — even the creatures of hell work to promote His will!

  “You don’t look happy, dushman.”

  Saifullah hates the irony in Skinner’s voice but while he still needs him, he has no choice but to force a smile on his face as he turns towards the grinning half-mutant.

  “I will rejoice once I see the Prophet’s banner flying over the infidels’ lair,” he lies.

  “Shall we wait till nightfall?” Skinner asks. “My friends have a better sight in darkness than the Tribe’s NVGs. Could give us another advantage.”

  “We will not wait.” Impatience lingers in Commander Saifullah’s voice. “As soon as my warriors finish their prayers, we will strike and finish the infidels, once and for all!”

  “Suit yourself,” Skinner replies with a shrug. “All the better, actually. We’re getting hungry.”

  Saifullah leaves him in a hurry. The thought of relying on these man-eating monsters makes his stomach turn and he can hardly wait to cleanse his soul by leading his warriors in prayer.

  When the Talib has left their lookout, Skinner spits on the ground.

  You will never see your flag over the Alamo because I will eat your eyes first.

  He waves to the smiter next to him. Looking into the mutant’s eyes, he senses its hunger.

  Soon we will be feasting, brother. Soon.

  In reply, the smiter’s eyes flash with anticipation but Skinner senses the creature’s anxiety as well.

  “Their bullets. They hurt. Fire hurts.”

  I know, but they must be running out of ammunition. We will revenge our fallen brothers.

  “And then no human will ever hurt us again?”

  Then this land will be ours, brother.

  The mutant’s reaction would be just an aggressive growl to anyone but Skinner.

  Yes. We will exterminate them all. Now go and gather the brothers.

  The voice of prayer comes from the Taliban’s camp where Saifullah’s warriors have gathered. The many rows of several hundred fearsome warriors make an impressive sight, and the human deep inside him cannot deny a certain beauty from the scene and the chant of prayer carried by the wind.

  He watches Saifullah deliver a short sermon. Though he doesn’t understand a word, Skinner has no doubt that it’s to encourage the warriors, telling them what a great victory they will score and how happy those will be who go to Paradise today.

  His stomach rumbles. Skinner pats his abdomen.

  That’s where you all gonna go, not Paradise.

  Saifullah’s warriors begin to cheer. Their voice echoes in the valley and there’s no doubt that the renegade Marines must have heard it too. All the better—they know that their time to die has come.

  Through the cheer and rifle shots fired into the air, Skinner’s sensitive ears detect a low drone.

  An airplane? What the hell?

  “Did you hear that?” he shouts to Saifullah who has just finished addressing his men.

  “What?”

  “An airplane is approaching!”

  “Maybe it’s coming to evacuate them!”

  “You should know by now that the Tribe never runs away,” Skinner snaps.

  “One more reason to push the assault. We are ready.”

  “Let’s finish what we came here for,” the half-mutant replies indifferently, giving a loud whistle.

  Three dozen smiters take up position among the Taliban, ready to lead the charge. Saifullah climbs up a rocky knoll where he theatrically points to the Tribe’s stronghold.

  “Bismillahirrahmanirrahim!”

  In reply, the voice of hundreds of his warriors thunders.

  “Bismillah!”

  Shaking his head, Skinner looks at the smiter that is still wearing rags of Clear Sky armor.

  That idiot better get into cover, lest he wants a sniper to shut him up.

  But with the waves of Taliban beginning to march on the Alamo, any fighter behind the battered ramparts has something better to do than that. The first volleys of .50 calibers are already being fired. The Talib sharpshooters return the fire in an attempt to give their assaulting brethren cover. Ahead of the assaulters, smiters charge forward.

  A lonely airplane appears from behind the northern ridge. To Skinner’s relief it is no combat aircraft, not even American, just an Antonov cargo plane.

  The first smiter reaches the Alamo’s gate. Acting as a self-propelled bullet shield, it keeps the dushman behind it safe from the small weapons fired from the ramparts above. In a few minutes they will reach the upper fortifications.

  For an instant, it appears to Skinner that the airplane is about to smash into the host of assaulters — it is flying directly at them at an extremely low altitude and apparently not even trying to approach the Alamo’s airstrip on the fortified mountain. Then it just roams over, as if it could do nothing apart from scaring them.

  Though surprised, the assaulters don’t let themselves be distracted by the airplane that must be flown by crazy or suicidal pilots. Relentlessly, they keep streaming through the ruined lower quarters towards the hilltop fortifications.

  “Saifullah,” Skinner yells. “What the hell are you waiting for? Shoot that crazy plane down!”

  “All our machine guns are pinning down the infidels!” the Talib commander replies. “Never mind! It’s flying away!”

  Indeed, the airplane begins to climb once more but then, instead of receding, turns back at an even lower altitude. Suddenly, it begins to release thick streams of brownish vapor from its four engines and the fuselage. Skinner and Saifullah can barely exchange a bewildered look before it thunders over them, so low that they can even see the crew member in the nose cupola, the bolts in the fuselage and the patterns on the wheels of the lowered landing gear. In a moment, they are covered with sickening, oily vapor.

  It only takes a second for Skinner to realize the danger.

  “It’s kerosene!” he screams. “Scatter! Scatter, everyone! Do not fire your weapons!”

  The vapor bites his nostrils and windpipes, forcing him to pull over his gas mask.

  The assaulting Taliban can either not hear him or don’t understand him, and the slow-witted smiters can only sense his fear but don’t realize where the danger is coming from.

  The airplane turns back once more, this time roaring over the narrow alleys of the lower fortifications where the assaulters are thronged in so tightly that they couldn’t scatter even if they heard Skinner’s desperate command. Helplessly, Skinner and Saifullah watch humans and mutants alike look up at the airplane, coughing and trying to wipe the noxious substance off their skin.

  Then several bold but stupid dushmans fire their weapons at the airplane that is now ascending and turning away. Their muzzles flash. A split second later, they go up in an orange ball of detonation that quickly engulfs the ruins and the assaulters among them.

  Sensing what’s coming next, Skinner grabs the arms of the two smiters still at his side and begins to run towards the hillside where the caves offer the only way to escape their impending doom.

  Saifullah helplessly watches them run away, brutally pushing the men around them and crushing those who don’t make way fast enough. He wants to scream but falls to his knees with a cough t
hat turns into vomiting. Even in his wretched state, he can hear the whizz of incoming mortar shells.

  For a second, he sees the hilltop fortifications standing out from the smoke and fiery inferno like an island in a stormy sea of fire. Now he knows that the Prophet’s banner will never fly over the accursed infidels’ stronghold. He shakes his fist in a last, threatening but powerless gesture.

  Then a full volley of high explosive incendiary shells impact, fired just a few seconds ago from the Tribe’ 81mm mortars. Saifullah wants to die calling on his God and emits a ghastly scream — but it comes without any meaning, since it is just the air being sucked from his lungs a split second before the earth trembles and the whole valley goes up in a thundering firestorm.

  When it is over, his grisly corpse is still standing in the same position: burnt to the bones, the skeletal fist raised and the jaws on the blackened skull peering out from the charred flesh, resembling a horrifying grin — like a statue sculpted by the devil itself.

  81

  Airstrip, the Alamo

  “How’s your wound?” Ferret asks Buryat after the airplane has landed on the Alamo’s airstrip. To everyone’s surprise, the pilot has managed to touch it down safely — no crash landing, no runway overrun but a landing almost as soft as the last minutes had been rough.

  “Hurts,” the Dutyer says with a painful grimace. “Tribe medic said it’s gonna be all right, but I won’t be able to dance for a while.”

  Ferret gives him a helping hand as they walk down the lowered ramp. “Too bad! I’m sure you’d make helluva sight wearing ballet stockings.”

  “You Freedomers are so gay.”

  “We do love raping Duty in the butt if that’s what you mean.”

  “See? You just admitted it. Now stay away from me or I face punch you.”

  “Nah, handsome,” Ferret replies patting his back. “You stay away from me, or prepare your buttocks.”

  But Buryat keeps holding on his shoulder as he drags his wounded leg and staggers to the runway.

  Next to them, lined up and blinking in the sunlight, the disarmed Bandits obediently leave the airplane under the watchful eyes of Lieutenant Collins’ scouts.

  “Move, trench coats, move!” team leader Walker shouts. “Keep your hands up! Ruki ver or whatever it’s in Russian!”

  In the cockpit, the relieved crew exchange handshakes before beginning the process of powering the airplane’s systems down.

  “Phew! I’m done flying missions for Sultan,” the pilot tells the navigator. “The last moments reminded me of Kamran, back in ’89.”

  “Wasn’t that an Antonov like this crashing and burning out?” the radio operator asks.

  “My point exactly,” the pilot responds. He kisses his fingers and touches the icon fixed to the overhead instruments. Then he pats the yoke, giving thanks to the airplane itself. “Good girl!”

  “Made in Ukraine,” the navigator says with a grin.

  “Thank you, captain,” Tarasov says exchanging a handshake with the pilot. “Hell of a flight.”

  “I guess you had a hell of a journey too,” Major Degtyarev says.

  Before replying, Tarasov gives his old comrade a bearish hug. “Alex—how bloody good to see you! What the hell were you doing among the Bandits?”

  “Covert mission. I was to find out where they are all migrating to in the Zone. I could inform the SBU about the Container Warehouse and their destination, but they wanted to catch Sultan red-handed, while still in Ukrainian airspace. Gunships and fighter jets were already in the air to intercept them but he outsmarted us by using Belarusian helicopters. We couldn’t touch them. So I decided to join his horde and see what they were up to in the New Zone.”

  “I knew you’d make it here sooner or later.”

  “Where are we exactly?”

  “You remember the briefing you gave me? You mentioned renegade Americans. Looks like we’ve just saved them,” Tarasov triumphantly says. “Makes it easier for me to vouch for you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tarasov wants to laugh but then just gives Degtyarev a sad smile.

  “That you may live. You are SBU, Alex, and if I did this by the Tribe’s book I’d have to treat you here as a potential enemy. You will see many secrets. If I vouch for you and you ever get loose-lipped about what you’ll see here, I’ll forfeit my honor and probably my life too. Got it?”

  “Did you actually join them, Misha?”

  “I’m a free Stalker now but a friend of the Tribe.”

  “And I am a friend of Stalkers. You know that.”

  “I have your word of honor, then? That of an officer and gentleman?”

  “You have.”

  “Good. Now let’s go and see Colonel Leighley.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A version of Colonel Kruchelnikov that actually makes sense.”

  Tarasov turns to Pete, who was listening to the Russian conversation with growing impatience.

  “You’re talking about my father?” he asks.

  “I had to give Major Degtyarev a crash course on Tribe ethics. Honor and all that. No one in the Tribe would ever break a word of honor, right Nooria?”

  “Right,” Nooria replies, turning away from the compartment window where her eyes were sucking in the familiar lights of the New Zone, appearing so much welcoming to her despite all the devastation.

  “Cheer up, big sister,” Pete says. “We did it!”

  “I am sad,” she replies unfastening the seat belt. Avoiding Tarasov’s look she wipes tears from her eyes. “But also happy to be back.”

  “I know what you mean,” Tarasov says. “But knowing what the Tribe is capable of, I’m sure everything will be rebuilt. Life will be back to normal soon, too—if it ever was.”

  “It never will,” Nooria sadly replies.

  In the cargo compartment that smells of a noxious mixture of vomit, kerosene, cordite and blood, Lieutenant Collins and Mac are standing next to Sergeant Major Hartman’s body.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Collins says, slowly shaking his head.

  “One thing I’m sure of is that Ahuizotl would never betray us,” Mac sadly but defiantly says. “He didn’t recognize your comrade. How could he? How could you? Ahuizotl was the only one with a visual on him. Then whoever attacked us must have overcome him.”

  “True. Had it not been for your jackal who recognized him we would have killed Tarasov as well, let alone the big man’s son and Nooria! Jesus, had that happened I would’ve put a bullet in my brain!”

  Mac tries to distract the Lieutenant from his grief. “What happened to Bruiser?”

  “He got bruised,” Collins coldly replies.

  “Glad to know that. Once we’re done here I go and find Ahuizotl. He’s is a tough SOB and unless they killed him right away, he’ll make it. Right, Billy?”

  Tarasov appears with Pete and Nooria from the crew compartment and gives the mutant a pat on the head.

  “It’s the second time that a mutant saved my ass,” he says. “How embarrassing.”

  “He’s not a mutant but a dog.”

  “Good to see you again, Mac.”

  “You too, Major.”

  “I’m no longer a major, I’m afraid.”

  “Things are changing.”

  “So I see,” Tarasov says looking at her open face and loose hair.

  “Is Ilchenko still around?” Mac asks Tarasov about his earlier squad member.

  “Sergeant Zlenko killed him.”

  “Oh gosh. What about Zlenko?”

  “I killed him.”

  Mac stops asking questions. Looking at the Top’s body, Tarasov sighs with sadness. “He will be dearly missed,” he says. “Poor Katie Stone.”

  Collins bows his head.

  “Dearly indeed,” Pete sadly observes. “He was a real badass even for a Marine.”

  “He’d probably want that as his epitaph,” Collins says.

  “Well, Pete,” Tarasov says ge
ntly arranging the coat covering the Top’s face and torso, “guess if he were still alive, he’d be bitching at me for not bringing you to your father at last. Let’s go.”

  “I get the creeps when I think of telling the big man about this,” Collins says darting a last glance at the sergeant major’s body.

  Not surprisingly, they can already see the Colonel’s tall figure approach as they descend the ramp. He is flanked by two Lieutenants and several fighters, several of them wearing bandages and those without helmet the trace of dry blood on their foreheads. Nothing on his face reflects that his Tribe has just been on the brink of annihilation, and he is about to see his son again.

  Tarasov salutes him. So does Lieutenant Collins. Pete stares at his father, though with a half-smile that would have been unthinkable had he been brought here right after Tarasov and the Top picked him up at that junkies’ den a few weeks before, on that rainy night in Los Angeles that now appears as if it had been a thousand years ago.

  “Mission accomplished, Colonel,” Tarasov reports.

  “Thank you, Major. Good initiative with that firework.”

  “Couldn’t have convinced the pilot without him,” Tarasov replies pointing at Degtyarev. “He is Major Alexander Degtyarev, Security Service of Ukraine. I vouch for him.”

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Very well, Major. Now I want to know how the Sergeant Major died.”

  In a few words, Lieutenant Collins tells about the ill-fated ambush. While Collins reports, Tarasov hesitates between admiring the Colonel for giving full attention to the report of his soldier and scorning the father over apparently ignoring the presence of his son. After all, Tarasov and the Top had brought him here through so many perils and now Pete is just standing there, staring at his father who has barely looked at him yet.

  “Friendly fire,” The Colonel slowly shakes his head. “The only comforting about his death is that he wasn’t killed by the enemy. He was invincible to the end. Such a fateful day, Major! You bring me an old friend dead—and my son alive.”

  “It was about time you to realized I was here,” Pete snaps. Hearing the youth’s proud tone, so much characteristic to Pete since his mind had cleared, Tarasov has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from smiling. “Please try to act like an ordinary father and tell you’re happy to see me!”