Seek and Destroy
Wilderness, 1 October 2014, 18:10:14 AFT
The New Zone does have her beauty, the major thinks as he scans the landscape through the state of the art scope on his newly-upgraded Vintorez rifle.
Evening is approaching and Tarasov is standing on the top of a hill overlooking the road in the meandering valley. Not far from him, Squirrel is trying to lure a decent chord from his harmonica, without much success.
Since leaving Bagram an hour before daylight, they had been advancing cautiously, sneaking from point to point, scanning the towering mountains for enemies and keeping an eye over the gloomy forest in the valley beneath the snowy peaks.
Abandoned villages and war debris offered more than enough cover, and they have passed many Soviet wrecks: tanks with their turrets blown off, BTRs with ripped open hulls… A defaced, bullet-riddled memorial that might once have marked the location of a successful break-through or the death of a high-ranking officer that had served as a rest stop while they had eaten their ration-pack lunch.
In the afternoon, he had observed a pack of jackals as they finishing off a deer. Saving the defenseless mutant had been a good opportunity for Tarasov to test the abilities of his upgraded weapon, and he’d managed to shoot the pack leader from a safe distance without the mutant even realizing what had hit it. It had been hard not to laugh as the death of their alpha sent the rest of the pack into a leaderless sprawl and Tarasov had been more than satisfied with the smooth handling and accuracy of his silenced rifle, though he hoped that he would never get into a situation requiring the use of his other reward – a shiny black Glock-18 pistol with automatic fire mode and extended magazine. He’d had enough of underground tunnels and close-quarter fighting, at least for a while.
Caves, appearing as dark dots among the rocks, had tempted them to seek refuge and rest, but they had toiled up the road to this hill, and now the valley stretched out beneath his feet. The sun, slowly sinking behind the peaks, paints the white ridges a fiery red and sends the valley into gloomy oblivion for the night.
Turning westwards, a tiny orange point appears in the scope. A drop of rain blurs his view and Tarasov wipes it off. As he walks down the hill and waves to Squirrel to follow him, the rain begins to cascade down, covering up the magnificent sunset with a curtain of grey clouds.
Deep in the valley to the west, a campfire shimmers.
Ghorband, Stalker base, 19:51:08 AFT
“Stoi! Lower your weapons!”
Signaling his peaceful intentions, Tarasov halts his steps. He shoulders his rifle and waves to the heavily armed Stalker guarding a road block. Beyond the low wall of sand bags, a fire blazes in what was once a tank’s engine compartment. The flames cast a flickering light onto the massive, strike-marked mud walls nearby. Raindrops sizzle as they meet the flames. Another Stalker is watching them from the hatch of the wreck, his long-barreled shotgun ready to fire.
“We seek no trouble,” the major says.
“What’s your business here?”
“Whatever it is, it’s not about standing here in the rain with two would-be Rambos pointing their shooters at us,” Squirrel impatiently says. ”Come on, Dima, I’ve tamed this soldier boy. We’re passing through and seek shelter for the night.”
“Squirrel! I didn’t recognize you. Get into the compound, brothers!”
Passing the wrecked, trackless tank, they arrive at the gate of a building surrounded by a high wall. More Stalkers guard the entrance.
“Come in! Don’t stand there,” one of them says, gesturing to him. A sign on the gate says ’NO WEAPONS BEYOND THIS POINT’ in English, apparently ignored by everyone.
There is a campfire inside, lit up in a fuel drum riddled with bullet-holes, that casts a dim light into the compound. Another wrecked vehicle that Tarasov recognizes as a US-made personnel carrier sits close by. A few Stalkers are sitting under what had been a veranda once upon a time, trying to find cover from the rain pouring through the holes like bullets from a machine gun. From the wilderness outside, jackals’ howls pierce the drumming sound of rain and Tarasov thinks that nothing in the world would tempt him to swap position with the guards walking along the walls. He notices that apart from the Stalkers hiding under the veranda, who look like rookies, most men wear better armor and heavier weapons than those in Bagram.
“Get me out of this hellhole,” a rookie Stalker groans. “I swear to God, I am done with artifacts and stashes and loot. I only want to get out of here!”
“Hey bro,” another one says, reaching out to Squirrel. “I’ll give you my shotgun and two medikits if you guide me back to Bagram!”
“Pull yourself together, man,” the guide snarls back, shaking the Stalker’s hand off.
“I can’t… not since I saw them taking Danylo away. I told him not to wear that damned dushman armor but he said it’s still better than a leather jacket… since then they must have ripped him to pieces!”
“What are you talking about?” Tarasov asks.
“The Tribe… they are close. I heard the bell and ran. I want to get out of here… If only someone could help me!”
“You heard the – what?”
“The bell of the Tribe! Those cannibals must have been out on a man hunt!”
Inside the building a few petroleum lights fight the shadows. Someone has improvised a table from a simple wooden board laid on two fuel drums. The Stalker standing at it, nursing a half-empty bottle of vodka, looks familiar.
“Skinner?” Tarasov asks, stepping closer. “Is that you?”
“Yep,” the renegade Dutier reluctantly replies.
“I’m glad you made it through here. How are you doing?”
“Spare me the bullshit, Major. A buddy of mine, Vaska, was supposed to return yesterday from a raid. Still no trace of him. ‘Nuff said… if you need company, talk to the Shrink. I’m not into gum-beating right now.”
Tarasov shrugs and turns towards the stout Stalker manning the bar. Seeing the major approaching, the barkeeper stops wiping the shot glasses and looks at him with smart, curious eyes.
“At last one who doesn’t smell like he’s shit his pants,” he says by way of greeting to the major. “Welcome to the Asylum, soldier. I’m Borys the Shrink.”
“Why do they call you a shrink?”
“Because I can heal your brains with vodka or your rifle with ammo. Seeing that you still have your wits, it’s obviously ammo that you need.”
“Ammo is not exactly my problem.”
“So you want to talk? Vodka, then. Here you go.”
The local vodka tastes purer and cooler than in Bagram, and Tarasov licks his lips as the spirit flows down his throat, creating pleasant warmth inside his body.
“That’s good stuff you have here. What is this place?”
“It used to be a fortress and then a prison, until some Western do-gooders turned it into an asylum. That was back before the nukes went off. Now it’s a fitting place for those who were crazy enough to go farther out and lucky enough to make it back.”
“Gone farther? I heard there’s a place called Shahr-i-Gholghola to the west...”
“That’s correct. About two or three days’ march from here.”
“Have you been there?”
“No.” The Shrink leans over the bar and lowers his voice. “That’s where Skinner’s buddy went… People say it was freaky enough before the Bush war began, after the Taliban blasted those big Buddhas away, but recently…” The barkeeper cuts his sentence short. “This is no kindergarten here like Bagram. Frankly, sometimes I’m glad we have the Tribe between us and that place.”
“The Tribe? That’s why everyone’s so scared around here?”
“They aren’t scared, they just haven’t had enough to drink… anyhow, to answer your question: the Tribe is a bad enough neighbor but things got really weird recently. A few days ago, a Stalker appeared. He was gone for many days and we all presumed him dead, saying toasts to his memory and all, and the
n he came back. He was not happy to see us again, though… he opened fire on us. His own friends had to shoot him.”
Tarasov is too absorbed in the vodka’s calming effect to say anything compassionate. “Such is life in the… New Zone. Give me and my guide another shot.”
“Cheers! Wouldn’t be much of an event if killing him had been easy, but he kept standing up again and again like a freaking zombie. I had to apply the strongest remedy I know.”
“And that would be?”
“Emptying a full magazine of nine millimeter bullets into his brain.”
“I see… anyway, have you seen a Stalker called Crow around? He uses an SVD and wears a camouflage coat. Black balaclava, cold eyes, slightly necromantic... I mean, he likes putting half-smoked cigarettes into the mouths of people he has just killed and stuff like that. Well trained, probably ex-military. Know anyone like that?”
“Let me think… Maybe you mean that Loner who was waiting for some soldier boy in a Berill armor suit who was fond of vodka, had a cynical, bossy attitude, and kept trying to squeeze others for information? Sounds like you and must be you,” the barkeeper says with a smirk. “He arrived in a hurry from Bagram two days ago, then went to raid a patrol of mercs – or at least that’s what he said. He was waiting for you afterwards but disappeared again. There’s a pen drive he left here for you… Here it is.”
Tarasov plugs the device into his PDA and a new message appears on the screen.
Hey, Condor. I wanted to make sure this didn’t get to your PDA before you reached Ghorband. It wouldn’t have been nice if the wrong person had found it after killing you. Proceed two klicks to the west, where you’ll find a memorial and the wreck of an APC. Check the engine compartment – there’s a stash. The Shrink is cool but don’t forget to delete this message anyway. I have to hurry back to the Shamali Plains - I have a feeling the place will turn hot soon. C.
“Do you know where to find Crow?”
“No. He’s a strange character, coming and going without telling anyone where he goes and what he is up to. I even heard rumors that he was with the Monolith once.”
“What? He told me he had never been to the Zone!”
The Shrink fills his own vodka glass. “A Stalker with something to hide about his past? Never heard of such a thing,” he says with an ironic smile and gulps down the drink. “But they don’t call me Shrink for nothing. See, he hates Bone’s guts but is too level-headed to be a Freedomer. He is too good a shot to be an ordinary Stalker, but can’t be Spetsnaz or SBU because if he were you wouldn’t be looking so dumbfounded now. So, tell me: what can he be, if he doesn‘t fit into any of the clans here or back in the old Zone?”
“I don’t want to believe what you are hinting at,” Tarasov replies, narrowing his eyes.
“You talk like a Stalker I once treated. He didn’t want to believe that his primordial hate of bloodsuckers was just a reflection of his feelings towards his ex-wife who had bled him dry when they divorced. But after the second bottle of vodka… bingo! Vodka is the ultimate truth serum, did you know?”
Tarasov turns to Squirrel. “Would you believe that? Former Monolithians walking around in the New Zone?”
The guide shakes his head. “Nope, man. But frankly – I would sooner prefer the Monolith than the Tribe.”
Tarasov shrugs. “Anyway… at least Crow, or whatever his real name might be, seems to be on our side. But now, tell me – do you know of a way around the Tribe’s territory?”
“No way, man. I agreed to guide you here, not beyond. Sorry.”
“And you, Shrink?”
“The only safe way to avoid the Tribe is to go back to Bagram and forget about the western approaches.”
“Then I do have a serious problem,” Tarasov sighs.
“I’m listening…”
“Never mind, Shrink. Is there a place where we can spend the night?”
“Suit yourself and help yourself. We have enough empty cells… but the rubber room will cost you extra. That’s the only one with its roof intact!”
Wilderness, 2 October 2014, 11:40:52 AFT
“I don’t mind missing the view, seeing as this fog keeps us hidden from any enemies… but I wouldn’t mind a little break either, man.”
Tarasov agrees with Squirrel. The road is shrouded in a fog so dense that a pack of jackals could be just a few meters away and they would never see them. The ghosts of occasional bushes and stunted trees emerge from the surrounding gloom wherever they had grown close to the road, but apart from that there’s nothing to see.
“Should be coming into a built-up area soon, according to the PDA,” the Stalker reports.
Tarasov nods, not relying on his eyes so much as his ears to detect problems. But the world is almost silent thanks to the deadening effects of the fog bank.
Soon the gray walls of a lonely building appear along the road. It might have been a traffic check-point long ago.
“This place is as good as any,” the guide says, sitting down under a bullet-riddled metal sign that says ‘DANGER! MINES! KEEP TO MARKED ROAD’. “I wish we could make a campfire.”
“Later. Let’s move during daylight as much as we can.”
“We better find them soon, man… I have a serious case of itching in my index finger and it can only be relieved by pulling the trigger. Do you have a plan for how we do this?”
“It depends, Squirrel. We have to recon that stronghold first.”
“I only ask because I have a plan already.”
“Please, do share it then.”
“We move in, kill everyone, loot the place and get out of there. That’s step one. Then we sell all the loot in Bagram and become dirty filthy rich. That’s step two. Then I fuck all the whores in Kiev and die a happy man from physical exhaustion. That would be step three. What do you think, man?”
“That’s a very good plan,” Tarasov smirks, “like those taught at the military academy. You ever considered becoming an army officer?”
“With all due respect, man, I might be crazy but I’m not an idiot… Do you have some bread? If I had gear like yours, I’d carry a full kitchen with me!”
“You’d be better off if you didn’t carry that RPG launcher with two warheads.”
“Come on, man. They make me look cool!”
“Why don’t you at least disassemble them?” Tarasov asks, shaking his head over the guide’s inexperience with heavy weaponry. “It would be safer for you to carry that shit with the warheads dismounted.”
“What? You can remove the warheads?”
“Yeah… I’ll show you later. Now, it’s havchik time.”
Tarasov offers a loaf of bread to Squirrel. They have enough resources now.
He’d set out to find Crow’s stash at dawn, following the road west until the APC’s wreck emerged from the fog like a sleeping monster. The huge stone slab serving as a memorial was smashed, an only faintly readable English inscription still bearing a clue to the battle – itself just one of many – that had ravaged the place a few years ago.
When Tarasov had cautiously peered inside the wreck, he’d expected to find the usual stash: ammunition, food or bandages, perhaps some common artifact. He was therefore surprised to find a huge crate with a hand-written note on top of it: This suit rocks! Now I only need to find out who’s killing your soldiers to get these exoskeletons and who’s paying him. He won’t see my bullet coming. Or if he does, I don’t care. I hope you don’t mind that I took one of the two suits I found with the mercs. I’ll consider it your thank-you to me for saving your ass at Salang. We’re quits – for now! C.
When he donned the brand new exoskeleton and the armor’s built-in instruments – radiation meter, anomaly detector, kinetic motors, life-support system – quietly started to hum in the silence of the mountain dawn, with his heavy kit becoming almost weightless once fitted to the titanium-alloy body frame, Tarasov felt as if he had boarded a gunship after many days on a perilous foot patrol: safe at last. With the exo
skeleton’s silicon carbide ceramic armor – capable of stopping dozens of armor-piercing bullets – protecting him, he feels as if he has become a walking juggernaut.
Once back at Ghorband he tried to talk Squirrel into joining forces with him. Since he had nothing else to offer but a fight, the major had eventually had to offer his own, serviceable Berill armor, rendered a dead weight now that he had the exoskeleton. Albeit feigning reluctance, the Stalker had accepted it gladly in exchange for joining him on the raid.
However, his period of confidence had made way for concern soon enough when it came to his mind that this wonderful suit had actually been taken from him and his men. There was nothing in Crow’s messages that would give him a hint to the players in the shady dealings going on behind his back. As he walked behind Squirrel to the north, he tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle he already knew – Bone’s men ambushing the squad sent in before them, the mercenaries hunting him, Crow’s hints at danger in Bagram… Crow might be his ally in this game, but the sniper certainly knew how to keep his findings to himself – that is, if he actually knew any more than Tarasov.
“Hey, man, don’t look so down,” Squirrel says, interrupting the major’s thoughts. “Let me cheer you up with my harmonica. Do you have a favorite song?”
“Let me think… I love Steppe, endless steppe for example.”
“Nah, sorry man. I don’t know how to play that.”
“What about The Ships then? You know, that Vysotsky song?”
“Actually, the only tune I can play is the Soviet anthem.”
“Then why did you offer me to play my favorite song? That’s certainly not one of them…”
“I just asked about it. I didn’t say a word about playing it.”
“You are totally crazy, Squirrel. You know that?”
“Of course. After all, I slept at an abandoned asylum last night.”
“Squirrel… where do you come from, anyway?”
“Germany. Berlin, actually. You know, I was a guerilla there, fighting against the oppression of the poor.”
“Sounds like a tough battle.”
“Hell, yes! Each night, me and my buddies used to set a few big fat BMWs and Porsches on fire. Just to show the rich bastards that the resistance was alive and kicking!”
“Setting cars on fire doesn’t really sound fair. They don’t fight back.”
“But it’s fun! You should try it, man. Anyway, then one of our night raids went wrong – I picked the wrong car. It belonged to one of the lawyers defending our comrades from injustice. Things got a little messy, and I decided to join our comrades in arms in the Zone. So I volunteered to deliver another shipment of… let’s call it humanitarian aid to the Ukraine, and two days later I was drinking vodka with all the Freedom guys.”
“Freedom… anarchists and bandits,” Tarasov grumbles under his breath.
“Don’t worry, man. Those days are gone. The Zone changed me a lot.”
“How come?”
“You see… once you find an artifact to sell, you think differently about the distribution of riches. Then I heard that in the New Zone there’s even more to find. Less hunters, more game, you see? And here I am now. Are you sure you don’t want to hear the Soviet anthem?”
“Play it, if that makes you happy...”
Listening to the jarring tune from Squirrel’s harmonica, it occurs to Tarasov that this would be a good time to check out the text messages that Yar had found on the old mobile phone and uploaded to his PDA. The date and time is not recorded, but it’s obvious enough that the messages are from the times of the Bush war.
Hey Frank – here’s why I’m pissed off. They want to conduct a disciplinary procedure against the sergeant but why? All he did was getting some aftermarket replacement parts for his G3 rifle to bring it at least to semi-modern condition. What was he supposed to do? The new rifles we’re supposed to use are crap. For God’s sake, we can’t switch off the safety on the new G3 DMR while aiming because our thumbs are too short to reach the switch. Did they design those rifles for pianists? Besides, we can’t use them because we don’t have proper sniper ammo. We were told to use MG3 machine gun cartridges but that’s only accurate up to 500 meters. You get it, Frank? They give us sniper rifles which we can only use at less than 500 meters! That’s a true stroke of genius – on one hand, they order hundreds of new rifles but on the other, they don’t provide us with the proper ammo to save money. And as if that were not enough the night vision goggles will not work together with the telescopic sight. Until I find the eyepiece of the scope so I can wear the goggles, the war is over. My army should be performing in a circus, not Afghanistan!
The second message is shorter:
After what happened at Kunduz, we are not allowed to ask for air support. Not as if the Brits nearby would have any choppers available, anyway. We asked the French to beef us up with a squad for this mission but they are low on ammo. The Hungarians wanted to give a helping hand but their Mercedes jeeps are broken down as usual. We must not ask the Americans for assistance because we’re supposed to maintain security in our sector on our own. Now we move out with a company of Afghan troops which is an invitation for trouble. SNAFU like always, my friend! Anyway, I’ll hook up with you later, we’re moving out now. Wish me good luck – in two weeks, my tour of duty will be over.
The major switches off his PDA and looks into the thick fog, sadly, wishing he was a believer so he could say a prayer for the soul of the dead soldier.
Mercenary base, 3 October 2014, 12:39:28 AFT
Lying prone on the top of an ice-cold, rocky hill, Tarasov studies the narrow ridge connecting their position with the mercenary stronghold through his binoculars. Their target encampment lies atop another hill, not quite as high as their narrow vantage point, and overlooks the wide landscape, easily commanding the valley below. Far in the distance, the major can see the flat, sandy plain between the mountains and the Amu-Darya.
The conical shape of the concrete structure looks similar to the many Soviet-built pillboxes and bunkers he has seen before.
“Must have been an observation base during the Soviet war,” he mutters to Squirrel.
No mercenaries can be seen on the ridge.
It could still be mined or booby-trapped. We’ll still need to exercise some caution.
A jeep track leads up to the stronghold, passing by another bunker with a radar dish and a forest of other antennae on top. Tarasov gives a sigh, wishing he could use the radio facilities, but it is bound to be heavily defended. At least the terrain ahead looks advantageous enough to him with its many rocks and boulders. It should make their approach a little easier.
“Mount your silencer, Squirrel.”
“That PBS won’t help me much. The shots will echo like hell among these mountains.”
“Just in case. At least you won’t be deafened when I tell you to cease fire.”
“Fair enough. So what’s the plan?”
“We stick to your plan.”
“You must be kidding, man. I was.”
“Take these binocs. Keep your eyes open while I’m aiming. Warn me if a hostile pops up where I can’t see him. Watch our six. Clear?
“Like the sky.”
“All right. Let’s get this over with.”
Lucky for them, the sky is actually overcast, regardless of what Squirrel said. Relieved that he doesn’t have to worry about his shadow betraying his movement, Tarasov moves quickly forward and crouches behind a rock. Scanning the sandbag walls through his rifle scope, a mercenary soon appears in the reticule. Tarasov follows his movement. Seemingly bored, the guard moves in a predictable back-and-forth pattern along the wall, making no contact with anyone else. Another hostile stands on top of the wall with his back towards them.
I can only see these two. There must be more around. If they fall, the whole place will be stirred up.
“You asleep?” Squirrel whispers. Ignoring the guide’s impatience, Tarasov weighs his optio
ns.
I must get closer.
He signals the Stalker to follow him. Watching their steps in case of booby traps, they move forward until they reach more cover. The major takes another look at the bunker.
“Squirrel, I see one on the wall and one on the top. Do you see any others?”
“None.”
“Take the binocs. Keep your eyes on the bunker and the road while I’m focusing.”
“Okay, man.”
Tarasov adjusts the scope.
And now let’s hope that Uncle Yar did his homework on this baby.
After the quiet, when only the wind whistles, the sharp, piercing sound of the silenced shot seems to be deafeningly loud. In the middle of the reticule’s dark circle, the first guard’s helmet flies off. His blood has not yet made contact with the wall behind when Tarasov already moves the rifle towards the guard on top. Another shot pierces through the howling wind. The second guard falls forward, as if an invisible fist had punched him in the back.
“See any more?”
“No.”
“Keep watching! I’m moving in.”
In a few seconds, Tarasov arrives at the sandbags. Sensing no movement from the other side, he signals Squirrel to follow him. Taking a deep breath, he quickly climbs over the sandbags, keeping his rifle ready to fire. The dead guard stretches out in front of him, his head in a pool of blood. Now Squirrel arrives and immediately aims his weapon into the opposite direction, covering Tarasov’s back.
“Let’s move,” Tarasov whispers.
The sound of footsteps comes from around the corner. The guard has no time to be surprised. Tarasov’s shot hits him while he is still opening his mouth to shout.
The major peers around the corner before cautiously moving forward. Behind the building he finds a platform that he could not have seen from his vantage point. Three mercenaries stand there, grouped around a huge weapon even though they must have been startled by the noise: the first is already climbing up the stairs to raise the alarm..
“Squirrel!” Tarasov shouts as he pulls the trigger. The Stalker is prepared and fires two short bursts from his AKM. The two guards on the platform fall to the ground in the same moment as the third rolls down the stairs, hit in his chest by a single round from Tarasov’s Vintorez.
“Clear,” Squirrel reports.
In any other situation Tarasov would stay cautious, but now he stands in front of the weapon on the concrete platform, trying to believe what he is seeing, his brain bewildered and oblivious to any danger that might be still around.
“What the fuck is this?” Squirrel sounds just as confused as he is.
“This is… not supposed to exist.”
The weapon looks like a giant version of the Gauss rifle he saw long ago in Degtyarev’s hands during their battle in Pripyat: a long barrel running through several small spheres, all held together by a metal frame and lots of electric wire.
So, this is the anti-aircraft device that shot my chopper down!
There are no ammo crates lying around, nor can Tarasov see any batteries, as there were in Degtyarev’s rifle. The gun in fact seems to be powered via a thick cable that disappears through a hole in the platform.
Tarasov shakes his head in disbelief.
If the smaller, hand-held version was capable of penetrating any body armor at distance, this piece of artillery should be able to take down virtually anything… But who are these guys? How did they snatch this monster? Degtyarev only had one of the smaller rifles, and even then refused to let me touch it!
He crosses over to one of the corpses and removes the balaclava and dark eye protectors from its face. Then, still not believing what he is witnessing and rejecting the reality he is beginning to realize, he exposes the faces of the others too, as well as checking the bodies for anything that could clarify his suspicions. His search yields a plastic ID card. A low moan escapes his lips.
“Oh, Gospodi.”
“God is not here, man. Only mercs with a bullet in their brains.”
“No… they are not mercenaries at all. They’re Chinese – spec-ops or whatever, but it’s the People’s Liberation Army!”
“What? What the hell are the Chinese doing here?”
Tarasov rubs his temples and looks around. For the moment, they seem to be alone in the compound.
“You remember the warning the military outposts were playing back in the Zone? ‘We are here to protect you from the Zone, not the Zone from you’?”
“Of course. Was it you saying it?”
“No, it was a voice actor from Kiev and we looped the message, but that’s not my point. My point is – it was a lie. We tried to protect the Zone from outsiders but all the world – the Chinese, the Americans, the Western Europeans – tried to sneak in and grab their share of artifacts. We… frustrated them, so to say. It would be no surprise therefore to find Chinese expeditions lurking in the New Zone, where they can do as they please. But what amazes me is this weapon… It’s enough for you to know that… okay, anyway, I saw similar weapons before but they were classified Above Top Secret. Thinking of the Chinese laying their hands on them gives me the creeps.”
“So, what now?”
Tarasov peers over to the radio station that lies about two hundred meters from their position along the jeep track, thinking: I must inform Kiev about this.
“First we need to clear this bunker and disable this weapon. Then we’ll see if we can get into that radio station.”
“We’ve only killed five of them. That leaves us with… let me think… more or less three billion more hostiles! Will we have enough ammo?”
“Stop kidding, Squirrel. Check the bodies for grenades.”
Using his combat knife, Tarasov cuts the wires running along the gun barrel.
Damn, how I wish Degtyarev could see this. At least he knows how these things work.
By the time he is finished, Squirrel has returned with three frag grenades.
“It’s not much, but if we add ours too it will make for a nice firework display. I also found some food rations on them.”
“You can keep the food. Let’s go inside and find its power source.”
Cautiously opening the metal hatch, they enter a room with bare walls and a row of mattresses. The smell of old socks and unwashed bodies assaults Tarasov’s nostrils, and empty food cans and water bottles litter the ground. Next to the wall, in a thick, green sleeping bag, a guard seems to be asleep.
“With this snoring, no wonder they didn’t hear us coming,” Squirrel grins.
“Be quiet, unless you want him to wake up.”
With silent steps, Tarasov moves over to the sleeping guard. For a moment, he considers interrogating him.
We ain’t got much time… besides, I’m not even sure I’d understand whatever he said.
He reaches for the spot where the guard’s head lies under the sleeping bag’s hood and pulls it backwards, pushing his knee into the guard’s back.
This is for Praporshchik Zotkin, bastards.
The snoring turns into a helpless rattle as his combat knife cuts through the guard’s throat. After a time that seems to be endless, the rattle becomes a gurgle as blood enters the respiratory tract, adding drowning in his own blood to the suffering of the dying enemy. It only takes a few seconds for the ghastly noise to cease. When the body doesn’t move anymore, Tarasov lets go of it and wipes the blood off of his knife onto the sleeping bag.
“Once I had a girlfriend who hated my snoring,” Squirrel whispers, “I’m glad she didn’t take the sort of measure you just did, man!”
Tarasov smiles, but immediately freezes. “Ssh! Listen!”
They hear the muted sounds of conversation from the hatch leading to the level below, and the Chinese words cast away Tarasov’s last doubts about the origin of their opponents. They can’t understand what is being said, but the voices sound alarmed.
“They must have realized something’s not right outside by now. Squirrel, duck behind th
at crate!”
Tarasov hears someone climbing up the iron ladder. Quickly, he moves behind the hatch. Two hands appear, then a head with short black hair. Using his left hand, the major grasps the man by his neck in a choke-hold, lifts him up and cuts his throat with the knife held in his other hand. Slowly, he lowers the body to the ground, its hands and legs still shaking in the spasm of death. Tarasov holds the dying man down until he stops moving.
“Let’s move,” he whispers to Squirrel as he wipes the blade clean.
“You’re a fucking butcher, man,” the Stalker silently remarks, shaking his head in disgust.
Peering down, the major can’t see anyone below. They quickly descend the ladder. As he arrives below, Tarasov hears a startled shout. A Chinese in civilian clothing jumps up from his computer, drawing a pistol and frantically firing in their direction. Two shots from Squirrel’s rifle send him to the ground. Tarasov quickly checks the body. His search yields a key in the technician’s pocket with a label attached.
“You don’t speak Chinese, do you?” Tarasov asks Squirrel showing him the label.
“It says, ‘generator room key’”.
“Don’t tell me you do speak Chinese.”
“Just guessing. But there’s only one door here and it has ‘generator room’ written on it in Russian and the same cramped characters as the key label.”
“That’s smart,” Tarasov says as the key glides softly into the lock.
A huge device stands in the room, emitting a low, humming noise. One thick cable goes up from it and disappears into a narrow shaft leading upwards.
“Whatever that thing is, it’s certainly not running on diesel,” Squirrel says.
“I wish I had a timed fuse,” sighs Tarasov. “Give me those grenades.” Tarasov carefully places the grenades in a spot that seems vulnerable. “Squirrel, move back to the entrance.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll have about three seconds to get out of this room. Move!”
Left alone, Tarasov looks around for something worth taking before blowing the generator up, but only sees some tools left on the ground.
All right… here I go.
He takes a grenade and pulls out the safety pin’s ring, puts it with the others and dashes to the exit with two long leaps, where he throws himself down behind the wall. He has barely hit the ground when the deafening thunder of several detonations shakes the structure, unleashing a rain of concrete fragments and steel splinters through the door, followed by a cloud of dust and smoke. The air becomes thick with the stench of burning electronics. With the lights gone out, Tarasov switches on his headlight and quickly climbs up the ladder. Squirrel is waiting in a firing position at the entrance hatch, aiming his rifle at the outside.
“Whole of damned China woke up! I see the bad guys approaching!”
Looking out, Tarasov sees them too. A dozen commandos are running towards them, with more appearing from the radio bunker below, hastily putting on their armored vests and helmets.
Damn it, he thinks. There goes the opportunity to contact Degtyarev… Too many of them for us to take on.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he yells. “Back, same way we came!”
Jumping over the sandbags, they run. The first bullets fizz by. The enemy must have reached the bunker with the gun by now.
“Squirrel, run!” Tarasov turns back, firing his rifle from the hip for suppressing fire, but the commandos have him outgunned.
“I’m hit, I’m hit!” Squirrel shouts. Tarasov runs up to him, yanks him to his feet and flings the wounded guide over his shoulders. He can barely feel the weight in the exoskeleton, but the suit also prevents him from running as fast as he would like.
Leaping from cover to cover, he soon reaches the relative safety of the ridge and places Squirrel down behind some boulders, reloads his Vintorez and aims to pick off any hostiles that have been stupid enough to follow them into the open. None have. They seem content to remain behind their cover. Tarasov fires a few rounds into the top line of sandbags all the same. Squirrel’s AKM joins the fire.
“You all right?” Tarasov shouts.
“I got hit in the leg but can still shoot!”
“Lean on me! Let’s move, move!”
Hostile fire tapers off as the Stalkers move out of rifle range. Occasionally, just to keep the Chinese at bay, Tarasov fires a few shots. By the time he reaches the ridge, his own panting and Squirrel’s groaning is all he can hear. Casting a final glance back before descending the safe side of the mountain, he notices smoke rising over the bunker and grins triumphantly. The grin disappears from his face as he hears a loud, roaring drone. In a few seconds, a black helicopter emerges from the valley below.
“Squirrel!” he screams. “Can you still fire that RPG? We must take that chopper down!”
“Help me kneel up,” the Stalker shouts back. “Load this shit!”
Tarasov quickly removes the aluminum cap from the grenade and, with the piezo-electronic release bolt now open, places the grenade into the launcher tube.
“Ready!”
Pain is all over Squirrel’s face as he aims the rocket launcher and fires. The projectile misses. Tarasov quickly takes the other grenade from his back. The chopper looms closer and opens fire with its on-board machine guns, showering them with stone splinters and dust as the bullets hit the ground close to them.
“Bring it down,” Tarasov desperately shouts. “Bring it down or we’re finished!”
Peering out of their cover, the Stalker aims for seconds that seem to be endless before he fires the launcher at last, this time scoring a hit. The grenade detonates towards the chopper’s rear, sending the helicopter spinning around for a few seconds before it crashes into the mountainside, hitting the rocks with a loud, shrieking noise. Tarasov grabs Squirrel’s shoulder and drags him over the ridge at last.
Eye for an eye, chopper for a chopper, the major thinks, grimly, and rushes down into the valley, carrying the Stalker on his shoulders to safety.
Wilderness, 16:27:00 AFT
“You’ll be limping for a day or two, but you’ll survive,” Tarasov says reassuringly while fixing a bandage on Squirrel’s wounded leg. “No need to look so gloomy. Here you go!”
After doing whatever he could to ease his companion’s pain, the major goes to the entrance of the shallow cave he has chosen as their shelter and looks out, watching for any signs of pursuit. There are none. Nor is there any sign of mutants or even other Stalkers.
“All this shit for a couple of food cans,” Squirrel bemoans. “This was the worst raid of my life.”
“Apart from you getting wounded, we’ve been successful. We have lots of intel now, and the slit-eyes will be licking their wounds instead of harassing the Stalkers around Ghorband... at least that’s what Bone had been hoping for.”
“Yeah, man, that really gives a new meaning to my life. Making Bone happy and getting shot in my fucking leg in exchange.”
Despite Tarasov’s best efforts, Squirrel’s wound had gone from bad to worse. Before long, he would be unable to walk. Tarasov had already taken to carrying some of the guide’s gear but quite soon, the major knows, he will be carrying Squirrel and his gear.
Tarasov contemplates for a moment, and then opens his artifact container. “Look… I don’t know what this artifact does, but it feels good to have it active, somehow. Here, take it, it’s yours,” he says, giving the Heartstone to the Stalker. “Maybe it will speed up your healing, I don’t know.”
Squirrel’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets when he sees the artifact. “Look at this - a blue, opaque shell with a red core, like a big chunk of glass… But… this is a Heartstone, man! That’s incredible! Where did you find it?”
“Uhm… close to that log hut at Hellgate, while collecting firewood with Mac. I didn’t know it was a Heartstone.”
“And you’ll still let me keep this?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, man, if it wasn’t f
or my busted leg, I’d dance right now! Now I only need the Heart of the Oasis, a Wish Granter Shard and the Compass artifact to have everything I want! And for you, this trip is for free! Wherever you want to go, the Panjir Valley, Kabul, I will guide you everywhere for free!”
“Sounds like a deal, Squirrel. But now let’s eat something.”
He opens a can of ‘tourist breakfast’ and offers it to the Stalker, who is still happily admiring his new artifact with a broad smile.
I hope it will have a good effect on his wound. Otherwise we’ll be really screwed.
After his hunger is satisfied, Tarasov opens his PDA and tunes it to Bone’s frequency.
“Bone, this is Tarasov. Mission accomplished.”
“That’s excellent news.”
“Your intel was wrong. It wasn’t really a base… it was an AA battery. We took care of it.”
“Doesn’t matter… this hit should give our boys some respite. Good job.”
“One more thing: the place was manned by Chinese. Special forces, commandos or whatever.”
Bone falls silent for a minute. “Keep that to yourself for now, Major.”
“Returning to Bagram now. Running low on ammo. Out.” Tarasov turns to Squirrel. “Bone has asked us to keep the Chinese presence a secret. Can you keep your mouth shut?”
“I guess so… it’s no wonder if Bone is scared, man. The last thing we need is a confrontation with them… if it’s really the damned Chinese out there.”
Tarasov removes his helmet and rubs his eyes. Wild thoughts are buzzing in his head and he cannot share even half of his concerns with the Stalker.
“I don’t know, Squirrel… I don’t know. This whole thing stinks like a bloodsucker’s lair. In any case, let’s get our asses back to Bagram. If we’re lucky, we can at least make it to Ghorband before nightfall.”
“This food is rotten,” the Stalker says spitting out a piece of greasy meat. “I wish I was back at Borys’ den, having a shot of vodka... Damn! I never believed I’d ever want to see that wretched place again… Oh man, I can hardly wait to see the Shrink’s face when I show him my Heartstone!”
19:40:05 AFT
These jackals were either very dumb or very hungry, Tarasov thinks while reloading his Vintorez.
The small pack of mutants had been far below the path that descends steeply from the hillside into a barren canyon, but knowing how sharp their ears are, he didn’t want to take the chance. Sneaking is no option anymore with Squirrel barely able to drag himself, and they’re making further noise when they occasionally tread upon loose stones, causing the rocks to roll down the path.
Approaching the carcasses, he sees what they were fighting over: the remains of what had once been two Talib fighters. The stench of putrid flesh assails his nostrils as he steps closer, but it’s the sight of what has been done to them that causes a shiver to run down his spine.
The Talibs’ genitals have been stuffed into the mouths of their decaying faces, which still bear expressions of horrible pain as they gaze down from wooden poles to their own corpses. Their weapons – old and battered AMD-65 assault rifles – lie in the dirt, together with the few other belongings the dead Taliban once carried. Judging by the state of decay, whatever happened here had occurred only two or three days ago.
“Obviously it wasn’t the mutants that killed them,” the major says, motioning his thumb toward the corpses. “They aren’t advanced in evolution enough to be capable of such a thing.”
Squirrel’s face hardens. “No, man… This is how the Tribe deals with its enemies.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be cannibals? I see three rifles on the ground, but only dead dushmans.”
“I’m not too keen to find out for sure. Let’s get the hell out of here, man… Let’s move!”
Before they leave the grim scene, Tarasov draws his pistol and shoots the corpses.
“Just to make sure you don’t turn into zombies, baystrukhi.”
“Could you make a little more noise, please?” Fear lingers in Squirrel’s voice as they move along a dried-up creek. He draws some water from the camelback fastened to his armored suit and looks at his PDA. “No way to make it to Ghorband today… we better hide somewhere for the night.”
Twilight had already fallen and they are still some distance from decent shelter. The going had been slow, largely due to the guide’s wound. The artifact has indeed improved the guide’s condition, but enough pain still remained to hinder Squirrel’s pace. A rest of one or two days would help even more, but they had both used up most of their ammunition during their raid on the Chinese outpost and, with being low on medikits and bandages as well, Tarasov knows that it wouldn’t be advisable to linger too long in this unwelcome area.
Suddenly, Squirrel stops.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” the guide replies with a whisper. “Look at that.”
Tarasov switches the night vision on and peers forward into the valley. There’s something big and man-made ahead of them, partly obscured by bushes as if someone had wanted to hide it.
“What’s that?”
“Still no idea, man… let’s stay put.”
A pebble falls from the rocks on the hillside and Squirrel immediately raises his weapon. Tarasov too turns his rifle in the direction of the noise, but sees only rocks. Nothing moves in the night vision’s flickering green display.
“Nothing. Keep your eyes open.”
“Dammit,” Squirrel whispers. “I hope it’s a shelter… an abandoned bunker or whatever. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to drag myself along.”
After a few minutes, their curiosity prevails. Slowly, careful not to step on anything that would make a noise, they move closer. Tarasov gives a sign. Squirrel, limping, moves behind a boulder and aims his rifle forward to provide covering fire if needed. Tarasov, crouching from cover to cover, approaches the high bushes hiding the strange object.
His eyes suddenly explode with pain. He tears the night vision goggles from his face but the blinding brightness remains. Helpless, he covers his eyes with his hand. Squirrel’s rifle is silent, meaning he must also be blinded – or dead.
“Freeze!” a voice yells in English, as loud and sharp on the ears as the light is blinding to the eyes. Slowly, Tarasov slumps down to his knees.
“We mean no harm,” he shouts back, in English. “Don’t shoot!”
“You are sitting ducks, scavengers. Drop your weapons, or you will be dead ducks.”
He does as commanded and raises his hands in surrender. No way could he fight an invisible enemy. He hears the noise of several heavy boots approaching but cannot see his captors. Someone roughly takes off his helmet and handcuffs him from behind. A kick in his back sends him to the ground. A body lands in the dust at his side. He recognizes Squirrel’s heavy breathing. Someone barks short commands.
“Secure the prisoners!”
“Sir!”
“And switch off those fucking high-beams on the Humvee.”
Strong arms grab them and manhandle them into the vehicle. Metal doors slam and Tarasov detects the sickening odor of sweat, engine oil and cordite.
“The Tribe,” Squirrel groans, “Mother of God, it’s the Tribe.”