STALKER Southern Comfort

  The Man Who Would be Khan

  The Colonel’s tower, 17:20:30 AFT

  Tarasov finds himself in a small room with only one window, its walls covered with carpets and large maps. A paraffin lamp casts a weak light onto a chair and a simple field table, where Tarasov sees a switched-off laptop, a radio, an ashtray full of cigarette butts and several books: Napoleon’s memoirs, Sun Tzu’s Strategy, a novel by Joseph Conrad and a collection of Rudyard Kipling’s short stories. Thinking for a moment that he is alone, Tarasov reaches for the books.

  “Do you like literature, Major Tarasov?”

  The tired, yet deep and dominating voice comes from a dark corner of the room. The words are spoken slowly, in the way of a Texan. Straining his eyes, Tarasov makes out a man in the shadows. A small flame flares as he lights up a cigarette, but the light is strong enough for the major to see something of the man’s face: graying hair cut short though his age could only be roughly estimated, with eyes that are sunken deep in their sockets. The Colonel – if that is who this man was – has the appearance of a hard, and hardened, military man.

  “Bring the light here,” the man says, and Tarasov is about to reach for the lamp when another shadow emerges from the darkness. A young woman with a scarf draped over her head appears and places the lamp closer. For a moment, the light falls on her face and Tarasov notices a tribal tattoo on her forehead. But as she turns and the lamp casts light on the right half of her face, he sees a horrible scar – the skin looking almost molten. The sight makes him shudder, the impact of the old wound made worse by the realization that, without it, she would have possessed an exceptional beauty.

  “Yes, I like literature,” he finally replies with a dry throat.

  With a grunt of satisfied laughter, the Colonel steps forward. Tarasov takes a step back, stunned by the size of the man. He is a giant, maybe even surpassing the superhuman size of his exoskeleton-wearing warriors, though he wears only a loincloth. He wears the emblem of the Marine Corps tattooed on his chest, but a long, deeply cut wound runs across over it, ending right above his heart.

  “So what the report said is correct. You do speak English.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like English literature?”

  “I like all kinds of literature... in general.”

  “That’s good, Major… Literature begins where strategy ends.”

  The Colonel sits down on the chair standing next to the table. His consort starts tending to the wound above his heart. Something cold runs down Tarasov’s spine as he sees her sewing it up. Judging by the many stitches in the bronze-colored skin, she is not doing it for the first time.

  “A scrimmage in a border station, a canter down some dark defile, two thousand pounds of education drops to a ten-rupee jezail. That is my favorite quote. It sums up everything about us and them.”

  Not knowing where the quote comes from, Tarasov does not reply.

  “Kipling, Major. A much underrated author nowadays.”

  Tarasov feels the Colonel’s eyes studying him. The urge to stand to attention comes over him, but he somehow manages to resist.

  “Let’s get down to business, Major. Judging by your ID card and the obvious similarities, this must be your father here. Am I right, Mikhailo Yuryevich?” the Colonel asks, holding the photograph of Tarasov’s father.

  “Yes, that was my father,” he replies.

  “Your father and his comrades were brave men,” the Colonel continues. “Is it true that they were given inferior equipment because the suppliers had sold the best pieces to the enemy?”

  “I heard that such things happened. But that was long ago.”

  “Yet here you are – first the father, now the son, fighting the same war in the same country. Proof of what a fateful place this is. And obviously, it is now our suppliers who send our best equipment to our enemies.”

  “I am not your enemy, and the armor –”

  “That’s not why I want to talk to you. You were brought before me because you are a Russian officer…” the Colonel says, deeply inhaling the smoke from his cigarette. “Or Ukrainian, it doesn’t matter, because the story I want to tell begins when there was no real distinction. Because in the beginning all of you were enemies to us, and our friends were shooting at your Hind gunships with their jezails. I was still a young cadet back in the mid-Eighties, but like everyone else, I pulled for the mujahedin and rejoiced in the end when I saw on TV how your army ran like a whipped dog.”

  Tarasov’s eyes fall on the cigarette. The Colonel catches his eyes but doesn’t offer him a smoke, making the major wonder if this, together with the derogatory remarks about the Soviet army, is part of a subtle way to torture him. He shifts on his feet as the Colonel pauses for a moment, wondering what the warrior might be building up to.

  “Yes, I was young… and utterly ignorant, just like our government who helped the mujahedin beat your father’s army.”

  Hearing this, Tarasov becomes very curious about what the Colonel is going to tell him. For a minute, the battle-hardened warrior stares into the grey cloud of smoke that slowly snakes upward in the light of the lamp.

  “I remember,” the Colonel continues, “while I was still commanding a recon battalion of the United States Marine Corps, we went into a village on a hearts and minds operation. We felt we were liberators, bringing freedom and justice. The locals welcomed us. There were lots of handshakes and rations shared. We left, but next morning we had to drive through the same village to another destination. We had barely left it when an IED went up, blasting one of trucks and killing five of my Marines. The same kids who we gave candy to the day before were cheering when they saw what had happened. Usually soldiers are rewarded for killing… Have you ever been rewarded for killing, Major?”

  “I was only rewarded for bravery.”

  “Bravery. That’s nothing, Major. Nothing. It must be the nature of a soldier, not a virtue. And we should have been rewarded for not killing anyone that day. It was that day, when I had to tell my Marines sad excuses for what had happened – the villagers bribed into looking the other way when the insurgents planted the IED, or being coerced into doing it themselves, whatever – that I realized our war was lost. Not because our enemy cannot be beaten, but because history proves that we have to fight them on their terms. That means: if they can’t be won as true friends, then we must treat them as true enemies. No excuses, no mercy. We lost the war because we were fighting it the on wrong terms… on the terms of those back in the States who sent us into war, but didn’t let us fight it the way a war should be fought. My spoilt and naïve country has long forgotten the true rules of warfare. Our rules were made by those crying out for the respect of the human rights of an inhuman enemy, by those who let a nineteen year old sailor load a two-thousand-pound bomb onto an airplane but punished him for writing ‘HIGH JACK THIS FAGS’ on it because a bunch of faggots and dikes found it offensive, by those who let the Afghan peasants produce heroin to save their children from starvation which then poisons our own children and turns them into drug addicts... It dawned on me that the real obstacle on our way to victory was not the insurgents, but those who wanted us to fight this war with one hand tied behind our backs. A hundred years ago, a fearsome enemy called the Marines devil dogs out of respect. But what good is there in being devil dogs if you’re kept on a tight chain by a corrupted government? That chain had to go, and I had to take matters into my own hands.”

  The Colonel crushes his cigarette in the ashtray lying on the table and lights up another one before continuing.

  “One day we were ordered to secure another village. There was a nursing school for adolescent girls from the Hazara tribe. The insurgents burnt it down a few days before. Only one girl was brave enough to stand in their way. She stabbed one of them, right in the heart. They sprayed acid into her face as punishment, but not without a dozen of them raping her first. She was cast out by the elders for bringing ‘dishonor’ on her village and walked ten miles
to our nearest position to alert us with half her face burning and blood running down her legs.”

  The Colonel looks down at the girl bandaging his wound. “As soon as we arrived at the village, they hit us with RPGs, AKs, machine guns, everything. This time, I let my Marines fight like true warriors. It was… marvelous. After that, no shots were fired from the village anymore. It was the greatest satisfaction a soldier can feel – at last fighting a war as it should be fought. In war, there is no such thing as excessive firepower. That concept is a peacetime invention. It is pure irony that the rules of war are made in peace. But irony turns into tragedy when the rules of peacetime are forced upon soldiers fighting a war. That’s why my superiors didn’t approve. They didn’t understand what I’d come to know. Neither did my own son. I tried to explain but he didn’t get my message, or it was distorted… After what happened, he wrote me this.”

  The Colonel opens the Joseph Conrad book and takes a tattered sheet of paper from its pages, then hands it to Tarasov. It is a print-out of an email, with two of its faded lines encircled with thick red ink over and over again by a shaky, maddened hand, opened and folded again a thousand times. The major reads it and, without a word, gives the note back.

  “The battle was recorded by a TV team. All those people on the streets back home called us baby-killers, a shame on our country and worse. Nobody listened to our side of the story. I understood: there would be no way for me to go home. My Corps, my country, even my own son’s soul was taken from me by those who didn’t know what war means, yet dared to judge me and my unit!”

  The Colonel wipes beads of sweat from his head as if he wanted to crack his own skull open in despair. Until now he has spoken slowly, without emotion, making sure that Tarasov understands and remembers every word. But now his voice trembles with suppressed rage and the major narrows his eyes. He wants to ask something, but by the time the correct English words come to his tongue, the Colonel has continued in his tired voice.

  “Later on, I was thankful to them for burning the bridges behind me. It made it easier to do what I had to do. We were sent to mop up a place called Shahr-i-Gholghola. It could have been easily blasted by bombs but it’s a world heritage site, so dozens of my Marines had to die to keep its mud bricks intact. And after we fought our way into its depths, I found myself standing in a place that Genghis Khan had been the last to see before me. And then I saw his glory and his power and understood the mightiest of warriors!”

  The Colonel’s eyes now smolder with obsession. His face is like that of a prophet who once experienced otherworldly bliss and tries to convey just a fraction of it to a lesser mortal.

  “I bathed in his grandeur with my men and let it wash away the bonds shackling me to the past. He opened my eyes and made me invincible. Cast away that doubt from your eyes, Major! It was the fear in his enemies’ hearts that made him invincible. To be invincible, you must be feared! Kill one man, terrorize a thousand! The rules of war haven’t changed from the times of Sun Tzu and Genghis Khan. But in our war, whenever my country killed one man she apologized to ten thousand! Could such methods ever lead to victory, Major?”

  “Sun Tzu also said that none can see the strategy from which comes victory.”

  “Because Sun Tzu was no Marine!” The Colonel proudly exclaims. “But we understood that even if our country was not to be feared anymore since her backbone was broken, we could still be – I could still be feared. By the time I emerged on the surface I was filled with power and strength. The men who were with me in those catacombs were no longer simple Marines. The… Spirit had turned them into true warriors and they became my Lieutenants. The Spirit imparted our bodies the strength to follow the call and crush anyone in our path. The Spirit… it is powerful beyond your wildest imagination, Major. Had our willpower not been tempered and honed like fine steel by the discipline of my beloved Corps, it would have crushed us and turned us into wild animals. We detonated the tunnels after we left to prevent anyone from finding it again. I know about your scientists, Major Tarasov, and also about the people wanting to hijack their mission. They will all die, if they are not dead already.”

  “Will it be the Tribe that kills them?” Tarasov cloaks all his vulnerability behind a simple question.

  The Colonel looks at him like a father whose son has asked something of a futile nature. “If I am talking to you, Major, you’d better not interrupt. But to answer your question: no. They will not be so lucky. The spirit knows how to defend itself.”

  The Colonel falls silent for a moment, smoking his cigarette. Tarasov doesn’t dare speak.

  “After we emerged from the catacombs, there were a few grunts who still didn’t understand. My warriors were only too eager to finish them off, and a day after the battle I was finally relieved of my duties. They charged me with mutiny, with operating without any decent restraint and beyond acceptable human conduct. But the generals no longer had any power over me. They sent people after me to terminate my command, but they either joined us or died.”

  The Colonel discharges his cigarette and falls quiet.

  Tarasov hesitates before asking the Colonel how the Marines, supposedly the most loyal unit in America’s armed forces, could cope with apparent treason. But, emboldened by the thought of being executed anyway, he risks asking one tricky question without caring much about the Colonel's possible reaction to it.

  “What happened to ‘semper fidelis’? No matter what reasons you might have – what you did was, after all, plain mutiny.”

  “What makes you think you can judge me?” the Colonel questions him, grimly. “We had to choose between heeding the call of the Spirit or keeping true to a morally corrupt country that has no appreciation for our way of life anymore. Do not dare to judge me and my Marines.”

  “And to keep up with your losses, you took in Afghan children to let them fight for you?”

  The Colonel waves a hand towards the table. “Have you studied Napoleon’s works, Major?”

  “Yes. We had to study his battles.”

  “That’s only the surface of his genius. Back at Quantico, we too had to read Napoleon. In his memoirs, he wrote that his soldiers could have stayed in Egypt forever, had they used the local women to supply the army with new soldiers. Back when I read that, it sounded like madness, or at least like a broken old man’s desire for the young women he must have enjoyed in his youth in a foreign land. When we found ourselves here on our own, I wasn’t laughing about him anymore. Strong and desperate men come to join us now and then from all over the world, but they are not like my Lieutenants. And while invincible, my warriors are not immortal. Yes, we need natural born warriors, who have the spirit in their heart as soon as they are born, who are like the flesh growing from the rocks of this land. The Hazara are not just any tribe, Major. They are the direct descendants of Genghis Khan’s warriors. Or so they claim… and once I took up his heritage, it was my duty to protect his lost tribe. With my guidance, they have recovered their roots.”

  Tarasov feels odd. At the beginning, what the Colonel told him sounded like the ranting of a lunatic, but the longer he listens to the big man, the more it seems to him that his words start shaping into a steadfast theory – a cruel and savage, but nonetheless logical, theory. It is the logic in the Colonel’s words that he finds the most frightening.

  He looks at the girl. Using a short pause between the Colonel’s words, he dares to speak again. “It seems that in the end, you did win over some hearts and minds.”

  “In these valleys, Major, the Pashtu were fighting the Tajiks and the Taliban both, and all three were murdering the Hazara. We offered the Hazara widows protection and their orphans education – proper education. You call us mutineers, but where are the billions of dollars my country spent to ‘help’ these people? Where are the NGOs, the rights activists and other idealists? It is only us, the warriors you dare call mutineers, who remained and accomplished the mission we were sent here to do. Don’t you think so, Major Tarasov?
”

  “But you didn’t do it to give them freedom and peace.”

  “Both freedom and peace have a different meaning here than in our countries, Major. This is what our politicians could never understand. Here, freedom means to be free to live according to a code of honor. Peace means that this code is upheld. Our code of war and their code of life created the Tribe. The only real treasure this land can offer is its women. They will never betray you. They will never want to rip off your manhood by claiming to be equal to you. They want you to be stronger than them, to protect and care for them. All they ask in exchange is loyalty… and fair justice. They use the same word for justice and revenge: badal. For the mistreated, be it orphans or widows, nothing makes a better leader than one who offers badal. And we were all thirsting for… for someone who would at last appreciate our code of honor, our strength and our loyalty.”

  While the big man spoke, the girl sewing up his wound has finished the last stitch. With a pass of his hand, the Colonel sends her away. He reclines and sighs, as if relieved of torturing pain.

  As the girl passes by Tarasov with a jingle of bangles that adorn her ankles, she gives him a look of curiosity. Their eyes meet for a moment and Tarasov shudders once more, but this time at the regret that his life will soon be over and he will have no more chances to meet and love beautiful women like her who, as it seems to him now, has eyes yielding some unique quality that makes him forget about her gruesome scar.

  “What happened later only proved me right,” the Colonel continues, “so right. We had shelter and were well equipped. We survived the nukes. Thrived, even. Soon, when enough men have joined us and the sons of our women grow up, there will be enough of us to conquer more of this land. And after that… but there’s no point in telling you more. I wanted to share this long story with you so that I don’t have to shoulder its burden alone. It is not often that I meet a fellow officer, and only men like you could possibly understand. And now, Major Mikhailo Yuryevich Tarasov, tell me – what do you think of my methods?”

  The thought that his reply might save his life if it was to the Colonel’s liking paralyzes Tarasov’s mind; he can not decide which path to take – telling the big man something that he would find flattering, or the truth.

  “You don’t have to worry about how to reply,” the Colonel replies upon observing his hesitation. “You will die anyway, and if I had not wanted a chance to talk, you would be dead already. Repay me the extra time you’ve been given with your honesty, Major. It is, after all, my trust in your honesty that has kept you alive so that I could ask you this question.”

  Tarasov clears his throat.

  “I don’t know if you, Colonel, defeated this land or this land defeated you.”

  The big man smiles, but it is a somber smile. “Only the end of war will tell who is defeated. And who has seen the end of the war?”

  Tarasov knows this quote. “Only the dead have.”

  The Colonel nods. “Tomorrow, you will see it too. And to reward honesty with honesty: I envy you for that. Now go and see the last sunset of your life. You will see the death of this day and the next day will see yours. Corpse by corpse, we carved out a piece of the world that belongs only to us now, where we can preserve our honor. This is our Promised Land, and this Stronghold our Alamo. You are nothing but a trespasser here. That’s why you have to die.”

  Tarasov stands motionless, waiting for a sign that will allow him to ask all the questions still flooding into his mind. The Colonel closes his eyes.

  “You are dismissed.”

  Tarasov pulls himself together and speaks out. “My fate is what it is. But give my guide a proper burial... please. His dignity deserves that much.”

  “My First Lieutenant has already done that,” the Colonel softly replies without opening his eyes. “May that scavenger find in death the peace he was looking for in his restless life.”

  At a slight motion of the Colonel’s hand, a Lieutenant appears from the shadows and leads Tarasov out of the room.

  18:17:00 AFT

  The two prison guards are waiting outside.

  “Take him up,” the Lieutenant commands.

  The guards stand to attention and salute, then lead Tarasov to a narrow staircase.

  “Good news, Russkie. No more climbing stairs for you.”

  “From here, your only way is down.”

  “Just a few more steps up.”

  After a minute, they reach the roof of the tower. The guard with the beard signals Tarasov to step forward. “This is our valley. You are to enjoy the view before you die,” he says.

  “Not bad for a last sight,” the blue-eyed guard adds. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Seen from their high vantage point atop the tower, the Tribe’s hidden valley stretches out in the canyon below. The sunset makes the jagged hills appear as if they are glowing with even deeper shades of pink and red than at the break of dawn, while the green fields in the canyon are already darkened by the shadow of twilight. Now, with lights appearing in the windows and campfires being lit, the maze of narrow alleys reminds Tarasov even more profoundly of a medieval town come to life. He also realizes that the town built into the hillside is but a small part of the Tribe’s stronghold: more fortifications loom above, the stalwart, concrete-enforced bastions giving way to smaller pillboxes as the hill steepens. Partly covered by the highest rampart running along the top of the hill, the tips of antennae and satellite dishes are visible. Beyond this forest of steel, in the deep blue sky a full moon rises, glowing with orange. Compared to this stronghold, the Stalkers’ base at Bagram appears like a decrepit gipsy camp.

  “It is beautiful,” Tarasov agrees.

  “Say your prayers if you want,” the blue-eyed guard says. “We don’t speak your language, so feel free to curse us and ask your god to destroy us in the cruelest way possible.”

  “Yeah, Brother Polak. That’s what prisoners usually pray for.”

  “And their god usually doesn’t listen to them. Or did he ever listen, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Nope. And even if he does, he better not do it during our watch.”

  Tarasov has given himself up to enjoy the scenery and have a last peaceful moment under the open sky, but the two guards begin to casually chatter amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious of his presence.

  “I love this part of the job, Brother Hillbilly. Makes me feel being on top of the command chain.”

  “It literally does, Brother Polak. Talking about chain of command – how is your woman doing?”

  “Pretty well, well and pretty. She’s learning English really fast but still has an issue with articles. Last night, I tell her ’could you please, please say the bed? ’ and she puts her sweet little tongue to her upper lip and says, ’dzeh bed ’. So, I just tell her, ’never mind, never mind…’”

  “Yeah. I heard that they all have a problem with that. ”

  “I don’t mind, Brother Hillbilly. I love everything about her except her name – Forozenda. Geez, it’s so long and complicated.”

  “Why don’t you just call her by another name? Being her man has its prerogatives, you know?”

  “My thought exactly. I’ll call her Lechsinska. Easier for me to pronounce.”

  “I call mine Peggy. Yeah, women are one’s only comfort.”

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic today, Brother Hillbilly.”

  “Yeah. Day after tomorrow I’m scheduled for a patrol with Driscoll. Oorah.”

  “I feel for you. He’s a badass, even for a First Lieutenant.”

  “Not as much a badass as the Top, though.”

  “Hell, yes! The Top rocks!” The guards high-five each other. “Where’s the patrol area, anyway?”

  “To the south. Rag-heads keep creeping up the passes.”

  “Like moths to a flame.”

  “I guess we’re marked on their map as Martyrdom Central.”

  “I wonder why. Anyway, did you hear that one of the newcomers was cast out last
week? He said the d-word in the presence of a Lieutenant.”

  “You mean, democrat?”

  “No, drink.”

  “Guess he couldn’t wait until his first covert recon to Bagram.”

  “Yes, that’s the only way to get a – you know what, Brother Hillbilly. I won’t say it twice.”

  “Too bad for the Lieutenants. No way for them to disguise themselves as scavengers.”

  “Being suspiciously oversized comes at a price.”

  “By the way, have you tried one of the new M27-s, Brother Polak? Lieutenant Ramirez says that beast can take a bear down with only one STANAG clip.”

  “Come on, that’s overkill. What do we have the Benelli for?”

  “Good point. But Ramirez likes hurting mutants. He hates them.”

  “Lieutenants like to hurt everything, especially if it bleeds... which everything that can be hurt does. But who loves mutants, anyway?”

  “The witch maybe. She only uses her blade to kill them. Or so I heard.”

  “Come, on, Brother Hillbilly. I don’t buy that.”

  “I swear I heard it myself from a guy in Lieutenant Bauer’s platoon, who saw it for himself! A few weeks ago, they escorted the healer on one of her forays to the west, looking for swags and whatever. They enter a cave, and what’s in there? A snake? Negative, sir! Two snakes.”

  “No kidding?”

  “The fighters stand there shitting bricks, but what does she do? Zap - she draws her blade, jumps to one of them monsters, and whoosh – off goes the snake’s head. Then she turns around, jumps, whizz – and that’s that! After that, Bauer’s platoon was living off snake steak for a week.”

  “I could imagine Bauer and his men eating nothing but snake meat even for a month, but not that Lara Croft bullshit. Sorry!”

  “True or not, it would be one badass way of killing monsters. Way more awesome than, let’s say, burning their lair with a flamethrower.”

  “Or pumping them full with double-0 rounds.”

  “Or mowing them down with an SAW.”

  “Or blasting their heads off with a grenade.”

  “Although driving through a pack of jackals with a Humvee also has its thrill, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, that woman is old school.”

  “Yeah, very. Poor little witch. Must have been quite a babe before that shit happened to her.”

  “She’s still got her nice side, if you ask me.”

  “If you look at her the right way.”

  “Yep. Because if you look at her the wrong way, the big man himself will cut off your balls.”

  “You ever see such a thing happen, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Never mind… So, about those M27-s – I wish I could test-fire one soon. Oh, Russkie, by the way…” Hillbilly says, as if suddenly becoming aware of Tarasov’s presence again. “Talking about a wish – we’re authorized to grant you a last wish.”

  “Everything can be granted, except three things: booze, women and letting you go.”

  “That’s why most prisoners don’t even bother asking.”

  Tarasov sighs. Instead of enjoying this moment of contemplation, he feels as if his ears are already buzzing from all the chatter.

  “I do have a last wish,” he says turning to them. “I want to enjoy my last sunset but your bullshit drives me mad! Could you shut up, at least?”

  “Uhm… We’re supposed to say ‘yes we can’ but that means we’re still talking, doesn’t it?” Polak replies. “You better ask for something else.”

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “At last! I thought you’d never ask.” Hillbilly takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offers it to Tarasov. “I had a gut feeling that you were a smoker. You seemed so nervous without a smoke.”

  Polak readily gives him a light from a Zippo.

  “I was nervous because of your chatter,” Tarasov says. “But thank you for the cigarette, anyway.”

  “Don’t mention it. We’re glad that we could do something for you. Ain’t we, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Second best part of our job, Brother Polak.”

  Tarasov gives the guards a skeptical glance, but they seem serious. “Why so compassionate, Marine?”

  “You’re Spetsnaz?” Hillbilly inquires, curiously.

  Tarasov nods, smoking the cigarette.

  “You’re cool guys, you Spetsnaz,” Hillbilly says. “I used to watch all the Spetsnaz videos on YouTube. Actually, they inspired me so much that I joined the Marines.”

  “Uh-hum,” Tarasov mutters, unsure whether this was meant to be mocking or whether it was a bizarre way to express respect.

  “Shame that a Spetsnaz officer has to die in the Pit,” Polak tells him, almost comfortingly. “Such a waste. Wouldn’t you agree, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Such is life in the Tribe, Brother Polak.”

  Suddenly, Tarasov is not enjoying his last cigarette anymore. “I have one more last wish,” he says, tossing the cigarette away and giving a long sigh of resignation. “Take me back to the Brig or whatever you call the prison. I want to have a good night’s sleep before I die.”

  “That’s awesome for a last wish. First time I heard it, though.”

  “Spetsnaz,” Hillbilly says with an appreciative nod. “You see, Brother Polak? They’re awesome to the bitter end. Fighting them would be so much more fun than just martyring the rag-heads, day after day…”