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

It’s been a long way from Parris, he thinks. Today it will come to an end.

The thought of this battle probably earning him the button, as Marines refer to the Medal of Honor, makes him give his own reflection a grim smile. Nobody will know of this last stand, yet for him and his men who are about to die, it will be a fight for honor indeed — a very much unneeded proof of their valor. And anyway, what’s good in a posthumous award to a soldier, a real warrior, who dies with the thought that his honor needs not to be confirmed by politicians and generals?

A freshly cleaned M4 and a pistol lay on his field table. He shoulders the carbine and takes his sidearm too. It is a MEUSOC, the standard-issue firearm of the USMC’s force recon units. It has none of the extra components usually found on these weapons and looks like any of the over 2 million M1911A1s produced in the past century, save for the white lettering on the slider: To Colonel James W. Leighley for 25 years of faithful service. SEMPER FI .

The shadow of a smile plays around his lips as he glances at the pistol. The black gun metal bears the promise of faithful service to the end. He lets the magazine eject and removes all bullets inside except one.

“That should suffice, should need be,” he tells Lieutenant Bauer who is patiently waiting at the door. “How are the warriors feeling today?”

“We all are eager to fight, sir.”

“Do they think they’ll die in vain?”

“No, sir. They know that no man dies in vain who dies for his ideals.”

“Too bad our enemy thinks the same.”

“Permission to speak freely, sir? It is not our enemy who beats us, sir, but this land itself. The ragheads will not enjoy victory. They know that if it hadn’t been for the smiters they would have never bested us.”

Seeing the Colonel’s agreeing nod, Bauer carries on.

“As to us, there is no shame in falling to a superhuman force. As to our enemies, there’s nothing honorable about using such power to overcome us. No sir, our enemy shall not rejoice.”

“Is that your opinion, Lieutenant, or that of the rest as well?”

“Sir, this is where we all stand.”

The big man bows his head. Silence descends over the two men.

Suddenly, the Alamo’s anti-aircraft battery reports in the radio.

“This is Hawkeye.”

Colonel Leighley takes the headset and mike. “Hawkeye, proceed.”

“Reporting an airplane identified as a Belarusian cargo carrier. Approaching fast and attempting to contact us.”

“Break contact. You know the drill, Hawkeye.”

“Sir—with all due respect, I suggest you listen to this.”

The Colonel frowns. “Have it transferred it to my radio set.”

“ Right away, sir.”

After a few seconds of crackling radio noise, a young male voice comes through the channel. The Colonel turns pale upon hearing it.

“Corporal Leighley aboard BLC 479T calling Colonel Leighley. Come in, over… BLC 479T, Alamo, come in, over…”

“Sir! It’s—” Bauer wants to shout but a flash of the Colonel’s eyes shuts him up.

“Calling Alamo, come in. BLC 479T inbound. Alamo, come in, over.”

Leighley emits a sigh that makes his nostrils tremble, then clears his throat.

“Alamo to BLC 479T. You must break off your approach.”

The reply on the radio sounds relieved.

“Sir! We are low on fuel. Need Alamo runway for emergency landing. Aboard are Major Tarasov, Lieutenant Collins with his SR squad, Nooria and a friendly force. We have several WIAs and POWs.”

“What is the Sergeant Major’s status? Why is it not he who reports?”

“The Top is KIA, sir.”

Watching his commander, Bauer is certain that if by a major miracle he still had a long life ahead he would always remember the pain appearing on Colonel Leighley’s face.

Yet it takes only a second for the big man to recollect himself.

“Corporal, Lima Zulu is hot, I repeat—Son, you must not come here! The enemy is about to overrun our defenses. Turn around and do whatever you can to join First Lieutenant Driscoll’s force in the Bagram area!”

“Negative. You must also tell your henchman not to attack the Stalker base.”

“Corporal! Let me talk to Lieutenant Collins. Now!”

“Sir, with all due respect but fuck the chain of command. This is between you and me.”

“Son, listen to me! Our enemy cannot be beaten this time. Coming here would mean the death of all of you. Do what I say and turn back!”

“No, sir, negative—absolutely negative! You will not give up on me so easily. Not this time! Shoot this plane down with all of us aboard if you want but we are rolling in. Over and out.”

The Colonel stands like a statue, his hand clutching on the mike with a force that is almost crushing it. His lips are trembling as he replies.

“Welcome to the Alamo, son.”

A moment of silence falls, then the affirmative clicks on the radio, by which the AA battery confirms the unspoken yet clear command, is suppressed by the thundering battle cry and mutant roar outside. The final charge is about to be launched.

The big man unholsters his commemorative sidearm once more. He takes one more of the discharged bullets from his table and loads it into the magazine. He grabs the radio mike but hesitates before giving his next command. Then, with a sigh, he presses the button to open the channel.

“Put me through to the First Lieutenant.”

“And I thought dealing with drunk air control in Lagos was bad enough,” the pilot says when the conversation is terminated and Pete gives the headset back.

Degtyarev arrives from the cargo hold. “We better land quickly. It’s like a slaughterhouse back there.”

“Landing approach approved as requested,” the radio operator reports.

On the top of the mountain around which the Tribe’s defenses are laid out, the rocky outcrops and ancient ruins have been cleared off to make place for a runway. The pilot shouts out a Russian curse but it is not the sight of the perilous landing strip that scares him.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Where the Alamo’s medieval-looking living quarters were, now smoke is rising from smoldering ruins. The lower ramparts appear intact but there is devastation everywhere as if a hostile force had appeared right inside the stronghold. Up to the last line of fortified positions and ramparts crowning the mountain, every square meter bears witness to heavy and desperate fighting in which the attackers slowly gained the upper hand.

A mass of humans is storming down the slopes of the mountain across the valley. Tall, humanoid mutants move ahead the assaulters like boulders carried by a wave crashing on the shore. Tarasov sees the tracers of the defenders’ fire raining down on the assaulters but it can’t stop them — their first ranks, led by the huge mutants, have already reached the ruined living quarters and continue to press forward and up the mountain.

“Oh my God,” groans Tarasov, “oh God!”

“Napalm,” Collins says, “all we need is napalm! Good God, how I wish we could burn those motherfuckers!”

“Holy Christ!” the pilot yells. “Our fuel’s not leaking but pouring!”

Kerosene. Second best to napalm, flashes to Tarasov’s mind. The memory of the Top’s gung-ho joke gives him an idea that could turn the tide of the battle raging on the ground.

“Captain! Dump the kerosene!” he shouts to the pilot.

“We’re flying on jet fuel, not kerosene!”

“Burns all the same, right?”