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

“You guys know each other?” Pete asks puzzled.

“Very well,” Degtyarev nods.

“You are Alex?” Nooria demands with eyes wide open from surprise. “And you have been with Sultan’s men all time?”

“Yes. And you must be Misha’s legendary girl, I take?”

“Legendary?”

“I got the frequency,” Collins interrupts them. “Corporal, it’s your turn.”

Tarasov needs a moment to understand that the Lieutenant was meaning Pete.

“I’d better be back to the cargo bay,” Degtyarev says. “Swapping stories can wait till we’re out of this mess.”

He gives Tarasov and Nooria a faint smile and leaves through the hatch. Meanwhile, Collins has taken the headset from the radio operator and is already talking on the radio.

“This is Lieutenant Collins calling the Alamo… Alamo, I know you have a copy on me. Come in.”

“Our call sign is Bravo Lima Charlie Four Seven Nine Tango,” the pilot says. “At least that’s what appears on radar screens.”

Collins transmits the call sign on the radio. “I repeat, I am aboard a cargo airplane, approaching the Alamo from…”

“Just say west-northwest,” the pilot observes.

“…west-northwest. Alamo, I know you have a copy on me and have direct orders not to respond, but you’d better listen to this transmission.”

Having said this, Collins hands the headset over.

“What am I supposed to say?” Pete asks the Lieutenant putting on the headset.

A smile appears on Collins’ face. “Maybe hi, dad would do for a start?”

“That would send him the wrong signal,” Pete says wrinkling his forehead. “I always had to call him sir. ”

“Haha!” Bronsky snorts watching the chaos on the runway. “We are triumphant!”

“Who told you to stop firing?” Captain Maksimenko angrily shouts back at the Spetsnaz.

Bronsky continues to pepper the already scattered Stalkers with sustained fire from his PKM. On the right flank. Volkov does the same with the heavier RPK machine gun. The heavy bullets take a horrible toll on the coverless Stalkers.

When the Spetsnaz realized that a few men return fire from the cover of the ruins, Maksimenko let the two automatic weapons shift their fire to deal with the new enemy. The 7,62mm cartridges easily penetrate the brick walls. However, hitting the defenseless Stalkers is more rewarding and the machine gunners soon shift their fire back to the runway; well-covered by the rocks on the hilltop as they were, their enemy had no chance to effectively fight back at them anyway. The battle is going well.

Captain Maksimenko watches the onslaught below with a victor’s smile. But when he sees the tail turret rotate and the twin-barreled autocannon take aim at their position, his smile turns to a scowl.

“Fall back!”

The Spetsnaz have barely time to leave their positions before the Antonov’s twin autocannon begins to pound the hilltop. Splintering rocks and spraying earth where they hit, the devastating burst of 23mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds rip the dilapidated radar truck to shreds and set its rotting electronics ablaze.

The Spetsnaz run down the hill. When they reach the slope and have the hilltop between them and the airplane, Captain Maksimenko tears his helmet off his head and smashes it to the ground.

“ Pizdets!” he cusses looking after the climbing airplane, “fuck, fuck, fuck!”

If Sergeant Vlasov is equally frustrated, he is more level-headed than his captain to let himself be carried away by it.

“Spetsnaz, report status,” he shouts.

“Tokarsky’s bought it, sarge,” reports Wargo, the former officer. ”Maslak and Kushnik suffered light wounds. Brechko is patching them up.”

“Where’s the Stalker?”

The Spetsnaz look at each other.

“Crap,” Bronsky says. “He’s either dead or…”

“What are you waiting for?” Vlasov snaps at him. ”Back to the hilltop and find him, davai!”

He walks to Maksimenko who is kicking around lose rocks and cursing Tarasov with such foul words that make even the hard-boiled Spetsnaz grimace.

“ Kapitan, there’s no reason to be upset,” Vlasov says. “We can report that our secondary goal is accomplished. No more Bandits will fly in here, that’s for sure.”

“This is not fucking happening to me!” the still enraged Maksimenko shouts. “I had that bastard right there and again—“

Vlasov shrugs. “Kiev doesn’t know that he was on that plane. So far so good, I’d say. I suggest we move to that facility and establish a perimeter. Then we see what’s next.”

Still tense, Maksimenko is about to snap him when a howl comes from nearby.

“Did you hear that?”

“Sir, I suggest we move quickly.”

Bronsky arrives.

“No trace of the sniper,” he reports, fighting for breath.

“Screw him,” Maksimenko snaps. “He can’t get far with his hands tied anyway.”

Another howl comes from much closer, followed by several more.

Bronsky pales. “Mutants?”

“Must be coming for the corpses on the airstrip,” Vlasov observes anxiously. “We better get ready!”

“Shit!” Captain Maksimenko takes his helmet from the ground and straps it back on. “Get back to the hill and prepare for defense!”

Smoke rises from the ruined mud houses in the Alamo’s living quarters, concealing the mountain across the valley from the Colonel’s sight.

He doesn’t see the besieging enemy but knows they are out there, probably preparing for a last assault to break the Tribe’s battered defenses. At least that’s what he would do if he were the attacker and the defenders pushed back behind their last line of fortifications.

It all comes down to a last stand, he thinks.

In the years past, everything had been done to turn the ancient citadel into a stronghold that could easily withstand any attack from outside. In hindsight, the trick of the attackers appears so logical and easy, but then no one could have suspected that anyone knew about the underground vaults. Apart from the Tribe, the only ones who had ever seen it were Tarasov’s Stalkers on their way to the City of Screams. The Colonel would never believe that they betrayed this secret to the Taliban, or the dushman as the Stalkers call their mortal enemies. Money could always prevail over enmity, of course, but knowing of their weak point would not have been enough — one needed the perfidious idea of using that strange creature to find a point where the underground walls could be broken through. Even so, the attack could have been easily repulsed if their human enemies hadn’t been supported by the smiters.

But Colonel Leighley knows that all speculation is in vain now. Soon, the smiters will charge, followed by the human waves of ragheads that will sweep over the Tribe’s last defenses like the rising tide would sweep away a sandcastle built on the seashore.

His room is only dimly lit by a nick in the boarded up window and a lamp on his field table. He steps to the sink and glances into the shaving mirror fastened to the wall to check his combat armor, then adjusts the bars holding the ribbons of his decorations. Today is the day to wear them all.

Below the Navy Cross with two award stars, the Navy Distinguished Service Medal and the Silver Star, four rows of ribbons — several with award stars and valor device — tell about a more than distinguished military career; they include the Legion of Merit, the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart and the USMC Good Conduct and Expeditionary Medals. The lower rows hold ribbons for service and several campaigns.