Balázs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Northern Passage

“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 says 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.