“What?!”
The Lieutenant sounds dumbfounded beyond measure. “Where’s the Top?” he asks walking to Tarasov. “He left with you!”
“What the hell are you talking about with the pindos?” a Bandit asks. He is standing with his hands held up, even though no such command was given.
Before Tarasov can reply to either of them, a faint whizz sounds for a split second, then another bullet from the sniper’s rifle takes a ricochet on the Lieutenant’s helmet and makes it fly off his head. The fighter staggers for a moment, then throws himself to the ground.
“Sniper!” shouts someone behind the ruins. It must have come from one of the Lieutenant’s men. “Sniper at six o’clock!”
It is not another shot from the sniper rifle that follows but a spray of bullets from two well-positioned, Russian-made machine guns on the hill. The bullets hit the already bloody ground around them — the Bandit with raised hands is the first to fall, then a Stalker screams.
“One to all teams,” the Lieutenant barks, “concentrate fire! Hilltop, six o clock! Fire! Fire everything you got!”
The Tribe fighters, until now hiding behind the safe cover of the ruined buildings that line up along the runway, return fire. But now it becomes apparent how few they are, and both Tarasov and the Lieutenant realize in an instant that what firepower had been enough to wreak havoc on the Stalkers in the open is far from enough to fight the new enemy who has the higher ground.
“Grab your weapons!” Tarasov hollers. “Fire at the hill!”
The Antonov’s engines howl up and the ramp is raised — the airplane is apparently preparing to turn around and take off.
“Pete! Pete!” he screams, hoping that he can make himself be heard in the gunfire and the growing howl of the engines. “Stop the airplane! Hold it back!”
A Tribe fighter fires a grenade but it falls too short of the hilltop position. A Bandit goes down without a sound as another bullet from the sniper rifle hits him.
Bandits, Stalkers and Tribals, who have been fighting each other just a few minutes ago, now try to fight off the new enemy together.
“One down!” Dimitry Molotov’s voice almost sounds calm among all the confusion. “Patsan, I told you to get back the airplane, huh? What about now?” He reloads his Vintorez and makes a dash for the nearest cover.
The Antonov has almost turned into take-off position with its pilots having no regard for the dead and dying men scattered on the ground when it suddenly halts. The ramp is lowered once more.
“Ferret! Buryat!” Tarasov yells to the two Stalkers relentlessly firing at the hilltop. “Pass the word — fall back! Move back to the airplane!”
“Bring up your men!” the Lieutenant shouts. “We will storm the hill!”
“That’s just madness,” Tarasov shouts back. “Take your men to the airplane, Lieutenant, and get out of here with us!”
“No! We will kill those motherfuckers!”
The female Stalker’s F2000 fires a long burst from the cover of the radio shack. Ejected cases rain from the rifle’s front.
“If he says so, Collins, we go!” she yells.
Tarasov’s dry mouth opens in surprise. “Mac?!”
“Yeah, pleased to meet you again! Now let’s all haul ass to that damned plane!” Aiming through the built-in scope she fires two short bursts. “Scratch one, but there must be more!”
“What the fuck happened to your sniper buddy?”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant! I’ll worry about him as soon as I’m done surviving this shit!”
“Fucking traitor,” Collins curses and barks a command into his radio. “All teams! Fall back! Get into the airplane!”
Tribe fighters appear from the ruins, some of them firing their weapons as they drag a fallen comrade with their free hand.
“No one gets left behind!”
Tarasov shouts the same command in Russian. “Nikomu ne ostavit!”
He sees Ferret helping Buryat to the lowered ramp; the former Dutyer appears to be wounded in his leg. A Stalker from the advance squad crawls behind. He grabs and pulls him to his shoulders.
“Help me, brother!” another wounded man screams. “Give me a medikit!”
“Get one yourself once we’re off here,” someone yells back at him. Tarasov looks back and sees Molotov lifting the wounded Stalker.
“Don’t know about you, patsan, but I don’t want to stay here! Move!”
With most of the men still alive back to the airplane, the attackers’ machine guns begin to target the Antonov itself. The bullets tear through the wall of the fuselage, killing men who already believed themselves in safety inside. Tarasov immediately thinks of Nooria.
“Here!” Pete yells waving his hand. “Into the cockpit!”
But first Tarasov has to help up a Stalker and a Tribe fighter up the ramp that slowly closes as the airplane, still slowly, moves on the runway.
Having pulled the last man aboard, the two officers share a look of both pain and relief as they battle for breath. Tarasov gets to his feet first.
“On me, Lieutenant!”
Collins follows him forward but when he sees the body that caring hands have put on the conveyor belt and covered with a trench coat, he cries out in despair.
“Oh dear Lord Jesus, this ain’t happening, man — this can’t be happening, man! This isn’t happening!”
“Let’s focus on those still alive!” Tarasov snaps at him. “Mac! Molotov! Keep your eyes on the Bandits! Lieutenant, I want your men do the same!”
“Watch these fuckers,” Collins barks to his fighters. Three of them lie wounded on the floor, but thanks to their better armor they are in better shape than the Stalkers and Bandits.
More bullets hit the airplane.
“Tell that damned pilot to pull her up!” Collins shouts.
“Lieutenant, do any of your men know how fire the tail gun?”
“I do,” Molotov says.
“Get to the turret and suppress those damn machine guns on the hill!”
The Lieutenant yells at his two corpsmen. “Sorensen, Gajda! When you’re finished with our own, see what you can do about the scavengers!”
“We are Stalkers! Not scavengers!” Mac angrily remarks. She has her rifle pointed at the surviving Bandits. Her jackal gives the Bandits a threatening growl.
The aircraft slowly accelerates. Bullets pierce the fuselage and Tarasov’s nose suddenly detects a pungent smell.
“Shit! They must have hit our fuel tank!”
At this moment, the hill gets into the tail cannon’s fire angle, at last enabling Molotov to return fire from the twin 23mm cannons. “That’s it, man!” a Tribe fighter shouts over the earsplitting rattle. “Blast them! Blast those motherfuckers!”
At last the aircraft lifts off. Tarasov and Collins make their way to the cockpit where an appalling sight awaits them: the co-pilot is covered with blood. For a second, Tarasov thinks he might have been hit by a bullet that pierced through the fuselage but then notices the a knife-cut wound across his throat.
“He wanted to leave without you,” a very pale Nooria says. “Old pilot was smarter and listened to me.”
“It’s good to have you back, Nooria,” Collins says and bows his head to her.
“Sure he did,” Pete says. “He had a choice between my bullet in his brain and Nooria’s blade cutting his throat.”
Collins gives Pete a curious look. “Are you — Pete? The son of Colonel Leighley?” Seeing Pete nod, the Lieutenant salutes him. “Welcome to the Tribe. It is an honor to meet you.”
“Yeah. That’s what the Top said when I first met him.”
All fall silent. Their moment of silence is broken by the pilot’s voice.