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

“If one ignites it, yes!”

“Then dump all the fuel! Let it rain on the attackers, then Alex will light them up with the tail gun!”

“Are you out of your mind?” the pilot protests. “If you fire that, it will incinerate the fuel vapor and kill us all!”

But Degtyarev gets the idea. “Yes! Dump the fuel over them, captain! Do it, now!”

Seeing him drawing a Makarov pistol the pilot hisses a swear. “I’ll do it, goddammit, just keep that shooter away from my head!”

Tarasov grabs the radio mike. “Alamo! We need an HIE mortar fire emission! Alamo, come in!”

“Major, we don’t have enough firepower to—”

“Listen, Alamo! Prepare incendiary shells, watch the airplane and you’ll know what you’ve got to do!”

Probing his way through the thin air, the airplane quickly descends at 2000 feet per minute, dodging peaks and ridges with 90 degree turns.

“How long is the runway?” the pilot asks.

“3200 feet, unpaved,” Collins responds. “Enough for a C-130!”

“Gonna be rough but we should make it,” the pilot says.

“That’s suicide!” the navigator shouts.

“If these crazy cowboys can land with a Herk there, so can we!”

“Your bragging will kill us all!”

“Shut up and get into Yuriy’s seat, Stepan! Hey, yankee, move to the nose and tell me when to begin the dump! And you guys make yourself useful and get that body out of my cockpit!”

“Sorry about him,” Tarasov says as he and Degtyarev drag the co-pilot’s body from the seat.

“He was the worst flying bitch I ever had,” the pilot coldly observes. “But who’s that woman with the knife?”

“My wife.”

“Oh boy. And I thought I was in deep shit!”

“Descending at 2000 feet per minute,” the navigator reports from the copilot’s seat.

Probing his way through the thin air, rapidly descending and dodging peaks and ridges, the aircraft roars over the valley.

“Dump it over the eastern ridge!” Collins shouts from the navigator’s position in the nose. “Port, 90 degrees!”

“Stepan, read speed!”

“Two five twenty—two five zero—”

A voice from the besieged stronghold calls on the radio. “Alamo. Fire mission is Sierra Bravo.”

“Fasten your seatbelts,” the pilot yells. He crosses himself and glances at the icon fastened to the instrument panel. Then he steers the plane into a sharp port turn and works several switches on the overhead panel.

Commander Saifullah studies the Alamo’s smoke-covered ruins. Forcing the hitherto unbeatable Tribe to retreat behind their last line of defense would have been reason to rejoice and praise God. However, looking at the hulking smiters who now are waiting for Skinner’s command to unleash their final charge, he feels a certain bitterness.

Saifullah has no doubts at all that eradicating the Tribe will please God — but with such an ungodly ally? The Prophet’s flag will fly over the Alamo soon enough but in God’s eyes, this victory will be spoilt. The thought of entering into a pact with these hellish creatures and their master, this half-mutant abomination, makes him feel guilty and unclean.

There can be only one way out, and Saifullah calms himself with the thought of all this being done for God’s greater glory. Skinner might be an abomination, but his plan was perfect: without their stronghold and probably already decimated by the infidels at Bagram, the remaining forces of the Tribe will be no match for God’s holy warriors. They will take the Alamo today, and the rest of these lands too will soon be purged of foreign intruders. How great is God indeed — even the creatures of hell work to promote His will!

“You don’t look happy, dushman.”

Saifullah hates the irony in Skinner’s voice but while he still needs him, he has no choice but to force a smile on his face as he turns towards the grinning half-mutant.

“I will rejoice once I see the Prophet’s banner flying over the infidels’ lair,” he lies.

“Shall we wait till nightfall?” Skinner asks. “My friends have a better sight in darkness than the Tribe’s NVGs. Could give us another advantage.”

“We will not wait.” Impatience lingers in Commander Saifullah’s voice. “As soon as my warriors finish their prayers, we will strike and finish the infidels, once and for all!”

“Suit yourself,” Skinner replies with a shrug. “All the better, actually. We’re getting hungry.”

Saifullah leaves him in a hurry. The thought of relying on these man-eating monsters makes his stomach turn and he can hardly wait to cleanse his soul by leading his warriors in prayer.

When the Talib has left their lookout, Skinner spits on the ground.

You will never see your flag over the Alamo because I will eat your eyes first.

He waves to the smiter next to him. Looking into the mutant’s eyes, he senses its hunger.

Soon we will be feasting, brother. Soon.

In reply, the smiter’s eyes flash with anticipation but Skinner senses the creature’s anxiety as well.

“Their bullets. They hurt. Fire hurts.”

I know, but they must be running out of ammunition. We will revenge our fallen brothers .

“And then no human will ever hurt us again?”

Then this land will be ours, brother.

The mutant’s reaction would be just an aggressive growl to anyone but Skinner.

Yes. We will exterminate them all. Now go and gather the brothers.

The voice of prayer comes from the Taliban’s camp where Saifullah’s warriors have gathered. The many rows of several hundred fearsome warriors make an impressive sight, and the human deep inside him cannot deny a certain beauty from the scene and the chant of prayer carried by the wind.

He watches Saifullah deliver a short sermon. Though he doesn’t understand a word, Skinner has no doubt that it’s to encourage the warriors, telling them what a great victory they will score and how happy those will be who go to Paradise today.

His stomach rumbles. Skinner pats his abdomen.

That’s where you all gonna go, not Paradise.

Saifullah’s warriors begin to cheer. Their voice echoes in the valley and there’s no doubt that the renegade Marines must have heard it too. All the better—they know that their time to die has come.

Through the cheer and rifle shots fired into the air, Skinner’s sensitive ears detect a low drone.

An airplane? What the hell?

“Did you hear that?” he shouts to Saifullah who has just finished addressing his men.

“What?”

“An airplane is approaching!”

“Maybe it’s coming to evacuate them!”

“You should know by now that the Tribe never runs away,” Skinner snaps.

“One more reason to push the assault. We are ready.”

“Let’s finish what we came here for,” the half-mutant replies indifferently, giving a loud whistle.

Three dozen smiters take up position among the Taliban, ready to lead the charge. Saifullah climbs up a rocky knoll where he theatrically points to the Tribe’s stronghold.

“Bismillahirrahmanirrahim!”

In reply, the voice of hundreds of his warriors thunders.

“Bismillah!”

Shaking his head, Skinner looks at the smiter that is still wearing rags of Clear Sky armor.

That idiot better get into cover, lest he wants a sniper to shut him up .

But with the waves of Taliban beginning to march on the Alamo, any fighter behind the battered ramparts has something better to do than that. The first volleys of .50 calibers are already being fired. The Talib sharpshooters return the fire in an attempt to give their assaulting brethren cover. Ahead of the assaulters, smiters charge forward.