Epilogue
12 October 2014, 17:40:58 AFT
Tarasov feels nothing but fatigue and pain in his limbs. With his hands shackled behind his back, he looks up at Khaletskiy who returns his gaze with pure disdain. As the rotor blades turn quicker and the helicopter prepares for take-off, Khaletskiy draws his pistol.
“Don’t worry, assface. This will be a very short flight for you.”
“Why don’t you finish me off right now?”
“To cherish the moment, I guess,” the general replies, lighting up a cigarette.
The helicopter takes off. The moment of parting from the land where he fought, suffered and loved during the last days of his life fills Tarasov’s soul with sadness. He looks at the jagged hills through the open hatch.
I would have happily died in battle… but to live would have been better.
“Disappointed to leave, eh?” Fumbling with his pistol, Khaletskiy chuckles above him. “Imagine how many times I was disappointed to see you live! But now…”
Suddenly, Tarasov’s ears detect a muted bang-bang, coming from the ground. Almost immediately, the helicopter shakes as if hit by several blows from a giant’s sledgehammer. The engine loses power and thick, oily smoke fills the compartment.
“What the –” Khaletskiy shouts, but another heavy blow sends him to the floor, where he desperately grabs for something to hold. He drops his pistol and, as the helicopter tilts, it slides through the open hatch.
“We are under fire!” The pilot’s voice turns into a scream amidst the shattering noise of breaking cabin glass. More bullets riddle the cockpit and the helicopter crashes to the ground with a huge deafening, grinding thud, tossing Khaletskiy and his men around in the compartment, screaming in despair. Something hard hits Tarasov, sending a sharp pain into his already spinning head. The engine dies out.
Groans of wounded men mix with the black smoke. The major coughs up when the fumes bite into his respiratory tract.
“Take up defensive positions!” he hears the general snap, commanding his guards. “Davay!”
One of the guards gets up, but is hit by several bullets from an automatic rifle as soon as he reaches the hatch. He sinks to the floor with a curse having turned into a moan.
“To the windows, men! Move, move you idiots!”
Khaletskiy’s voice is full of pain, but his orders still have an effect on his men. The few guards who have not been incapacitated from the crash jerk themselves to the compartment windows and try to return the fire that is now directed at the wreck from all sides, while Tarasov takes advantage of the confusion to move closer to the hatch, from where he can see who is responsible for the assault. Peering between the guards’ feet as they frantically try to assume firing positions, he has clear view to the rocky ground outside.
From behind the cover of the boulders and rocks dotting the shallow defile where the helicopter had fallen, fighters in black armor are engaging Khaletskiy’s remaining men.
Duty has arrived, Tarasov notices with both surprise and relief. The real Dutiers.
But Khaletskiy’s men are not easily beaten. One of them stumbles over Tarasov’s body, curses, and even takes the time to kick the major before kneeling to open fire through one of the shattered windows. The same bang sounds outside that Tarasov had heard before the engine was hit, and a split second later the head of the general’s man is blown off by a heavy bullet, drenching the agonized defenders next to him with blood and brain matter. The guard’s body remains in a kneeling position and his fingers pull the trigger for a last time, executing the last order of a mind that had ceased to exist a second ago.
Tarasov embraces the floor, keeping his head as low as he can while the bullets keep raining on the wreck like hailstones, tearing more and more holes into the thin metal of the fuselage and allowing the light to fall in and pierce the smoke and blood vapor inside, right until the last firing weapon of the defenders falls silent.
With his ears still ringing, Tarasov barely hears the commands coming from outside, but he sees a shadow approaching.
The red beam of a laser aiming device pierces through the darkness, then a Stalker’s silhouette appears. He aims a pistol as he enters the compartment. The red dot of the aiming device moves from body to body. Tarasov cannot see the face but the hood and the heavy rifle on the Stalker’s shoulder look familiar, just like the exoskeleton he is wearing.
“Pomogi… help me.” Khaletskiy’s voice is barely more than a whisper. He lifts his left hand. The other is broken, with a bloody chunk of bone poking out from his forearm.
“That must be painful, Captain Bone,” the Stalker says, “but at least it gives meaning to your call sign.”
“Help me,” Khaletskiy begs. “I can make you rich!”
“Last time I wanted to be rich, my wish turned out very, very bad.”
“But you can’t leave me here… you must help me. I’m an army general!”
“No longer.”
Dread is the last expression on General Khaletskiy’s face before two bullets hit his head.
Tarasov is too weak to warn the Stalker of the wounded guard who is reaching for his weapon, and before he can gather enough strength to shout out, a rifle fires. Hit, the guard slowly sinks down to the compartment floor and moves no more.
Another silhouette appears in the hatch, pointing his assault rifle inside. Tarasov’s eyes had not failed him: the fighter is wearing the Duty faction’s heavy combat gear.
And I thought there could be no more surprises.
The Stalker who shot Khaletskiy turns to Tarasov. “I told you I could take down a chopper with that rifle. Now we’re quits for good!”
“Crow?”
“At last it’s time for that proper introduction, Major Tarasov.” The Stalker pulls his hood back and takes off his balaclava. A round face under blond hair appears, the expression almost jovial, though the gray eyes remain cold.
“The name is Strider. You don’t recognize me? Pripyat, me crawling out from the tunnel with Degtyarev and you almost shooting us?” The Stalker notices Tarasov’s bewilderment with a satisfied grin. “Sorry if you expected Oksana Fedorova.”
He kneels down and cuts the plastic handcuffs from Tarasov’s wrists with a combat knife.
“Pripyat… the Old Zone… it’s all so far away now,” the major faintly replies. Even if he had met the sniper back in the Old Zone, he would have been just another Stalker to him with a face unrecognizable behind a gas mask or a helmet’s visor. “Who are you again? Why are you here?”
“A few months ago, Duty learned that a rogue officer popped up at Bagram. They weren’t sure whether it was Morgan who escaped them, or someone posing as one of their officers, but Duty could not let either happen. General Voronin wanted to find out, but you know how Duty is – boom, bang, kill the anarchists! They have no talent for clandestine jobs. So, they asked me to help them out, even if I’m not affiliated with them any more. These days, I work alone.”
Strider grins, and puts the tube of his camelback to Tarasov’s lips. While the major greedily drinks from the water inside, the sniper continues with his story.
“I and my squad owe Duty big time for taking us in after we defected from the Monolith, and when things got too hot for me to handle them on my own, General Voronin agreed to dispatch my old buddies to join me here. We know a thing or two about keeping a low profile from our time as Monolith outcasts.”
“You do indeed. You even had me fooled… to a point.”
“Then I found out about the arms smuggling. All this was bad enough, but when it became clear that Khaletskiy was not only an impostor and an arms dealer, but was also killing soldiers to get at their precious gear, he was declared fair game. I only needed proof.”
“Was the SBU involved in this?” Tarasov asks, sitting up and rubbing his raw wrists.
Strider does not reply, but his smirk speaks volumes.
“I could have guessed it…” Tarasov sighs. “And what now? Will
Duty move in to destroy the new Zone?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what Duty or the SBU will do now. My mission is complete.” Strider turns to the fighter who shot the guard. “Sickle, check the bodies. If they’re still breathing, you know the drill.”
“Understood,” the fighter replies.
“Let’s get out of this wreck, Major. Outside the sun is shining!”
Tarasov groans as he grasps the Stalker’s hand and gets to his feet. Leaning on Strider’s shoulder, he has barely stepped out from the compartment when a shot is fired inside.
Half dozen heavily armed fighters wait for them outside, one of them running up to give his commander a helping hand. Together, they move Tarasov and carefully place him to the ground, letting him lean with his back against a boulder.
“With or without that exo, you’re heavy,” Strider tells him wiping sweat from his forehead. “What are you on? Steroids?”
“What about the Stalkers?” Tarasov asks back, ignoring the question.
“Khaletskiy’s choppers beat them into flight but I saw the Shrink and a few others making it away. Don’t look at me like that… getting to that bastard was our priority and taking on two gunships would have been too dicey anyway. You’re lucky that Khaletskiy was flying in this tin can.”
Two more shots are fired inside the helicopter, followed by a faint scream. Strider doesn’t bother to look there. “Hey, Armor!” he shouts, waving at one of his fighters. “Are you praying there or what? Bring us a medikit and bandages!”
The fighter scowls when he arrives and sees Tarasov’s condition. He starts tending to Tarasov's many bruises and wounds, first of all putting a bandage on the major’s chest. More bandages and painkillers follow.
“You are in a dreadful shape,” Strider anxiously says, holding the camelback once more to the major’s lips. “Drink. It’s just water, but tonight we’ll toast with cold beer in Termez!”
Slowly regaining his strength from the cool water and the painkillers administered by the medic, Tarasov looks around. Beyond the perimeter set up by Strider’s squad around the wreck, the ruins of the City of Screams loom in the sunset. The snow on the far mountains appears pure and the sky is clear to the west where the Tribe’s hidden valley lies.
“I don’t go home. I stay home.” Tarasov stretches out his arms, as if he wanted to embrace the landscape. “This is where I belong now.”
“Joking has never been your strong point, you know that?”
“I mean it.”
“And I’m not sure if the army will approve of your idea of deserting.”
“Deserting? Who is a deserter in this place, where everyone betrayed everyone else?”
Strider nods and sighs at length. “I get your point… Does the call sign Kilo One mean anything to you?”
“It does,” says Tarasov with the ghost of a smile on his face, “but I don’t want to talk to him for a while… he could send me on another mission to a place worse than this.”
“I doubt there’s any place worse than the New Zone.”
“Any place is bad where it is not.”
Strider does not reply, but a barely noticeable bow of his head suggests his accord, or at least consideration.
The fighter ordered to kill Bone’s surviving guards appears.
“The chopper is clean,” he reports and gives a bag to Strider. “I found this inside.”
“Is that your gear?” Strider asks.
Tarasov peeks inside. Eagerly, he retrieves his belongings that were taken from him by Khaletskiy’s men. Strider makes a whistle when he sees the artifacts appear. Tarasov carefully puts them into the containers on his belt. Closing his eyes, the major takes a deep breath as he feels the artifacts radiating their benevolent powers into his body again.
“Not too bad a collection. But if you insist on staying, you’ll need more than that… Sickle, did you find any usable weapons inside?”
“A couple of Grozas are still on the bodies.”
“Collect them. Give the most serviceable to our friend here. Make sure you get him enough spare magazines, too.”
Another Dutier arrives with bulky communication gear on his back. “Voronin is calling for a sit-rep.”
Strider takes the speaker. “Slushayu, Eagle Eye… Mission accomplished. No casualties to report. The friendly is secured… Understood. Standing by.” He listens to the reply and gives the speaker to the major. “It’s Kilo One for you – Degtyarev. He wants to talk to a Lieutenant Colonel Tarasov, and the only guy with that name around here is you... guess you’ve been promoted. Congratulations.”
Tarasov waves the speaker away. “I don’t care anymore. Just tell him… tell him that I’ve gone on a long raid, but one day I’ll be seeing him at the Antonov. No, wait… Here. Take this.” Tarasov removes his most valuable artifact from its container. The warmth in his body diminishes and a slight ache creeps back into his head, but he has been through much worse. “Take this to Degtyarev and mention to him an old lady in Kiev. He will know what to do.”
Strider studies the artifact with pensive eyes. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about this?”
Tarasov nods. Strider shrugs, but takes the artifact and transmits his words.
“Understood. Moving to the extraction site. Renegade out.” He gives the speaker back to the radio man. “Degtyarev wants you to know that, soon, that old lady will be a very rich lady. He also wants you to know that you’ll be missing Kuznetsov’s court-martial. Still not interested in coming back with us?”
Tarasov shakes his head. “I’ve had enough of court-martials,” he says and gives Strider a pale, yet defiant smile.
“What will you do now?”
“I will see the only healer who can give me comfort and cure my wounds. They are deeper than your medic could treat. And then… I’ll have to visit a friend’s son in America.”
Strider and the fighter called Armor exchange a puzzled gaze.
“America? Armor, give him one more painkiller!”
The faint noise of a helicopter comes from far away. Strider stands up and brushes the sand off from his knees.
“That’s our bird… You can still change your mind and leave this land.”
Strider offers his hand to help him up. Before accepting his help, Tarasov looks him deep in the eyes.
“Would you? Would any real Stalker?”
“So, you’re a free Stalker now?”
“The worst enemies are my best friends now. I have to see how far this takes me.”
“You better keep an eye out for the jackals. I won’t be around to save your skin again… at least for a while.”
Many words rush to Tarasov’s mind in a reply to Strider’s remark, but all he gives him is a painful smile.
“Good bye for now,” Strider says, saluting, “and good hunting. It’s time for me to get out of here, Stalker!”
Tarasov, now on his feet again, returns the gesture. Followed by his squad, Strider moves out and makes his way westwards. Tarasov watches their column march through the rocky terrain, where the setting sun has by now turned the shades of ochre into pale red.
A howl comes from afar. Cradling the rifle, he looks at the wreck one last time.
Time for me too to get out of here. The jackals will have a lavish dinner tonight but it’s a party I don’t want to join.
His long, dark shadow moves ahead of him as Mikhailo Tarasov turns eastwards and sets out on his long trek home through the New Zone, towards a hidden valley where desperate men from all over the world flock to live their lives according to a code of honor that not even the greatest evil could overcome, and where he has found the comfort without which not even the strongest men can live.
THE END
Tribal (Dari/Hazaragi) - English glossary
“Khosh haal hastam az inke in gasht tamaam shod. Mesle sag khasteh hastam.”
“I’m glad this patrol is over. I feel
dog tired.”
“Are, man ham hamintor. Chandin rooz ast ke inja sabr kardim ta in suckers saro kaleyeshan peida shavad.”
“Yes, me too. We’ve been waiting for days until these two suckers showed up.”
“Fekr nemikoni bayad be Lance Corporal Bockman begim ke biaad va be motor negahi bendaazad? Zaaheran dandeh moshkel darad.”
“"Don’t you think we should ask Lance Corporal Bockman to check the engine? Something’s wrong with the gear shift, too.”
“Dar har haal. Man farmandeh hastam, to raanandegiat ra bekon.”
“Whatever. I’m the commander, you just do the driving.”
“Aslaheye khodkaare jadide M-27 ra didehyee? Boxkicker yek mahmooleh.”
“Have you seen the new M-27 machine gun? Boxkicker got a shipment.”
“Dar haale haazer hich selaahi barayam mohem nist. Bogzaar bekhaabam.”
“I couldn’t care less about guns right now. Let me sleep.”
“Zendeh bogzaaridash!”
“Spare his life!”
“Man behesh tarahhom kardam!”
“I have mercy on him!”
“Daastaani toolani va ghamgin ra bayad be to begooyam…”
“I have to tell you a long and sad story…”
“Dokhtram tarjomeh mikond, chun man englisi sohbt nemikonam.”
“My daughter will translate because I don’t speak English.”
“Marde shayesteyee baraye to khahad bood. Be harhaal hich marde dighari to ra nemikhahad!”
“Trust my choice. He will be the right man for you. With the scar on your body, no other man wants you anyway.”
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