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

A lonely airplane appears from behind the northern ridge. To Skinner’s relief it is no combat aircraft, not even American, just an Antonov cargo plane.

The first smiter reaches the Alamo’s gate. Acting as a self-propelled bullet shield, it keeps the dushman behind it safe from the small weapons fired from the ramparts above. In a few minutes they will reach the upper fortifications.

For an instant, it appears to Skinner that the airplane is about to smash into the host of assaulters — it is flying directly at them at an extremely low altitude and apparently not even trying to approach the Alamo’s airstrip on the fortified mountain. Then it just roams over, as if it could do nothing apart from scaring them.

Though surprised, the assaulters don’t let themselves be distracted by the airplane that must be flown by crazy or suicidal pilots. Relentlessly, they keep streaming through the ruined lower quarters towards the hilltop fortifications.

“Saifullah,” Skinner yells. “What the hell are you waiting for? Shoot that crazy plane down!”

“All our machine guns are pinning down the infidels!” the Talib commander replies. “Never mind! It’s flying away!”

Indeed, the airplane begins to climb once more but then, instead of receding, turns back at an even lower altitude. Suddenly, it begins to release thick streams of brownish vapor from its four engines and the fuselage. Skinner and Saifullah can barely exchange a bewildered look before it thunders over them, so low that they can even see the crew member in the nose cupola, the bolts in the fuselage and the patterns on the wheels of the lowered landing gear. In a moment, they are covered with sickening, oily vapor.

It only takes a second for Skinner to realize the danger.

“It’s kerosene!” he screams. “Scatter! Scatter, everyone! Do not fire your weapons!”

The vapor bites his nostrils and windpipes, forcing him to pull over his gas mask.

The assaulting Taliban can either not hear him or don’t understand him, and the slow-witted smiters can only sense his fear but don’t realize where the danger is coming from.

The airplane turns back once more, this time roaring over the narrow alleys of the lower fortifications where the assaulters are thronged in so tightly that they couldn’t scatter even if they heard Skinner’s desperate command. Helplessly, Skinner and Saifullah watch humans and mutants alike look up at the airplane, coughing and trying to wipe the noxious substance off their skin.

Then several bold but stupid dushmans fire their weapons at the airplane that is now ascending and turning away. Their muzzles flash. A split second later, they go up in an orange ball of detonation that quickly engulfs the ruins and the assaulters among them.

Sensing what’s coming next, Skinner grabs the arms of the two smiters still at his side and begins to run towards the hillside where the caves offer the only way to escape their impending doom.

Saifullah helplessly watches them run away, brutally pushing the men around them and crushing those who don’t make way fast enough. He wants to scream but falls to his knees with a cough that turns into vomiting. Even in his wretched state, he can hear the whizz of incoming mortar shells.

For a second, he sees the hilltop fortifications standing out from the smoke and fiery inferno like an island in a stormy sea of fire. Now he knows that the Prophet’s banner will never fly over the accursed infidels’ stronghold. He shakes his fist in a last, threatening but powerless gesture.

Then a full volley of high explosive incendiary shells impact, fired just a few seconds ago from the Tribe’ 81mm mortars. Saifullah wants to die calling on his God and emits a ghastly scream — but it comes without any meaning, since it is just the air being sucked from his lungs a split second before the earth trembles and the whole valley goes up in a thundering firestorm.

When it is over, his grisly corpse is still standing in the same position: burnt to the bones, the skeletal fist raised and the jaws on the blackened skull peering out from the charred flesh, resembling a horrifying grin — like a statue sculpted by the devil itself.

“How’s your wound?” Ferret asks Buryat after the airplane has landed on the Alamo’s airstrip. To everyone’s surprise, the pilot has managed to touch it down safely — no crash landing, no runway overrun but a landing almost as soft as the last minutes had been rough.

“Hurts,” the Dutyer says with a painful grimace. “Tribe medic said it’s gonna be all right, but I won’t be able to dance for a while.”

Ferret gives him a helping hand as they walk down the lowered ramp. “Too bad! I’m sure you’d make helluva sight wearing ballet stockings.”

“You Freedomers are so gay . ”

“We do love raping Duty in the butt if that’s what you mean.”

“See? You just admitted it. Now stay away from me or I face punch you.”

“Nah, handsome,” Ferret replies patting his back. “ You stay away from me, or prepare your buttocks.”

But Buryat keeps holding on his shoulder as he drags his wounded leg and staggers to the runway.

Next to them, lined up and blinking in the sunlight, the disarmed Bandits obediently leave the airplane under the watchful eyes of Lieutenant Collins’ scouts.

“Move, trench coats, move!” team leader Walker shouts. “ Keep your hands up! Ruki ver or whatever it’s in Russian!”

In the cockpit, the relieved crew exchange handshakes before beginning the process of powering the airplane’s systems down.

“Phew! I’m done flying missions for Sultan,” the pilot tells the navigator. “The last moments reminded me of Kamran, back in ’89.”

“Wasn’t that an Antonov like this crashing and burning out?” the radio operator asks.

“My point exactly,” the pilot responds. He kisses his fingers and touches the icon fixed to the overhead instruments. Then he pats the yoke, giving thanks to the airplane itself. “Good girl!”

“Made in Ukraine,” the navigator says with a grin.

“Thank you, captain,” Tarasov says exchanging a handshake with the pilot. “Hell of a flight.”

“I guess you had a hell of a journey too,” Major Degtyarev says.

Before replying, Tarasov gives his old comrade a bearish hug. “Alex—how bloody good to see you! What the hell were you doing among the Bandits?”

“Covert mission. I was to find out where they are all migrating to in the Zone. I could inform the SBU about the Container Warehouse and their destination, but they wanted to catch Sultan red-handed, while still in Ukrainian airspace. Gunships and fighter jets were already in the air to intercept them but he outsmarted us by using Belarusian helicopters. We couldn’t touch them. So I decided to join his horde and see what they were up to in the New Zone.”

“I knew you’d make it here sooner or later.”

“Where are we exactly?”

“You remember the briefing you gave me? You mentioned renegade Americans. Looks like we’ve just saved them,” Tarasov triumphantly says. “Makes it easier for me to vouch for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tarasov wants to laugh but then just gives Degtyarev a sad smile.

“That you may live. You are SBU, Alex, and if I did this by the Tribe’s book I’d have to treat you here as a potential enemy. You will see many secrets. If I vouch for you and you ever get loose-lipped about what you’ll see here, I’ll forfeit my honor and probably my life too. Got it?”

“Did you actually join them, Misha?”

“I’m a free Stalker now but a friend of the Tribe.”