Two helicopters leave formation and fly towards the helipads and the Cement Factory. The first hovers over the Bandits’ compound.
“Step back! Back!” Jack’s Mercenaries shout and push the mass of awed Bandits away from the landing zone. Their orders are easier to read from their lips than heard in the now thundering roar of the engines.
The helicopter slowly descends and Tarasov, although standing far away, feels the propulsion of the rotor blades—each with a diameter of 32 meters—hit him like a gale. Before its wheels touch the ground, the Mi-26 gracefully turns its tail to the gate of the Warehouse to make loading easier. By now the flag on its tail can be clearly seen, as well as the huge red cross on the light grey fuselage.
“They’re from Belarus!” Tarasov hollers through the noise. ”Look at the green-red ensign and WE registration number on the tail! Belarusian Red Cross!”
The engines are cut but it still takes several long minutes for the heavy rotor blades slow down and come to a halt. Then the tail ramp opens and Sultan appears in the helicopter’s cargo bay, flanked by several tough-looking men in heavy armor suits. A mighty cheer goes up from the Bandits.
“He’s a scoundrel but must be an organisational genius too,” Tarasov says shaking his head.
“I still don’t get that assassin thing about Nooria,” Pete says looking around. “Hey—where is she?”
Tarasov and Hartman share alarmed an look. Pete is right – while they were admiring the landing helicopters, Nooria has disappeared.
68
Container Warehouse, Exclusion Zone
Had rage not clouded her better judgment, Nooria would have thought twice about what she is about to do. Forcing her way through the crowd of Bandits with her elbows, she gets closer and closer to the helicopter where Sultan is standing, wearing a long brown leather coat and surrounded by heavily armed men. Knuckles is next to him, sporting a grey exoskeleton with a winged skull on the breastplate.
“Brothers!” Jack’s excited voice bellows from a megaphone. ”Our leader has kept his word like always! In minutes, we will be on our way to find riches you’ve never dreamed about! Brothers – be proud, Sultan is with us!”
Excitement runs high among the Bandits. The mostly strongly built and tall men don’t pay the fragile woman much attention, and also cover her from the view of Hartman who desperately scans over the mass to find her.
Nooria doesn’t even think of her companions. Obsessed with the thought of avenging Larissa, the only person who treated her with friendship in the outside world and perhaps even more so by the humiliation of being blackmailed into giving her word of honor to kill the man she loves, her thoughts are fixed on thrusting her blade into Sultan’s heart.
_____________________________
Tarasov has checked the containers all the way back to Jack’s now abandoned headquarters. His search proved futile. Nooria was at none of the smothering campfires, neither in the garage or the warehouse from where Bandits are carrying crates of equipment and ammunition boxes toward the helicopter.
Out of some subconscious reason, his eyes are for a moment fixed on the hunting knife of a Bandit watching over the remaining crates in the warehouse. Jack’s words crackle through the megaphone, announcing Sultan’s arrival, and a sudden thought comes to Tarasov’s mind.
She hates him, he thinks. She cursed him and wants to kill him.
He runs toward the helicopter, taking a shortcut through the container maze to avoid the Bandits blocking the area between the helicopter and the warehouse with all the equipment waiting to be loaded.
She will get herself killed. I must stop her. Now.
Tarasov is about to navigate through the last narrow passage between two containers when two men block his path.
“What’s the hurry, vasha?”
The two Chechen mobsters give him a grim smile and draw knives. Like a ghost, the third one appears on the top of the container and jumps down, blocking Tarasov’s way backward.
The Chechen grins. “I have a blade with your name on it.“
“Brothers! My proud children!”
Sultan’s words and the applause that follows them echo in the maze of railway containers. They are all empty now, with all Bandits gathering at the giant helicopter to hear what their leader has to say. Tarasov knows that no help will come, neither will there be anyone to witness this fight.
“My Bandit brothers, let me address you first.”
Tarasov steps to the container to his right and turns to face his three attackers.
“I say to all of you, you have been treated to this day with no respect. Borov, Yoga and the other so-called leaders before me—you’ve earned them money, made them rich, and asked for little. It is time for you to stand up!”
The Chechen to his left stabs at him. Tarasov dodges the attack with a quick bend backwards. His left hand grasps and twists the arm holding the knife, forcing the Chechen to bow and expose his temple where Tarasov delivers an incapacitating edge-of-hand blow with his right.
“I see Renegades amongst you. For so long, your small faction has been fighting in vain for a place under the sun. Those times are over—no one will kick you around anymore!”
His left hand goes up to block the frontal stab by his nearest opponent, glides down the forearm, grasps the wrist and twists it to make the Chechen fall. The fingers holding the knife loosen in pain and in the next second, the weapon is in Tarasov’s left hand.
“I see many brave Dutyers here. Your officers will no longer send you to face the evils of the expanding Zone, while generals like Voronin cowardly hide in their bunkers!”
The third aims at his abdomen, putting all his strength into it as he bends forward. Tarasov steps back to dodge the stab, grabs the forehead of his attacker with his right hand and kicks his feet to make him lose balance. The knife in his left pierces through his attacker’s windpipe. In the next second when he falls on his back, the Bandit opens his mouth to emit a cry of pain but instead of the cry blood begins to gush.
“I rejoice over seeing the best of Freedom with us, who were smart enough to realize that no freedom comes from anarchy.“
His first attacker has shaken off the effects of the incapacitating blow to his temple. Getting to his feet gives Tarasov the one second he needs to draw his silenced rifle, work off the safety and pull the trigger.
“All of you, forget your old factions! Find true camaraderie that exists only among brothers who share their best and direst moments alike.“
The third mobster is writhing on the ground, his left hand clutching his dislocated right wrist as if that could ease the pain. The curses he is hissing turn into a low cry of despair when he sees Tarasov taking aim at him. For a split second, he stares at the rifle barrel like a paralyzed rabbit would at a snake that’s about to strike.
“I’m proud to lead you. We shall go to the New Zone together and have bloody adventures.”
However, the Val has no visible muzzle flash to make him see it coming, neither does it emit any noise that would make anyone nearby aware of another short burst being fired.
“And we will suckle on the New Zone’s riches as on a whore’s tits until we can suckle no more, and then, when enough Stalkers have died, we will be the masters! For if Stalkers will not give, we will take!“
A loud cheer follows Sultan’s words.
When Tarasov at last reaches the landing area and sees the tightly packed crowd between the containers and the helicopter, his heart sinks – there appears to be no chance to find Nooria in time. Nonetheless, he takes a deep breath and begins to fight his way through the crowd.
69
Open area close to Container Warehouse, Exclusion Zone
Sultan’s bodyguards appear to have fallen to the excitement hanging in the air, or maybe it is just negligence towards her fragile and apparently unarmed figure, but not even Knuckles seems to notice Nooria when she at last emerges from the mass and approaches the ramp a few meters away. All she has to do
now is to slip in, approach Sultan from the back and let her blade do the rest. Quick and small as she is, she might even have a chance to get away in the commotion that would surely follow. She is too focused on the kill ahead to detect the sinister, exoskeleton-clad Bandit following her to the helicopter.
“And now, brothers, let us leave the Exclusion Zone and wreak havoc on the New Zone,” Sultan says merrily into the megaphone’s mouthpiece. ”Don’t be surprised to see the Red Cross on these helicopters! We are on a humanitarian mission because we will put many suffering Stalkers out of their misery! ”
The thundering laugh and applause of more than a hundred men follow his words.
Nooria is already behind the kingpin and his bodyguards. Sultan replies to the cheering crowd by darting his fists into the air.
“Sultan! Sultan! Sultan!”
He repeats the triumphant gesture as the crowd shouts his name. Nooria knows: if she stabs him, a jerk in Sultan’s body would inevitably follow. If stabbed at the right moment, this gesture might hide the convulsion. It could be done in a second – just stab, turn the blade around, pull it out and hide it. With Sultan being now only a few steps away, her stomach is in knots. She swallows to get rid of the nausea mounting in her throat.
“Yes! Onward to the New Zone, brothers!”
Not even the cheer of the crowd can make Nooria ignore the wild thumping of her heart when Knuckles finally notices her and gives her a bow. Then he turns his eyes towards the crowd again. After sliding through two bodyguards behind Sultan, she is at last there, right behind him.
Apparently done with addressing his followers, Sultan waves his hands once more.
Nooria recognizes the now or never situation. Standing right behind Sultan, her right hand slips under her coat and reaches for the blade in her belt.
A steely hand grabs at her arm. Looking up, Nooria sees the Bandit who gave them the suspicious gaze upon arrival.
“No!” he whispers, audible only to her through the cheer the Bandits are giving to their leader.
She still could do it as long as the cheering lasts. Determined not to waste this last chance, Nooria uses her free hand to unsheathe the blade.
Suddenly she feels as if someone has punched right into her stomach. Insurmountable nausea comes over her and forces her to bend forward and grab at Sultan’s coat. The exoskeleton-clad Bandit lets go of Nooria’s arm.
The kingpin turns around. Immense surprise appears on his face when he sees Nooria vomiting and desperately clutching at his spoilt trench coat.
Sultan gives one of his jovial laughs. “Margarita! Airsick already? We didn’t even lift off!”
He fishes a pack of paper tissues from his pocket. Seeing that she is still suffering from the cramp and utterly embarrassed as well, he cleans her face up without hesitation.
“Congratulations on your speech, boss,” Jack says. “Especially the suckling on tits part.”
“That was from Gladiator, one of my favorite movies. Educate yourself, Jack… but first clean up this mess.” Sultan lets the tissue fall into the pool of vomit at Nooria’s feet. “You don’t want to fly with this tin can smelling like this, do you?”
An excited Bandit appears. “Sultan! Someone has whacked Zhyogal and two other Chechens!”
Sultan darts an angry look at Jack. “What the hell is going on in your outfit?”
“Dunno, boss,” Jack says looking up while wiping Nooria’s vomit from the metal plate. “Must have been that darkie who whacked Zhyogal’s brother.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nooria’s buddy did it. A darkie looked at her in the wrong way, or so the man told me.”
Sultan grimaces. “Chechens, huh? The air smells much better without them. I could never trust them… one can’t turn away from them without the feeling of getting stabbed in the back the very next moment.”
He turns to Nooria who has more or less recollected herself in the meantime. “You all right, Margarita?”
“Yes, Sultan,” she replies avoiding his eyes.
“Good. Tell your buddy he has my gratitude for that Chechen job. Where is he?”
Before Nooria could even think about a fitting reply, a voice in English bellows at the ramp.
“What the fuck happened here?”
Sultan gives the tall man in a Stalker suit a curious look. His steel-blue eyes sparkle with anger under dark, bushy eyebrows and gray hair. Another Stalker is standing next to him, barely reaching to his waist but with a similarly defiant look on his young face.
Sultan’s bodyguards have already aimed their rifles at them. “Step back!”
“They are with me,” Nooria quickly says and gives the Top and Pete a faint smile to let them know she is all right.
“Was it this big guy who broke that Chechen’s neck?”
“No.”
“I wonder what this giant would be capable of,” Sultan says looking the Top up and down. ”It’s good to see that you are in safe hands. You still have my present, I suppose?”
Nooria has to cough. “The gun? It is… a friend is taking care of it.”
“Good God, that was expensive! Don’t give it to anyone. It might get stolen with all this cutthroat scum around!”
Respectfully, Knuckles touches his boss’ arm. “Sultan, the chopper’s ready to take off.”
“Excellent. Margarita, I’ll insist on seeing that friend of yours when we have more time. I always have a good business proposal for men who can easily whack three darkies. And as you see, I keep my word – the helicopters will bring you and our brothers to Minsk first and then a cargo airplane to the New Zone. I hope you were right and we’re not running into trouble at Charikhar.”
“It should be safe, Sultan.”
“I trust you will also come up with your end of the deal. Matter of honor, yes?”
Nooria suddenly turns away from the kingpin to wretch once more. Jack slaps his face and cusses in Ukrainian. Amused, Sultan claps.
“Let’s get moving, patsani! Davai, uhodim!”
Seeing Sultan and Knuckles moving down the ramp, Nooria calls after him. “You don’t come with us?”
Sultan waves his hand, smiling. “See you soon, Margarita!”
Lined up in long rows the Bandits move into the Mi-26. The cavernous cargo compartment is only dimly lit by the three bullseye windows on either side and the slightly domed, dark grey fuselage appears like a church interior. Their helicopter is a version designed to haul vehicles and goods, and therefore lacks any seating, causing the Bandits to exchange a few swears as they hustle for space. A Belarusian aviator, probably the crew chief, attempts to keep order but is brusquely pushed aside.
Among the Bandits comes Tarasov with the balaclava pulled over his face. He quickly joins Nooria and the two Americans flanking her. The three of them were lucky enough to occupy a place by the two bigger windows behind the pilots’ compartment.
“You… what were you thinking, huh?” Tarasov says in a low voice when he takes his place next to Nooria. “Don’t give me that look! I know what you were up to!”
“I hate him,” Nooria whispers.
“What if you succeed and his henchman tear you to pieces?”
“I had a plan.”
“Did you want more than a hundred Bandits to start shooting at us?”
“No.”
“Did you forget that this is the only way back to the New Zone?”
“For a moment, I did. I’m sorry, Misha.”
“Gospodi,” Tarasov sighs and shakes his head. “Never ever do that again, please. You scared us shitless!”
“Aw mate, ye know how wimin are,” Pete says with a smile, imitating Finn Sawyer’s accent.
“Guess there’s no flight attendant to serve us breakfast,” Hartman says. He smiles, apparently amused over Tarasov’s half-hearted attempt to reprimand Nooria, and takes a dry sausage from his rucksack. “Havchik, anyone?”
The Mi-26’s massive twin turboshafts begin to h
owl.
“Your Russian is improving,” Tarasov says accepting a slice of sausage. He is about to bite into it but then offers it to Nooria who gladly takes it.
“Yeah… but that’s about it. Chances are I won’t hear your lingo for a long time,” Hartman replies.
The Bandits break out in loud cheer when the helicopter lifts off. Compared to the stomach-knotting ascend of the Mi-24 gunships that Tarasov is used to, the giant helicopter’s take-off can barely be felt. The feeling of flying in a helicopter only sets in when the Mi-26 gains an altitude of two hundred meters and the accelerating engines make it tilt its nose slightly downwards.
Ferret is sitting not far from them. He asks a Bandit for his guitar and begins to tune it. Expecting a spirit-lifting song, everyone cheers around him.
“Freedom’s secret weapon!” Buryat snorts next to him. “He’ll kill us all with that racket!”
The others browbeat him into silence and Ferret begins to sing. He does his best to make himself heard in the noise of the engines, and the song is known well enough to make more and more Bandits join in.
S pokorennikh odnazhdi nebesnih vershin
Po supenyam obuglennim na zemlju shodim,
Pod protselnie zalpi navetov i lzhi –
Mi uhodim, uhodim, uhodim!
Proshchaite gori vam vidnei…
“What’s that song about?” Pete asks.
“It was written when we moved out of Afghanistan.”
Tarasov looks at the singing Bandits with a bitter grin. They seem to ignore that this song with a powerful melody is actually full of pain, fittingly for a song about the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan; although a second thought tells him that for Bandits, who were after all loathed and hunted by every faction in the Exclusion Zone, going into the wastes of the New Zone must appear like a ride into the promised land. Probably for many Stalkers who joined them as well—some tired of a Loner’s perilous fate, others weary of the pointless and never-ending faction wars. He begins to translate the lyrics, occasionally thinking over an odd word for a heartbeat.
“From the once conquered celestial heights we are descending to earth, down the charred stairs… Through the salvos of slander and lying—we’re leaving, we’re leaving, we’re leaving! Farewell mountains, only you can see to tell who we were in that remote land, it is not up to a one-sided judge or mere bureaucrat… to judge what makes up our pain and glory.”
“Outstanding,” the Top quietly remarks.
“My friend, let’s have a toast tonight, first to those who made it through the latest raid, the second to the dead, for whom the wind is silently grieving—we’re leaving, we’re leaving, we’re leaving!”
“It sounds beautiful,” nods Nooria.
“Farewell mountains, only you can see to tell who we were in that remote land, the price we’ve paid and what sorrow, which friends we’ve had to leave behind, what enemy escaped the finishing blow, and tell how our sorrows, hopes and pain will mark and form future people’s mind.” Tarasov swallows. “Well… that’s it.”
“Truly outstanding,” Hartman says. “The guy who wrote it must have know a thing our two about that war. This song could be so much our own!”
“He did and it could.”
“And those Bandits, all singing it as if they’d understand!”
Tarasov shrugs. “Maybe they do understand, if they refer to the Zone with the we’re leaving part.”
“I’m with the Top, for once,” Pete says, though his for once sounds as if he had to force himself into saying it. “It’s beautiful… and the chorus, all that robust C major, it is… so fitting.”
“Don’t tell me you had a Fender Stratocaster once,” Tarasov says wrinkling his forehead.
“Hell no, but—great song, anyway.”
The Top appears slightly confused. “Yes, I can hardly wait to be back to our Zone. But I don’t really know what to do once we’re there—oh damn that song. I no longer know what to do about the scavengers, even if they are Bandits. I was so sure about them being just scum. Now… I just don’t know any longer.”
Tarasov turns back to face the window. By now the Jupiter Area, with all the derelict railroads and industrial buildings appears below like a scenery for model trains. To their right, another Mi-26 hovers over the dilapidated cement factory, and the third one should be about to take off from the helipads. Their own helicopter proceeds to the north, passing by the Stalker refuge of Yanov Station where abandoned trains still rust away on the tracks overgrown with grass. Then, as the helicopter turns to the west, they fly over the low hills where only heaps of rubble and brick chimneys mark the place of a village that had to be buried for the high amount of radiation it received back in 1986. The glowing anomalies among the ruins appear threatening even from far above. Then their flight continues to the west, giving a wide berth to the CNPP that looms on the far horizon.
“Yes, I’m leaving,” he murmurs to himself.
The Top notices his feelings and gives him a pat on the back. “Mikhailo, if you dare get sentimental now—I’ll throw you out of this helo!”
Tarasov is not in the mood to appreciate Hartman’s rude but well-meant remark. “You wouldn’t dare, Top... you just wouldn’t dare.”
He feels like heaving a long, sad sigh, eventually keeping it inside and only mentally sighing when he turns his head away from the Exclusion Zone where, mixed with dull rain, the first snow begins to fall from an overcast sky.
70
Valley south of ruined Charikhar village, New Zone
“Strelok, yes… I met many remarkable men in the Zone. Ashot is so funny and Yar like a wise, old brother. Major Tarasov, that mean bully. You ever met him? No? Never mind… No one was like Strelok, though.”
Mac sounds pensive as she removes the sight cover from her F2000 assault rifle as the first step of field maintenance.
“He always used to say, you’re a girl after all as if I couldn’t kill anything just like him till I had enough ammo. I hated him for that…”
“You mean he was patronizing you?”
With the barrel and optical part assembly now open, Mac begins to clean the moving parts with an oilcloth.
“Not exactly. I don’t know how to put it, actually.” She takes off the butt plate and removes the hammer assembly from the receiver part. “Partly patronizing, yes… but I wouldn’t call him chivalrous. I don’t know—he liked us making love the hard way.” The hammer makes a faint click as she releases it. She adds a few drops of weapon oil from a plastic flask onto the spring and carefully wipes it with the cloth piece. “At that time I was still a rookie with long fingernails. I used to dig my nails in his back but he just smiled, liking the violence of it—as if he wanted to assure himself that he could bear the pain.”
She starts to reassemble the weapon.
“If half of what I heard about his exploits is true, Strelok had no reason to prove that.”
“Yes, in the beginning… later on he became violent to me. First I thought, it’s because that usual Ukrainian macho thing. But it always came out of the blue, you know, one moment kind and gentle, the next one slapping my face and pulling my hair.”
“Uh-hum.”
Having finished maintenance, Mac reloads the rifle with a 30-round STANAG magazine.
“And so was his behavior too. I didn’t know any longer who I was with—the old Zone hand who has seen it all or a psychopath.”
Ahuizotl gives a shrug. “Maybe one thing doesn’t go without the other.”
“That’s what I thought, but then there are men like Uncle Yar. He is also a Zone legend but always calm, always radiating such a sense of safety. Or Shrink.”
“None of them have been through what Strelok has.”
“True. And I couldn’t help him. Jesus, brother, you have no idea how guilty I feel over leaving him…”
“Yeah. Guess it must have been tough on you.”
“It was tough love, yes. When I saw him for the last time,
I asked him if there would be a way to start things over. Outside the Zone if necessary, far away from all that shit that kept torturing his soul. He said never.”
“Don’t forget where you were,” the sniper says getting on his feet. “I’ll have a look outside but will be right back.”
“Bored of me, huh?”
The jackal lying lazily at Mac’s feet emits a yelp.
“Oh, Billy my boy… at least you never get tired of listening to me, do you?”
Ahuizotl doesn’t reply but heaves a long sigh when he raises his binoculars to survey the rocky valley. The sun has already set, turning the western horizon dark purple yet no stars are visible in the black sky. Scanning the land to the south, he realizes why the darkness is so gloomy.
“We have a dust storm approaching!”
Mac appears from the cave and takes the binocs. Though she has seen and survived many dust storms before, she gives a yell of surprise when she sees what is looming on the southern horizon.
“Oh my God!”
Still far away yet darkening the skies, a wave of radioactive dust and sand stretches out on the horizon. It dwarves the hills as it approaches and the two Stalkers watch it like fishermen would watch a tsunami thundering towards their boat on the open sea. The wall of sand moving towards them must be several hundred meters high. Thunder flashes in the giant wave that’s stirred up by an energy beyond human understanding.
Ahuizotl gabs Mac’s arm. “Back to the cave!” he yells. “Quickly!”
But before he can follow her into the relative safety, something catches his eye in the valley below.
“Look! Headlamps!”
A gale heralds the oncoming dust storm. Mac has to hold on the sniper’s shoulder as she looks in the direction where he is pointing.
A dozen men in heavy combat gear are approaching. They can’t see the dust storm from the bottom of the valley, but must have noticed the sudden gale because they attempt to find shelter.
“Goddammit!” Ahuizotl screams. “It’s a Tribe patrol! The last thing we’re needing now! Come, let’s hide before they see us!”
Mac is already flashing the red light on her torch. “Tribe or not, we must help them!”
“Are you out of your mind? They shoot Stalkers on sight!”
In her excitement, Mac cusses in her mother tongue. “¡Por Dios! They are humans like us, hermano! We must help them!”
“Fuck them! Let’s hide, now!”
By now the Tribals have noticed Mac’s light signals and start running up the hill to the cave, where Mac frantically waves the red flashlight.
“Here! Over here!”
Her voice is carried away by the gale that already swirls up dust and sand at their feet. The radiation meters start crackling. Mac spits dust and quickly pulls the exoskeleton’s hazmat mask over her face. The shapes of the fighters climbing up the hill appear like ghosts in the greenish dim of the NVGs. As if having closed her eyes after looking into strong light, her sight is flickering with millions of tiny stars. She knows it’s photons illuminated by the growing radioactivity.
The first man reaches the cave entrance and rushes inside without saying anything. The second halts and helps the others coming behind him up the last meters. By now the gale has grown so strong by now that it would kick a man off his feet. Several of the fighters are staggering to reach the safety of the cave, but the apparent commander of the patrol maintains his solid stance as he ushers the fighters inside.
A bad feeling comes over Mac and Ahuizotl: this one must be one of the Tribe’s fearsome Lieutenants, someone that Stalkers have nothing good to hope from. For a moment, Mac almost regrets her moment of compassion.
When the fighter and the two Stalkers finally move into the cave, the once spacious hideout has become packed with the three dozen men inside. Panting is heard through their US-made gas masks; the headlamps and rifle torches illuminate the Tribe’s heavy combat armor.
In a minute, the massive wall of energy hits the valley with a deafening thunder. Yet the Geiger counters don’t start screaming from reading extreme radiation values. The thunder and dust sweeps over the valley as if it would keep its full force to be unleashed later, further to the north. Instead of covering the New Zone with a cloud of destructive force, it just moves on like a wave would sweep over a boat in the sea without sinking it.
The thunder rolls towards the north. The beeping of the Geiger counters lowers and then falls silent.
The two Stalkers and the Tribe fighters eye each other for a moment. Then the patrol commander takes off his protective mask.
“You have our thanks,” he says wiping sweat from his tanned face where Ahuizotl’s headlamp illuminates a pair of blue eyes and several days’ worth of stubble. “I’m Lieutenant Collins. Me and my men are on a special recon mission.”
The sniper looks at him distrustfully. “Hunting for Stalkers?”
“It’s Bandits we’re after, actually,” the Lieutenant says with a grim smile. Noticing Ahuizotl’s long rifle he adds, “Guess that puts us in the same shoes—for now.”
71
Clandestine SBU flight, somewhere over the Southern Caucasus range
Since the Antonov An-24 cargo aircraft took off from the naval base at Sevastopol, Captain Maksimenko’s ears got used to the ear-splitting drone of its two turboprop engines. He had spent the first hour of their flight deep in dark thoughts, his low spirit reflecting the blackness of night outside. Now the first lights of dawn are falling over the snowy peaks of the Northern Caucasus below.
He glances at his watch. The small aircraft would still need about two hours to reach their destination at Termez. To distract himself from being depressed, he powers up his laptop and opens the file of the six soldiers from the punitive battalion who got assigned to his command.
Every convict’s file states chronic disobedience, bullying and drug abuse but some have their specialties.
Private Bronsky, rape and murder of a female medical worker
Private Volkov, assault on a commanding officer
Corporal Maslak, bullying a junior soldier resulting in death
Corporal Kushnik, use of aggressive interrogation methods resulting in death
Sergeant Tokarsky, rape of a junior soldier resulting in serious injury
Staff Sergeant Brechko, dealing with narcotics
Second Lieutenant Wargo, selling military equipment to criminal organizations.
In each file, the laconic headers are followed by a more elaborate description detailing each crime. They are written in the dry language of military prosecutors but even so are gory enough. A note adds, “Convicts have forfeited their ranks and privileges and are to be considered as privates, regardless of former ranks held.”
Maksimenko sighs.
My kind of scum.
He opens the briefing file received from Colonel Kruchelnikov. It contains a detailed description of the New Zone areas that had already been explored, most of it taken from a report by an agent with call sign Renegade. All that Maksimenko knows about him is that the agent was in some way affiliated with the Duty faction, who got the SBU involved when the arms dealing operation they were investigating turned out to be run by corrupt army officers. Maksimenko can well imagine that the sudden disappearance of Colonel Kuznetsov and General-Major Khaletskiy, two infamously corrupt officers, might be connected to the outcome of that operation.
His hopes of Kruchelnikov restraining himself from adding a last biting comment proves to be in vain, but at least it also contains a hint.
Maksimenko. I would sleep much better if the Russians accidentally downed your airplane like they did with one of our civilian jets a few years ago. They would do us the favor of getting the earth rid of our country’s worst scum, led by my Service’s biggest idiot. However, to justify the costs of sending you there I must give you at least a slight chance to succeed.
The documents obtained by Strelok in Lab X-18 two years ago were incomplete. However, I kno
w that missing parts refer to a facility maintained in Afghanistan during the war, evacuated when Operation Magistral failed. Its code was X-1 and the research leader was Professor Chubko. We cannot exclude the possibility that Strelok has handed that intel to Tarasov or, what would be worse, the Americans. You better hope that he will show up there. The current state of that facility is unknown. Location coordinates are 35°16'44.22" N and 69°28'48.92" E.
If you manage to stop Tarasov by whatever means necessary, maybe I’ll grease the wheels where I can to prevent you from punitive discharge – and worse.
The Captain’s thoughts move back to his last assignment in the Exclusion Zone. Acting on orders of Kruchelnikov, he led a search group on a thorough investigation into the activities at the Agroprom Research Institute back in May 2012, code named Project Truth. It revealed that the Institute was in fact a front for clandestine research conducted in the Exclusion Zone. However, further investigation was blocked by Lab X-18 being inaccessible at that time. Acting on a tip-off by Zone trader Sidorovich, the military launched a frantic operation to intercept Strelok who managed to find a way into the vaults, but he blasted his way through the Spetsnaz commando and escaped with any information he found there.
Recalling his successful mission puts the Captain in a somewhat better mood. It now appears to him that the sinister story behind the secret laboratories continues after being bogged down for two frustratingly long years.
They started experiments in Afghanistan. When the war was lost, they moved to the Exclusion Zone to carry on the research in all secrecy. Lab X-18 was the missing link. Now the circle is complete – I will not only settle scores with Tarasov but also bring Project Truth to its conclusion. It will be more than enough to redeem myself.
“Thinking of your girlfriend, eh? I guess she’s a tasty little dish!”
Maksimenko stirs. “What?”
He glances at the Spetsnaz who grins at him from the opposite side of the cabin. He is a tall and brawny man with a look on his face that betrays a knack for violence. Sergeant Vlasov sits next, keeping a weary eye on him.
The Captain quickly looks into the personal files with the photographs. The disrespectful soldier is the private who, according to his file, had raped a nurse in an ambulance before beating her unconscious and setting the car on fire to conceal the crime as an accident. Maksimenko feels nausea stirring up in his guts and not because of a sudden turbulence.
“What’s your problem, Bronsky?”
“You looked gloomy, komandir. Now you smile. Maybe she is smiling too with some lucky guys banging her, while you fly with us to the hell on earth!”
Bronsky laughs, but his laughter is cut short by Sergeant Vlasov’s elbow hitting him in his cardia. The private groans and would fall to the floor if the safety belt wasn’t holding him tight.
“Have more respect to your superior, maggot,” Vlasov says.
A crew member appears from the cockpit with the radio headset still on his head. He takes it off and gives it to Captain Maksimenko.
“Kiev is asking for you, captain.”
Maksimenko follows him to the cramped cockpit where the radioman plugs the headset back in.
“Maksimenko here.”
The captain’s guts knot themselves when he hears Colonel Kruchelnikov’s voice in the headphones.
“Captain, it appears to be your lucky day after all. You have a new secondary objective.”
“I’m listening, tovarishu polkovnik.”
“Finally, we learned from an undercover asset what the criminal gangs in the Exclusion Zone were up to all the time. A large number of them left this morning for the New Zone. The air force was standing by to shoot them down but the criminals used Belarusian helicopters, which we couldn’t touch. Luckily for us, the asset has managed to inform us about their destination. Do you copy?”
“Clear, sir.”
“They will use two An-12 transport airplanes, armed, using fake Belarusian commercial radar signs. Normally, the Russians would dispose of them quickly in their own airspace or over Kazakhstan, but Moscow has rejected our request to intercept them. The Uzbeks could do the job as well but as you know, the situation is getting out of control there.”
“Yes, sir. I heard there was an emission or something like that that swapped over from the New Zone.”
“You have two things to do. First, when arriving in Termez, do not play the hero. You are explicitly forbidden to get involved. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“Second, you have a new destination in the New Zone. The helicopter waiting for you at AFB Termez will take you to the proximity of an abandoned airstrip at Charikhar, north of Bagram. According to our asset, the two Antonovs are heading there. You will reckon the place and do as much damage as you can to the Bandits and their airplanes. We don’t want them to set up regular flights between here and the New Zone.”
Of course you don’t, Maksimenko thinks. That would ruin your lucrative artifact and weapon trade in the Exclusion Zone, you bastard.
“Understood,” he replies. “Any intel on the Bandits’ strength?”
“Two to three hundred, so you’d better get there before they land and hit them before they can deploy.”
Maksimenko frowns. “With a team of nine?”
“Making good on a big time failure requires big time heroism, Captain.” Hearing this, Maksimenko can well imagine the cynical grin on the Colonel’s face. “Be resourceful. If you get there quickly, you’ll have the advantage of surprise.”
“Can we count on air support?”
“God Almighty might send you angels if you pray. Everything else is a negative. Count yourself lucky that we could arrange that Mi-17 to get you there. When done with the airfield, move to your primary objective. Questions?”
“All clear, sir.”
“Good hunting. Out.”
72
Cargo area, Minsk International Airport, Belarus
The main terminal of Minsk International Airport resembles a broken half of a cogwheel where the six gates of the semi-circular terminal would be the sprockets. Not much can be seen from the impressive building from the cargo area where the three giant helicopters have landed; two Antonov AN-12BP transport aircraft, being prepared for flight, block the view of the Bandits who were ushered out to the tarmac after the short flight and now wait for instructions in the cold sleet.
The men share cigarettes and vodka bottles but the cold keeps creeping under the skin. Their cheerful spirit is gone.
Exhausted from spending the last night without a moment of sleep, Tarasov, Hartman and Pete feel the cold even more than the others. Tarasov is tempted to join the chatting men around them, spending the idle minutes until their trip continues with swearing over the cold and Sultan’s Belarusian ‘partners’ who make them wait in the freezing weather.
He waves Ferret and Buryat over to him and can’t suppress a smile while they approach. Although the two men had belonged to warring factions and constantly tease each other, they appear like cup and can.
“Guys, you remember what we discussed last night?”
The Stalkers nod.
“Do you have a plan?” Ferret asks.
“Jack has,” says Tarasov. He looks around to makes sure no Bandit can hear what he has to says, then jerks his head towards Nooria. “She told me about it during the flight. A bunch of Bandits are supposed to have secured an airstrip but Jack doesn’t appear to trust them. He wants us to go in first and see if the area is safe. How many men can we rely on?”
“You mean, Stalkers who joined the Bandits only for the ride?” the Dutyer asks.
“Exactly.”
Ferret scratches his stubbed chin. “Let me think. There is Vitka Tooth Fairy, Vaska Wireless, Ferret, Dingo, Dima Molotov—”
“In short, five or six men we can trust,” Buryat cuts in.
“That would be eight men including us,” Ferret observes.
Buryat gives him
a grin. “Six and two make eight – wow! You’re a math genius, man! Spent some time with the scientists at Yantar, huh?”
“You mean Dimitry Molotov?” Tarasov asks. ”He appeared to me like a veteran Bandit, not a disgruntled Stalker.”
“Maybe that is so, but let me tell you something.” Buryat looks around, then lowers his voice. “Two days ago, Jack sent him and a few tough guys into the tunnels under the Ventilation Complex, not far from where we’re heading. He thought there might be a valuable artifact there. Nine tough guys went in, one came out – guess who. Overheard him and Jack talking. Dima Molotov said zombies and tushkanos got the others. That idiot believed him. I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because once he turned away from Jack, Dima began to grin like a kid who did some naughty mischief. Guess he whacked the Bandits. I tell you, anyone who whacks nine Bandits for fun is a potential friend.”
“And did he find the artifact?” Ferret asks.
“Sure!” Buryat says to him. “He’s keeping it in his butthole for you to dig out.”
“It would be the three of us and maybe eight Stalkers,” Tarasov translates to the Americans. “Not enough.”
Hartman nods agreement. “Nope.”
“Rebyata, let’s do it like this,” Tarasov continues in Russian. “Make sure all the Stalkers we can count on board the same plane. When we land, we tell the Bandits to wait and move out first to check the situation. You got an idea of how many of them are already there?”
Ferret lowers his voice. “A few days ago I overheard Jack bitching at Bruiser. He wanted to brown-nose Sultan by taking a forward base but got his nose bloodied by a local faction. Jack was in rage when he heard about it.”
“Bagram Stalkers?”
“Some tough guys called the Tribe. Anyway, point is that he only left two dozen men or so behind to guard the airstrip. If we’re lucky, mutants have already eaten them.”
“If the Bandits only have a few men there, we can deal with them. So—we land, get out to check on the situation, meet that Bruiser character and kick his ass. The Bandits will see that there’s trouble and take-off in panic. Margarita told me the airstrip is close to Charikhar village. That’s north of Bagram.” Tarasov looks up to the cloudy sky. “Gospodi… it’s hard to believe that if all goes well, this time tomorrow we’ll be at Ashot’s bar.”
“Ashot?” asks Ferret with eyes wide open. “People told me he is living in a cave with a female bloodsucker!”
“Cut the bullshit, Ferret. Last time I saw your trader was through the ironsight of my assault rifle,” says Buryat. “Anyway, the plan is good. It only needs to work.”
“Go and gather our friends. Start a game of cards and say you want to continue it on the plane so that the group stays together.”
“But I don’t play cards,” Ferret says.
Like always, Buryat is quick to tease him. “Come on, buddy. Everyone will understand that a Freedomer needs to stick with the tough guys to cover his ass!”
Tarasov recaps the plan to his companions. Hartman has no better idea and Pete also agrees, only Nooria seems to be at odds with it.
“I want to kill Sultan,” she says frankly. “If we escape, I don’t know if I’ll ever have a chance!”
Tarasov frowns. “That has to wait. I’m worried, Nooria… If the Bandits appear there, soon we’ll have an all-out war raging. We must get back to the New Zone as soon as possible.”
“Why?” the Top asks. “A single squad of my warriors would wipe these scumbags out.”
“No doubt about that,” Tarasov says. “You know the difference between Bandits and Stalkers, Top, because you’ve been with me to the Exclusion Zone. But if the Bandits are foolish enough to harass the Tribe, the Colonel won’t make a difference between them and free Stalkers. As far as I know him, he will move to exterminate them all.”
Hartman bows his head. “That would be a dire mistake.”
73
Abandoned airfield east of Charikhar, New Zone
A gloomy dawn looms over the New Zone, making the wide-spread ruins of Charikhar village appear even more foreboding in the twilight. The weak November sun stays hidden beyond the dark clouds. Fog covers the mountain ranges to the west and grey mist wreathes over the plains east to the ruins where, barely discernible from the rocky earth, a landing strip is aligned due south. A few campfires burn among the decrepit buildings scattered around it. They might have been warehouses or barracks long ago, but by now have fallen to ruins. Only one has a makeshift roof made from wooden beams and rusty metal plates. A tall antenna extends through a hole in the roof.
On the top of a low hill about two hundred meters from the abandoned airstrip, there is the wreck of a mobile radar station. The tires of the URAL truck with a radio compartment on its flatbed have long rotten away and graffiti covers its rusty body. Anomalous moss is hanging like torn curtains from the antennae and radar dish and emits a faint green glow.
STALKER Northern Passage Page 6
