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“Negative. You must also tell your henchman not to attack the Stalker base.”

“Corporal! Let me talk to Lieutenant Collins. Now!”

“Sir, with all due respect but fuck the chain of command. This is between you and me.”

“Son, listen to me! Our enemy cannot be beaten this time. Coming here would mean the death of all of you. Do what I say and turn back!”

“No, sir, negative—absolutely negative! You will not give up on me so easily. Not this time! Shoot this plane down with all of us aboard if you want but we are rolling in. Over and out.”

The Colonel stands like a statue, his hand clutching on the mike with a force that is almost crushing it. His lips are trembling as he replies.

“Welcome to the Alamo, son.”

A moment of silence falls, then the affirmative clicks on the radio, by which the AA battery confirms the unspoken yet clear command, is suppressed by the thundering battle cry and mutant roar outside. The final charge is about to be launched.

The big man unholsters his commemorative sidearm once more. He takes one more of the discharged bullets from his table and loads it into the magazine. He grabs the radio mike but hesitates before giving his next command. Then, with a sigh, he presses the button to open the channel.

“Put me through to the First Lieutenant.”

79

An-12 approaching the Alamo

“And I thought dealing with drunk air control in Lagos was bad enough,” the pilot says when the conversation is terminated and Pete gives the headset back.

Degtyarev arrives from the cargo hold. “We better land quickly. It’s like a slaughterhouse back there.”

“Landing approach approved as requested,” the radio operator reports.

On the top of the mountain around which the Tribe’s defenses are laid out, the rocky outcrops and ancient ruins have been cleared off to make place for a runway. The pilot shouts out a Russian curse but it is not the sight of the perilous landing strip that scares him.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Where the Alamo’s medieval-looking living quarters were, now smoke is rising from smoldering ruins. The lower ramparts appear intact but there is devastation everywhere as if a hostile force had appeared right inside the stronghold. Up to the last line of fortified positions and ramparts crowning the mountain, every square meter bears witness to heavy and desperate fighting in which the attackers slowly gained the upper hand.

A mass of humans is storming down the slopes of the mountain across the valley. Tall, humanoid mutants move ahead the assaulters like boulders carried by a wave crashing on the shore. Tarasov sees the tracers of the defenders’ fire raining down on the assaulters but it can’t stop them — their first ranks, led by the huge mutants, have already reached the ruined living quarters and continue to press forward and up the mountain.

“Oh my God,” groans Tarasov, “oh God!”

“Napalm,” Collins says, “all we need is napalm! Good God, how I wish we could burn those motherfuckers!”

“Holy Christ!” the pilot yells. “Our fuel’s not leaking but pouring!”

Kerosene. Second best to napalm, flashes to Tarasov’s mind. The memory of the Top’s gung-ho joke gives him an idea that could turn the tide of the battle raging on the ground.

“Captain! Dump the kerosene!” he shouts to the pilot.

“We’re flying on jet fuel, not kerosene!”

“Burns all the same, right?”

“If one ignites it, yes!”

“Then dump all the fuel! Let it rain on the attackers, then Alex will light them up with the tail gun!”

“Are you out of your mind?” the pilot protests. “If you fire that, it will incinerate the fuel vapor and kill us all!”

But Degtyarev gets the idea. “Yes! Dump the fuel over them, captain! Do it, now!”

Seeing him drawing a Makarov pistol the pilot hisses a swear. “I’ll do it, goddammit, just keep that shooter away from my head!”

Tarasov grabs the radio mike. “Alamo! We need an HIE mortar fire emission! Alamo, come in!”

“Major, we don’t have enough firepower to—”

“Listen, Alamo! Prepare incendiary shells, watch the airplane and you’ll know what you’ve got to do!”

Probing his way through the thin air, the airplane quickly descends at 2000 feet per minute, dodging peaks and ridges with 90 degree turns.

“How long is the runway?” the pilot asks.

“3200 feet, unpaved,” Collins responds. “Enough for a C-130!”

“Gonna be rough but we should make it,” the pilot says.

“That’s suicide!” the navigator shouts.

“If these crazy cowboys can land with a Herk there, so can we!”

“Your bragging will kill us all!”

“Shut up and get into Yuriy’s seat, Stepan! Hey, yankee, move to the nose and tell me when to begin the dump! And you guys make yourself useful and get that body out of my cockpit!”

“Sorry about him,” Tarasov says as he and Degtyarev drag the co-pilot’s body from the seat.

“He was the worst flying bitch I ever had,” the pilot coldly observes. “But who’s that woman with the knife?”

“My wife.”

“Oh boy. And I thought I was in deep shit!”

“Descending at 2000 feet per minute,” the navigator reports from the copilot’s seat.

Probing his way through the thin air, rapidly descending and dodging peaks and ridges, the aircraft roars over the valley.

“Dump it over the eastern ridge!” Collins shouts from the navigator’s position in the nose. “Port, 90 degrees!”

“Stepan, read speed!”

“Two five twenty—two five zero—”

A voice from the besieged stronghold calls on the radio. “Alamo. Fire mission is Sierra Bravo.”

“Fasten your seatbelts,” the pilot yells. He crosses himself and glances at the icon fastened to the instrument panel. Then he steers the plane into a sharp port turn and works several switches on the overhead panel.

80

Siege camp, east of the Alamo

Commander Saifullah studies the Alamo’s smoke-covered ruins. Forcing the hitherto unbeatable Tribe to retreat behind their last line of defense would have been reason to rejoice and praise God. However, looking at the hulking smiters who now are waiting for Skinner’s command to unleash their final charge, he feels a certain bitterness.

Saifullah has no doubts at all that eradicating the Tribe will please God — but with such an ungodly ally? The Prophet’s flag will fly over the Alamo soon enough but in God’s eyes, this victory will be spoilt. The thought of entering into a pact with these hellish creatures and their master, this half-mutant abomination, makes him feel guilty and unclean.

There can be only one way out, and Saifullah calms himself with the thought of all this being done for God’s greater glory. Skinner might be an abomination, but his plan was perfect: without their stronghold and probably already decimated by the infidels at Bagram, the remaining forces of the Tribe will be no match for God’s holy warriors. They will take the Alamo today, and the rest of these lands too will soon be purged of foreign intruders. How great is God indeed — even the creatures of hell work to promote His will!

“You don’t look happy, dushman.”

Saifullah hates the irony in Skinner’s voice but while he still needs him, he has no choice but to force a smile on his face as he turns towards the grinning half-mutant.