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

“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.

“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 instead.

“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.

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.