Someone steps on his back, making Ahuizotl emit a whimper of pain. Two strong hands force him to cross his arms behind his back. In a moment his hands are tied.
“A Barrett M82,” the Spetsnaz commander says eyeing the rifle. “Lovely.”
“It’s an M107, moron!” Ahuizotl groans and looks up angrily. Now, with the Spetsnaz’ binoculars lowered and the eye protectors pulled up to his helmet, the face of his captor is visible. Before a boot presses against his spine and forces him to lie motionless with face to the ground, Ahuizotl makes out hardened features and a black eye patch over the left eye.
“Shut up and have more respect for the Captain,” says the soldier holding him down. “Right, Captain Maksimenko?”
“Glad you learned your lesson, Bronsky.”
Bolt action rifles are nothing new to Captain Maksimenko. He assumes a perfect position to fire the weapon while kneeling and scans the airfield. His hand stops in motion at a point and he makes a low whistle.
“I can’t believe our luck, Vlasov,” Maksimenko tells his sergeant. ”Look who’s dragging that body into cover.”
“Holy God!”
“No, it’s just Tarasov’s bitch. That means he’s also somewhere there… Let’s wait until they decimate each other, then we kill the rest. Hopefully our friend won’t get himself killed before we get to him… and yes, there he is, talking to another scumbag! Look — next to the ramp!”
“That’s him! Shoot him, Captain, and we’re on the way home!”
“I want him alive.”
Captain Maksimenko’s aim closes in on the target, wondering how he and several others could lay their hands on armor and fatigues which, though heavier, resemble those of the United States Marine Corps.
“We must take action now,” Sergeant Vlasov impatiently says.
“Relax, Vlasov, relax. Don’t spoil my pleasure of firing such a fine bolt-action rifle after all those shitty Dragunovs!”
Captain Maksimenko exhales and fires the rifle.
A smile plays around Sergeant Major Hartman’s lips when the ramp slowly begins to lower and the sunshine of the New Zone lights up the dim cargo bay. He gives Tarasov a wink.
“We’re back at last! All ready?”
Mikhailo Tarasov looks back at Pete and Nooria, whom the Colonel’s son was tasked to protect at any cost, then glances over to the Stalkers picked for the advance team. Ferret looks excited and clutches his G36 with white knuckles. Next to him like always, Buryat grins with self-confidence and pats his light PKM machine gun. The rest of the Stalkers aim their AKS-74Us, AKMs and shotguns, twinkling in the sudden light. Some have their gas masks on to protect them from the dust swirling outside and making its way into the airplane through the lowering ramp. The sinister Stalker called Molotov is among them. His face is hidden by the exoskeleton’s full helmet but he bows his head to signal his readiness.
Hope this SOB doesn’t shoot us in the back, flashes through Tarasov’s mind.
The ramp hits the ground. Clouds of engine smoke and dust swirl up. He waves his gloved hand forward.
“Davai vperyod, bratya! Forward, brothers! Forward!”
The team moves out, fast but not enough for the Top who has already dashed outside. He holds his Bulldog grenade launcher in one hand and waves with the other, yelling commands in English in all his excitement.
“Come on, you lame pussies! Move, move, move!”
Then he lets go of his weapon, gasps at his throat and falls.
Tarasov’s lips move faster than his thoughts.
“Ambush! Zasada! Spread out, spread out!”
“Back to the plane!” he hears a Stalker shouting through the deafening noise of the Antonov’s engines. It is Dima Molotov. Tarasov shouts him down.
“No! Spread out!”
Suddenly, he hears the noise of a rifle — it is not a Kalashnikov’s bark but that of a US-made assault weapon. It is coming from their flank.
“Get down!” he screams, “ambush from our right!”
As soon as he had shouted this, more rifles start firing from the left. A machine gun joins the fire from right, followed by more assault rifles from the same direction. Two Stalkers fall immediately.
“Get back to airplane!” he hears Nooria screaming. With Pete in tow, she appears right at Tarasov’s side.
“You get the hell back to cover!” he shouts desperately. “Now!”
But Nooria is already at the Top, trying to move the body that is more than twice her weight. Pete grasps the other arm.
“How was I supposed to hold her back?” he yells to Tarasov. “Knock her out?”
Pete drags Nooria away and back to the relative safety of the airplane. Held by his arms, Tarasov drags Hartman’s body up the ramp. A glance at the Top’s wound is enough for him to realize that he must have met death even before he collapsed.
“Go and help the Stalkers!” he yells at the Bandits inside.
Pinned down by hostile fire from three sides, they are in a desperate situation. Tarasov makes out the quick bursts of Buryat’s PKM but knows that he has barely a chance to fire the machine gun effectively without seeing the enemy, while the still unseen attackers don’t even have to aim properly to hit—any one of them is a target now, anywhere on the dust-covered landing strip.
“We’re sitting ducks!” he hears Ferret yelling, “do something, for God’s sake!”
Half a dozen Bandits try to rush to their help, only to be mowed down by the hostile machine gun fire.
“Back to that fucking plane!” Dima Molotov screams lying on his stomach and firing the Vintorez. “Now!”
Overcome by rage over his own helplessness, Tarasov fires a long burst from his rifle and is about to shout a command calling everyone back inside the airplane when he is almost kicked off his feet—not by a bullet but a jackal. The mutant that showed up from nowhere amidst all the confusion is not attacking him, however. It jumps up at him, yelping like a dog who sees an old friend. What appears even more astounding is that after a second, the hostile fire ceases.
Tarasov has no time to feel relieved, however. Someone shouts a command in English.
“Lay down your weapons!”
“Slozhit oruzhie!”
The voice repeating the command in Russian is that of a woman. The jackal is still jumping around Tarasov when he puts his AKM to the ground. Any further resistance would be not only in vain but utter suicide.
“Don’t shoot!” he shouts back in English and adds in Russian, “Bratya, lay down your weapons!”
“Fuck no!”
The defiant voice is that of Buryat.
“Hold your fire!” Tarasov shouts back. Through the dust that slowly settles with the propellers now standing still, he can make out the man who commanded them to surrender—it is a Lieutenant of the Tribe, aiming his M16 at him. Next to him, a Stalker kneels, holding an F2000 ready to shoot. The jackal jogs to the Stalker who pats its neck as if after a job well done. Seeing them together triggers distant memories in Tarasov’s mind. He repeats his command. “Lay down your weapons, brothers! It’s the Tribe!”
“One more fucking reason to fight to the end!”
“Don’t be foolish, Buryat! Put that weapon down!”
Reluctantly, the Stalkers and Bandits do as ordered.
“Identify yourselves!” the Lieutenant commands.
This is it then, Tarasov thinks. Oh Gospodi… and their Sergeant Major lies dead in the airplane. Such a fuck. Such a clusterfuck!
“Major Mikhailo Tarasov, friend of the Tribe, back from a mission given by the Colonel,” he exclaims. “Nooria is with us. So is the Colonel’s son, Corporal Peter Leighley, USMC.”