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

“Come on, you lame pussies! Move, move, move!”

Then he lets go of his weapon, gasps at his throat and falls.

Tarasov’s lips move faster than his thoughts.

“Ambush! Zasada! Spread out, spread out!”

“Back to the plane!” he hears a Stalker shouting through the deafening noise of the Antonov’s engines. It is Dima Molotov. Tarasov shouts him down.

“No! Spread out!”

Suddenly, he hears the noise of a rifle — it is not a Kalashnikov’s bark but that of a US-made assault weapon. It is coming from their flank.

“Get down!” he screams, “ambush from our right!”

As soon as he had shouted this, more rifles start firing from the left. A machine gun joins the fire from right, followed by more assault rifles from the same direction. Two Stalkers fall immediately.

“Get back to airplane!” he hears Nooria screaming. With Pete in tow, she appears right at Tarasov’s side.

“You get the hell back to cover!” he shouts desperately. “Now!”

But Nooria is already at the Top, trying to move the body that is more than twice her weight. Pete grasps the other arm.

“How was I supposed to hold her back?” he yells to Tarasov. “Knock her out?”

Pete drags Nooria away and back to the relative safety of the airplane. Held by his arms, Tarasov drags Hartman’s body up the ramp. A glance at the Top’s wound is enough for him to realize that he must have met death even before he collapsed.

“Go and help the Stalkers!” he yells at the Bandits inside.

Pinned down by hostile fire from three sides, they are in a desperate situation. Tarasov makes out the quick bursts of Buryat’s PKM but knows that he has barely a chance to fire the machine gun effectively without seeing the enemy, while the still unseen attackers don’t even have to aim properly to hit—any one of them is a target now, anywhere on the dust-covered landing strip.

“We’re sitting ducks!” he hears Ferret yelling, “do something, for God’s sake!”

Half a dozen Bandits try to rush to their help, only to be mowed down by the hostile machine gun fire.

“Back to that fucking plane!” Dima Molotov screams lying on his stomach and firing the Vintorez. “Now!”

Overcome by rage over his own helplessness, Tarasov fires a long burst from his rifle and is about to shout a command calling everyone back inside the airplane when he is almost kicked off his feet—not by a bullet but a jackal. The mutant that showed up from nowhere amidst all the confusion is not attacking him, however. It jumps up at him, yelping like a dog who sees an old friend. What appears even more astounding is that after a second, the hostile fire ceases.

Tarasov has no time to feel relieved, however. Someone shouts a command in English.

“Lay down your weapons!”

“Slozhit oruzhie!”

The voice repeating the command in Russian is that of a woman. The jackal is still jumping around Tarasov when he puts his AKM to the ground. Any further resistance would be not only in vain but utter suicide.

“Don’t shoot!” he shouts back in English and adds in Russian, “Bratya, lay down your weapons!”

“Fuck no!”

The defiant voice is that of Buryat.

“Hold your fire!” Tarasov shouts back. Through the dust that slowly settles with the propellers now standing still, he can make out the man who commanded them to surrender—it is a Lieutenant of the Tribe, aiming his M16 at him. Next to him, a Stalker kneels, holding an F2000 ready to shoot. The jackal jogs to the Stalker who pats its neck as if after a job well done. Seeing them together triggers distant memories in Tarasov’s mind. He repeats his command. “Lay down your weapons, brothers! It’s the Tribe!”

“One more fucking reason to fight to the end!”

“Don’t be foolish, Buryat! Put that weapon down!”

Reluctantly, the Stalkers and Bandits do as ordered.

“Identify yourselves!” the Lieutenant commands.

This is it then, Tarasov thinks. Oh Gospodi… and their Sergeant Major lies dead in the airplane. Such a fuck. Such a clusterfuck!

“Major Mikhailo Tarasov, friend of the Tribe, back from a mission given by the Colonel,” he exclaims. “Nooria is with us. So is the Colonel’s son, Corporal Peter Leighley, USMC.”

“What?!”

The Lieutenant sounds dumbfounded beyond measure. “Where’s the Top?” he asks walking to Tarasov. “He left with you!”

“What the hell are you talking about with the pindos?” a Bandit asks. He is standing with his hands held up, even though no such command was given.

Before Tarasov can reply to either of them, a faint whizz sounds for a split second, then another bullet from the sniper’s rifle takes a ricochet on the Lieutenant’s helmet and makes it fly off his head. The fighter staggers for a moment, then throws himself to the ground.

“Sniper!” shouts someone behind the ruins. It must have come from one of the Lieutenant’s men. “Sniper at six o’clock!”

It is not another shot from the sniper rifle that follows but a spray of bullets from two well-positioned, Russian-made machine guns on the hill. The bullets hit the already bloody ground around them — the Bandit with raised hands is the first to fall, then a Stalker screams.

“One to all teams,” the Lieutenant barks, “concentrate fire! Hilltop, six o clock! Fire! Fire everything you got!”

The Tribe fighters, until now hiding behind the safe cover of the ruined buildings that line up along the runway, return fire. But now it becomes apparent how few they are, and both Tarasov and the Lieutenant realize in an instant that what firepower had been enough to wreak havoc on the Stalkers in the open is far from enough to fight the new enemy who has the higher ground.

“Grab your weapons!” Tarasov hollers. “Fire at the hill!”

The Antonov’s engines howl up and the ramp is raised — the airplane is apparently preparing to turn around and take off.

“Pete! Pete!” he screams, hoping that he can make himself be heard in the gunfire and the growing howl of the engines. “Stop the airplane! Hold it back!”

A Tribe fighter fires a grenade but it falls too short of the hilltop position. A Bandit goes down without a sound as another bullet from the sniper rifle hits him.

Bandits, Stalkers and Tribals, who have been fighting each other just a few minutes ago, now try to fight off the new enemy together.

“One down!” Dimitry Molotov’s voice almost sounds calm among all the confusion. “Patsan, I told you to get back the airplane, huh? What about now?” He reloads his Vintorez and makes a dash for the nearest cover.

The Antonov has almost turned into take-off position with its pilots having no regard for the dead and dying men scattered on the ground when it suddenly halts. The ramp is lowered once more.

“Ferret! Buryat!” Tarasov yells to the two Stalkers relentlessly firing at the hilltop. “Pass the word — fall back! Move back to the airplane!”

“Bring up your men!” the Lieutenant shouts. “We will storm the hill!”

“That’s just madness,” Tarasov shouts back. “Take your men to the airplane, Lieutenant, and get out of here with us!”

“No! We will kill those motherfuckers!”

The female Stalker’s F2000 fires a long burst from the cover of the radio shack. Ejected cases rain from the rifle’s front.

“If he says so, Collins, we go!” she yells.

Tarasov’s dry mouth opens in surprise. “Mac?!”

“Yeah, pleased to meet you again! Now let’s all haul ass to that damned plane!” Aiming through the built-in scope she fires two short bursts. “Scratch one, but there must be more!”