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

”How do you say in Russian, ’comrade, the condition of your weapon brings shame on you, now give me twenty’?”

The former Marine opens the breech, removes the ammunition band and pulls it through again. Then he closes the breech and works the bolt carrier. With a loud click, the bolt moves back into position, ready to fire.

“No longer jammed?” Tarasov asks drawing his pistol and rocking the safety off.

“There’s only one way to find it out!”

The Bandits look puzzled. They were listening to their conversation but didn’t understand it. One of them is about to make a joke when his eyes open wide with dread.

“Patsani…”

If he wanted to shout a warning, it came too late. The PKM’s hail of bullets hits the Bandits who have neither a chance to escape nor time to draw their own weapons which they have carelessly slung over their shoulders to make looting easier. While Hartman relentlessly fires the machine gun, Tarasov points his pistol at Abdul who stands there taken over by complete surprise, watching the slaughter with a horror-stricken face.

“Stay where you are, dagi!”

The machine gun fire ceases. For a second, empty cartridge shells keep jingling as they fall to ground around Hartman’s feet.

“Jesus Christ, what was that?”

Pete and the two deserters rush from the command post. Seeing the pile of dead Bandits, Hartman with the still smoking machine gun and Tarasov keeping Abdul in check, they drop their jaws.

“What the fuck are you staring at?” Hartman asks. ”We’re mobsters now. Ever heard of Valentine Day’s Massacre?”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Tarasov tells in Russian to the two deserters, watching Abdul from the corner of his eye. “Top, take their rifles until I deal with this terrorist here.”

“And now let’s kill that fucking raghead,” Hartman says.

“Sorry Top but this is personal.”

“Suit yourself,” Hartman says with a shrug and adds, loud enough for Abdul to hear it, “I’ll kill enough ragheads once I’m back to the New Zone!”

“Who the hell are you?” Abdul asks with slowly moving lips.

“Who I am is none of your business, but I’m proud to give you to Sergeant Major Hartman,” Tarasov says with a grin and jerks his head toward the Top. “He’s from the Tribe. You heard of them, I guess. Renegade Americans, addicted to kill bastards like you who blew up schools in Russia and sprayed acid into girls’ faces in Afghanistan. Like your ’brothers’ did with my girl.”

“Oh God,” Abdul mutters.

“Take off your ammo belt and run — I’m giving your god a chance to save you.”

Hoping to make a quick dash and escape in the twilight, Abdul starts running across the open area where the minefield once was. Keeping his eye on the fleeing terrorist, Tarasov holsters his pistol and unslings the scoped Val from his shoulder. He takes his time for an accurate aim.

“This is for Stingray One,” he whispers as he watches Abdul’s back in the reticule.

Softly, he pulls the trigger.

The muzzle blast is barely more audible than the faint whizz of two sub-sonic bullets and the hard clack of the receiver ejecting the spent cases. The reticule jolts upwards from the recoil. When it flattens back a moment later, Tarasov sees Abdul fall forward with arms outstretched. Then comes a sudden and blinding blaze, accompanied by the blast of a detonation.

“Wow!” Hartman says with a satisfied grin. ”Now I understand why that bastard was so attached to his lucky charm!”

“Fitting death for someone fond of explosives,” Tarasov observes and shoulders his rifle. “You feel like making a little noise? Take his launcher and fire a few grenades to where he fell. Just in case there’re more mines.”

“Oh yeah,” Hartman says gleefully, taking Abdul’s orphaned RG-6 from the ground. “This is my grenade launcher. There are many like it, but this one’s mine!”

“Hey, you two!” Tarasov shouts to the deserters. “Come over here. Let’s have a chat.”

Mistrust is written over the two deserters’ faces as they approach him.

“You belong to self-respecting factions. How on earth did you end up as Bandits?”

“I want to see the New Zone,” the Freedomer says. ”Heard that Bandits are looking for men to beef up their ranks and move there. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind checking out the rumors about extra-large weed growing there either. That’s all.”

“I’m amazed,” the Dutyer says feigning surprise. ”If they are looking for men, how did they let you join them?”

“But I do know why they let you join, buddy. Friar told me being a Dutyer is the greatest crime against humanity.”

“Stop that banter for a minute,” Tarasov says tiredly. ”What about you, Dutyer?”

“Unlike this junkie, I’m a reasonable person. Realized long ago that this war with Freedom will never end. But if I became a Loner, my comrades would hunt me down for desertion. That left me with the Mercs and Bandits to choose from. Guess if I join the latter and go with them to the New Zone, I can be free there.”

“What’s your name?”

“Call me Buryat. Before you ask—I’m Russian but was born in Ulan-Ude, Buryatia, that’s why.”

“You, Freedomer?”

“Name’s Ferret. Where I was born is none of your business. And what about you? Been with the army, huh?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Come on, patsan . You’re used to ordering men around, no reason to deny it. Are you a deserter?”

“I prefer to think of it the other way round: my army deserting me.” Tarasov stirs as a grenade from the RG-6 detonates with a loud bang . “Looks like neither of you is committed to Bandit business. That means we’re in the same shoes because all we want is to get back to the New Zone, just like you.”

“You’ve been to the New Zone?” Buryat asks. “How is it there?”

“Everything’s kind of bigger. If we stick together, we have a better chance to deal with the Bandits once we’re in the New Zone.”

“How do you want to deal with them?”

Tarasov cocks an eye at the spot where the dead Bandits lie. The two deserters exchange a grin.

“Besides, the New Zone is a tough place. Local equivalent of the Bar is Bagram. I can help you get there. All in all, it’s your best interest to side with us.”

Not to mention a trigger-happy Hartman who’d shoot you without fluttering an eyelid if you don’t, Tarasov mentally adds.

“Fine with me,” Buryat says.

“You, Ferret? With or against us?”

The Freedomer nods. “Count me in, but I beg you not to take the Dutyer. Duty’s presence is bad for the mood.”

“And yours for morale,” Buryat grumbles.

“Guys, I don’t want you to suck each other’s yalda but please, try not to stab each other in the back until we’re in Bandit country. Is that too much for me to ask?”

“I’ll try,” says Ferret.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, ’Chekh’. A Dutyer would never stab anyone in the back. Only black-hearted anarchists do that.”

“Let’s make a campfire,” Ferret says. He rubs his hands together. “It’s freezing!”

“What will you whine about next?” the Dutyer asks. “Your sausage is too small, huh ?”

“You should try Freedom sausage, buddy. It’s bigger and longer than what you Dutyers are used to!”

“Stick it up your anarchist butt and rotate!”

Leaving the two quarrelling men to themselves, Tarasov sees the time fit to report back to Jack — including the final body count. Having secured Buryat’s and Ferret’s loyalty, it is no longer necessary to dispose of them and extend the casualty list. He presses the switch on the radio set.