“Let me think,” she says patting her lips with her finger, ignoring the stare Jack is giving her mouth. “No, I don’t think Tribe will go there. It looks safe to me.”
“You better be right about that.” Jack unpockets a cellular phone and dials a number. “Sultan, it’s me. Margarita says the Tribe will probably not bother us there. Yes, yes, I know Bruiser said the landing strip is safe but he was an asshole. No disrespect meant. All right… okay, boss. I’ll ask her… Yes, everything is prepared. We move in one hour. Understood.”
He puts the phone away and gives Nooria an inquisitive look.
“The boss wants to know who your bodyguards are and if they’re also from the New Zone.”
“Misha… well, he is a Chechen, and two Americans… tall one is from Tennessee and kid from Los Angeles—”
“It’s not their damned curriculum I want to know but if they’re from the New Zone like you.”
Unsure about what reply would be best, Nooria decides to tell the truth. “Yes.”
Jack appears satisfied with her reply. “Excellent,” he says. “You will land first and secure the area before the rest of us moves in. Maybe this would be a good time for you to get a real weapon, no?”
“My blade is enough.”
“Bozhevilna,” Jack grumbles something disapproving in Ukrainian. “Whatever. Visit Limpid in the warehouse if you change your mind, but you better hurry. The first detachment is already moving out.”
“Where?”
“What do you think, Margarita?” Jack cheerily asks. “We’re flying to the New Zone today!”
67
The wind grows colder as the night slowly fades away and the eastern horizon begins to glow with soft pink. Beyond the far hills of Zaton, the silhouette of the CNPP looms in the pale sunrise. White frost covers the sparse grass growing on the cleared minefield where Tarasov and Buryat are dragging Abdul’s corpse. In a minute, his stiffening body lies among the grim yield of last night’s battle—dead Stalkers and Bandits laid out next to the command post. Their faces are covered with their bullet-torn jackets and trench coats to give them at least a modicum of dignity.
“Looks like it’s going to snow today,” Tarasov says warming his hands at the campfire. “Time for us to leave, really. The Zone is hell in winter. Mutants are starving and become more aggressive. Some anomalies are buried under the snow and you can’t see them—and when the snow recedes in spring, one often finds the body of Stalkers frozen to death months before.”
“Must have run out of vodka,” Pete says, shaking with cold.
“Just like we did,” Hartman says. “How’s your wound doing?”
“Hurts.”
“You’re lucky it’s just a flesh wound.”
“Hurts nonetheless.”
Tarasov is about to check if the bandage on Pete’s arm needs to be changed when they hear a shout.
“Hey! Patsani!”
One of Jack’s bodyguards appears below the grassy slope leading to the helipads and waves his hand. “Is da minefield clear?”
Tarasov waves back and points to the spot where Abdul fell and from where their own footsteps lead to the safety of the helipad’s tarmac. “Follow that path, just in case!”
When more armed men appear from the direction of the Container Warehouse, Tarasov notices with surprise that it’s not just a patrol coming to occupy the helipads. Led by one of Jack’s bodyguards, several dozen Bandits are approaching. All are carrying heavy rucksacks.
“Good job with’em Stalkers,” their leader says when he gets to Tarasov. “They guna bother us no more. You can return to base now.”
“What’s next?”
The Bandit shrugs. “Dunno exactly. Jack told us to come ’ere with one third of’em bros. Another hundred are on da way to da Cement Factory. If y’ask me — Sultan’s guna send choppas to get us outta ’ere.”
“Yeah, but what kind of helicopter could carry so many people, plus cargo? There’s none in Ukraine capable of that. Besides, the New Zone is three thousand kilometers away!”
“Sultan says he’s guna take us there and ya better be trustin’ him. Da boss always keeps his word — ’nuff said!”
Walking back to base in the early morning mist, they pass by a veritable caravan of Bandits on their way to the helipads. All are cheerful and excited. However, all thoughts about the Bandits’ plans are momentarily forgotten when they find Nooria sound and safe at their campsite.
Jack’s Mercenaries don’t leave them much time to relax. They walk down the alleys between the containers and shout orders for everyone to get ready to move out. Still unsure about what comes now, Tarasov’s party gears up and follows them to the open area stretching out in front of the Bandit camp where a crowd of more than a hundred men has already gathered. Friar has climbed up a pile of ammunition crates and shouts out over the crowd.
“…and He cast upon them the fierceness of His anger, wrath, and indignation, and trouble, by sending evil angels! Behold, brothers, for today those angels will carry us to the heavens!”
“Is he crazy or just drunk?” Buryat asks.
“Probably both,” comes Ferret’s reply.
“At last we seem to agree over something.”
Then they hear a noise coming from the north. It sounds like a helicopter but is undertoned by the drone of engines that must be much bigger than those powering a Mi-24 or any other helicopter likely to appear over the Zone. The noise becomes louder and after a minute three dots appear on the misty northern horizon. As they get closer, Tarasov realizes they are indeed helicopters — but of a type he had never seen in action before. The roaming noise of engines fills the sky as the gigantic aircraft approach. Their broad bodies appear more like that of a cargo plane than a helicopter. The downwash of the enormous, eight-blade rotors whirls up vortexes in the thick morning fog.
“Holy mother of Jesus Christ,” Pete slowly says.
“Mil Mi-26,” Tarasov says in admiration. “The biggest helicopter in the world!”
Hartman sounds equally impressed. “Codename Halo. I’ve seen one lifting a Chinook, back at Kandahar in 2010. That helo is… massive.”
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.