STALKER Northern Passage Read online

“I CAN SEE ASHOT’S FACE THROUGH THAT WINDOW ON THE ANTONOV. CRAP! DOES HE EVER WASH HIS FILTHY DREADLOCKS?”

  “That was the intercom’s button, Shrink,” Uncle Yar patiently explains. “If you want to zoom in with the telescope, you need to press the other button. Here.”

  Standing in the window of the control tower that overlooks what had once been Bagram air base, now the free Stalkers’ home base in the New Zone, Borys the Shrink looks through the extra-large magnification telescope once more. He whistles in awe. “Now I understand how Captain Bone could keep a close eye over Bagram, literally!”

  Proudly, Uncle Yar looks the telescope up and down as if this masterpiece of German optical engineering would be his own work.

  “Repairing it was quite challenging but I loved having a break from broken weapons.”

  “Well done, Yar. Wish your hippie friend would have listened to you and came over here. I need to talk to him, actually.” Shrink lets himself sink into the swivel chair that had once belonged to Captain Bone. “That fake Dutyer had have a good life here before Tarasov kicked his butts.”

  “With all due respect to the major, I heard it different,” the technician says wiping his hands into an oily cloth hanging from his blue overall’s breast pocket. “Something about a former Monolithian sniper and a bunch of real Duty commandos downing Bone’s chopper and killing everyone on board.”

  “Either way, good riddance of Bone and his henchmen. You think Tarasov will ever be back?”

  “Ask me three different but easier questions.”

  “All right.” Shrink thinks for a moment, putting the tops of his fingers together. He lets the chair spin left and right. “First, how to install this telescope on top of the old control tower? I’m not a wanker like Bone was who probably watched the Stalkers in the shower tent while jerking off. Instead I need a relatively sober Stalker watching the surrounding area day and night.”

  “Can do. There’s a wrecked Apache chopper in the junkyard. Gutted, but still has the PPG glass-fiber cabin roof intact. Should come in useful for building a weather-proof lookout.”

  “Excellent. Second, I’m not a secretive bastard like Bone was. I want all Stalkers be able to use their PDAs, just like in the Exclusion Zone. Possible?”

  “Difficult. Enabling buddy tracking and messaging is just a flip of a switch away, but only in a 10 kilometer radius. You can contact anyone through Bone’s old radio up to 50 kilometers, but if we want more coverage for lesser mortals we’ll need signal relay towers.”

  “Find out how, where, and when.”

  “We’ll need a few volunteers to find locations for the relay towers. Do you mind if I broadcast a job opportunity?”

  “Not at all. Third question: I’m not Russian like Bone was. I’m Polish. A Russian boss might let his men drink everything that has alcohol in it but a Pole cannot let this happen. I need to analyze Ashot and find a way to make him improve his vodka. Any ideas?”

  “Maybe putting a gun to his head and telling him to stop watering it down,” Yar says, grinning. “Bone was Ukrainian, by the way.”

  “That would make him half-Polish and the shame on him would be even bigger.”

  “With all due respect, but as a Ukrainian myself I wouldn’t subscribe to the half-Polish thing.”

  “No offense meant. In any case, no self-respecting man with a single drop of Polish blood in his veins would allow Ashot serve that mutant piss.”

  “None taken if you make Mister No-good quit watering the vodka. I’ll see if there’s enough scrap metal in the wreck yard to weld a small tower from. Once I’m done with that and the scouts find a proper location, we can haul it there with the URAL truck.”

  “Let me know if you need a helping hand. I’ll go to see Ashot later…” Shrink stretches his back in the chair and puts his legs on the desk. “Get working, Yar, and now let me feel important. It’s cozier here than in the Asylum, that’s for sure!”

  10

  Mountain track west of Ghorband, New Zone

  “Hey dostan! Mikhahid be chizhaye aali gosh bedahid?”

  Under a clear, cobalt-blue sky one of the Tribe’s Humvee is driving down a narrow canyon. Painted over the sand-colored camouflage scheme in bright red letters, Raghead Reaper is written on its hood. The road is barely more than a track but with no anomalies in sight, the driver allows himself for more speed than what would be necessary to navigate along the bumpy track.

  Looking around from his tower atop the vehicle, the machine gunner drums his fingers on the built-in .50 caliber. He repeats his question through the intercom.

  “In mosik rak ast begzarid espeakerhaye MP3 player ra vasl konam! “

  “We are to supposed to talk English,” the fighter sitting in the vehicle commander’s seat replies. He is wearing a Marine corporal’s chevrons on the sleeve of his light combat armor. “Anderson’s orders. Practice, practice, devil pups.”

  “Okay,” the machine gunner replies. “Care for a little music?”

  The corporal looks at the GPS, then at the high, rocky slopes flanking the canyon. The area looks safe to him. “Let’s rock.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  The machine gunner grins. He slides into the compartment and plugs his MP3 player into the dashboard radio. At first, the song that made him rave sounds oriental, but each line recited by a hoarse voice begins with an forceful guitar riff.

  Barra barra hozd wel boghd ou zawara

  barra barra fezd wel l´hozd ma b´qa amene

  barra barra l´alach we ness menhoussine

  barra barra la horma dolm wet ouboudia...

  “Dig that, dude,” the driver says. “Sounds like Arabic. Like Ilias talks, the Moroccan guy in Lieutenant Trang’ squad. You got the lyrics?”

  The corporal’s radio crackles but with the music playing loud, neither he nor anyone else in the compartment is noticing it.

  “Papa Duck. Raghead Reaper, I have a drone image on you. You’ve taken a wrong turn about, uhm, half a klick back. Perform a U-turn and rejoin column.”

  “Positive. I found the lyrics on the net. Wait a sec, I’ve a printout somewhere—”

  He fishes a piece of paper from a pocket on his assault vest and starts reading it out loudly.

  Sadness, hate and the reign of tyranny

  Destruction, jealousy; there is no trust left

  Thirst and people are unhappy

  No honor, but oppression and slavery…

  “That’s cool, dude. Carry on!” the driver says jerking his head to the rhythm.

  “Love such patrols,” the machine gunner shouts back as he assumes his position behind the .50 caliber.

 

  The rivers dried up, the seas ruined the land

  Stars are darkened and the sun went down

  There are no trees left and the birds stopped singing

  There are neither days, nor nights left, darkness only,

  Desolation, hell, there is no beauty left

  “Did Driscoll write this between two kills?”

  “Papa Duck. Raghead Reaper, you are approaching a non-secured map grid. Turn back. Repeat: non-secure section ahead. Turn back!”

  “I don’t think so!”

  “Does he ever listen to music?”

  “A little Shakira might have a good effect on him.”

  The machine gunner laughs and shakes his hips. “Hell yeah! Make him waka-waka!”

  “Raghead Reaper, drone image shows an ambush prepared, I repeat: ambush ahead! Get your ass out of there, immediately!”

  “Listen, the last part is really awesome!”

  Time flows like a raging river, there is no honor left

  Ruin and war and the blood is flowing

  There are only walls left, no walls standing

  Fear and people remain silent

  Barraaaaa! Barra, barra, barraaaaaa!

  The music becomes more chaotic, aggressive even as despair and anger mount in the singer’s voice.

  “W
e should ask Bockman to build in subwoofers!”

  “We’re not on a joyride, for God’s sake. Better keep your eyes open!”

  With his gloved hands, the machine gunner drums the rhythm on the metal plates defending his position. A glimmer catches his eyes which instinctively open wide with alarm. He has only one second to shout.

  “Ahr-pee-geeee!”

  Then the rocket-propelled grenade impacts, lifting the vehicle and almost throwing it off the track. One single hit from an RPG wouldn’t be enough to destroy the heavily armored vehicle, but to the hapless crew their vehicle runs up a rock on the path that the driver would have certainly avoided if his eyes wouldn’t be darkened from the blood gushing from his forehead. The Humvee turns over, right at the moment when a second projectile impacts. Shaken, the corporal screams a desperate order.

  “Out! Defensive perimeter!”

  He doesn’t know that he is the last of his crew still alive. Neither does he have time to crawl out of his wrecked car when the third projectile impacts, penetrating the cracked bullet-proof windshield as if it were a sheet of paper and exploding inside the compartment.

  A minute later three men emerge from behind their cover overlooking the canyon. They wear the kit typical for Loner Stalkers in the New Zone: a light brown armored suit with a small oxygen flask and a camelback water container on the back, a gas mask shouldered and a shemagh woven from white and sand-colored fabric wrapped around their necks. One of them shoulders the RPG launcher and takes a short-range walkie-talkie from his assault west. The two others keep their AK-47 automatic rifles at ready.

  “Hedgehog here. They went off in a ball of fire. We’re ready to move in with barrels blazing.”

  “Good job. Be with you in a minute. Strip those suckers naked. Get whatever you can from the Humvee too. Ashot is waiting for you to unload all your crap on him.”

  The Stalker with the RPG grins. “Roger that.”

  One of his mates gives him a concerned look. “Are you sure it’s safe? More of them might be here soon.”

  “Nah, Vitka. The big guy said it’s safe around here and he knows this canyon like the back of his hand.”

  “You sure?”

  “He told me himself.”

  “And that makes you believe it?”

  “I’d believe even Winnie the Pooh if he showed me a way to loot a Humvee!”

  The three Stalkers hurry down the hillside. They have barely arrived at the smoldering wreck when they hear the sound of a heavy engine approaching.

  “What the—”

  Hedgehog is about to get his AKS-74U carbine from his shoulder when another Humvee appears, the hail of bullets from its .50 caliber killing his two mates instantly. He still has a moment left to curse the half-mutant who let them walk into a trap, no doubt to secure all the loot for himself alone, before three bullets hit his chest armor and pierce it together with the water pouch on his back. Blood and water mix in the sand.

  About two hundred meters away, the half-mutant Stalker watches the grisly scene through a pair of binoculars.

  “No happy end to anyone involved,” he quietly says to himself. “But then, this is just the beginning.”

  11

  Glendale, Los Angeles

  “We drive all the way to that place you call the Meat Market, Top?”

  “Negative. It’s been a busy day and I need to sleep off my jet-lag.” Driving by a fast-food restaurant, Hartman slows down. and steers it into the drive-thru lane. “Dinner time.”

  “Again?”

  “Nooria, my guts are rotting from deer steak, snake jerkies, First Strike Rations and especially HOOAH! Bars. Let my body stash on some real food for a change.”

  “I can’t believe you’re eating this shit,” Pete remarks looking at the restaurant’s red and yellow electric sign.

  “See, son? That’s why I have as much food back here as I can.”

  “It was exactly fast-food I was meaning.”

  The Top lowers his window.

  “Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?” a voice asks outside.

  “Three double quarter pounders with cheese, two Angus Deluxe Snack Wraps and a large Diet Coke, please. Anything for you, Mikhailo? One Cheeseburger and a mineral water. Nooria? Two more bottles of Dasani—”

  “Get a large Dr. Pepper for me,” Pete says, ”but not the diet shit.”

  “—and a large Dr. Pepper but not the diet shit.”

  “Sir,” the voice says, “please restrain yourself from using offensive language on our premises.”

  Hartman furrows his brows. “Uhm—what’s your name, please?”

  “Keisha, sir.”

  “Now listen up, Keisha. I am the customer, you the staff and I outrank you. You will serve me no matter if I call your food shit, your premises a shithole or you any name! Is that clear?”

  “Sir, I will have to call my manager if you continue to—”

  “Just kidding, Keisha. I love your meals, your restrooms are always clean and you have a very pleasant voice.” The Top takes a deep breath, lowers the window to the bottom and starts shouting into the microphone outside. “But if you continue lecturing me on political correctness instead of serving me within two fucking minutes, I swear I’ll go inside and tear the headphones off your ears to make you hear me better—I am hungry and want my order, now! Is that clear, Keisha?”

  A moment of silence outside.

  “I got your order, sir. Please proceed to the next window.”

  “That’s the spirit, Keisha, that’s the spirit! Add a coffee to my order. As black as it gets—I don’t want you to think I’m a racist. Thank you very much!”

  Three minutes later the Top switches off the engine in the parking lot and greedily unwraps his first burger.

  “That’s exactly the attitude why I went AWOL,” Pete says and draws on the straw in his coke cup.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” the Top asks munching on his burger.

  “You spend the best years of your life with barking commands and screaming at people who might be better and smarter than you. The Corps brainwashes you to think you’re the best and brightest in the universe but once you’re back to the real world, nobody gives a shit about you but you keep acting and talk like a brainwashed jarhead, thinking you are someone, not realizing that all this only makes you an arrogant jerk!”

  The Top stops chewing and looks into the rear view mirror to see Pete’s eyes. “It was that lecturing tone in that little ho’s voice that pissed me off. Maybe I overreacted. But think about how many jobless white males got refused just because that place had to take her to promote fucking diversity!”

  “Who would want to work at such a place anyway?” Pete asks with a voice that is now strangely trembling.

  “Pete, listen up,” Tarasov quietly says, turning back in his seat. “You might think that you are some very special person, deserving much better than what you got, and yes, maybe that special person is hiding deep inside you. But for God’s sake—have a look at yourself. Even the toilet cleaner in that restaurant is better off than you.”

  “It’s the restroom our Ukrainian friend is meaning, son.”

  “Stop calling me son, you asshole!” Peter screams back. “Thanks for your fucking coke, and now let me go! I need—I must—”

  “Uh-oh.” Tarasov sounds concerned now. “Someone’s trying to escape.”

  “That’s fucking right! Let me out of this fucking car! Let me out or I fucking kill you all! I have to—”

  “Look at me, my little brother.”

  Nooria’s soft voice relieves the mounting tension. The Top opens his next burger, Tarasov turns forward shaking his head in disapproval, and Pete, although reluctantly, looks into her eyes.

  “Pete, you are tired. Come closer, I will help you relax.”

  Slowly, like a stray dog that has been beaten all its life and now hearing the first friendly words in a long time, Pete moves closer to her.

  “Come closer
to me. I do not bite. You can rest your head on my lap. Yes, like this. Let me help you. I will heal you, Pete.”

  She places her hand on Pete’s sweating forehead.

  “Gosh,” Pete whispers, “your touch feels good.”

  “Here, drink water… lots of water,” she continues and puts the Dasani bottle to Pete’s trembling, chafed lips. “Close your eyes. Sleep… sleep now, my little brother.”

  “Who are you?” Pete mumbles. His panting slows down, and soon his hands too stop trembling. He sinks into a deep sleep, his head resting in Nooria’s lap. For a moment there is deep silence in the car.

  “Nooria, you never cease to amaze me,” Tarasov whispers.

  “Could we drive to a place to sleep, Top? It is not very comfortable here.”

  “Sorry, Nooria,” Hartman replies. “I had to pull back my seat to make place for my legs but even so, the steering wheel keeps hitting against my balls!”

  He puts the half-eaten burger back to the paper bag and starts the engine. “Let’s hope that motel room comes with a microwave.”

  12

  The Alamo (home base of the Tribe, ancient citadel of Shahr-i-Zohak aka Red City), New Zone

  Near to the tower overlooking the valley beneath the Tribe’s mountain fortress, about fifty warriors have gathered in the shade of a camouflage net spun out between two trees. Sitting on plastic chairs, they face a large map of the new Zone fastened to a wooden board.