Shamali Plains, 09:22:06 AFT
Passing by the occasional ruined farm and vehicle wreck, the column soon arrives at the riverbed. Tarasov decides to allow them a short break before continuing southwards. The rain has stopped and, with the sun appearing again, the swampy ground seems to be steaming in the sudden heat. Flies buzz around Tarasov’s sweating face in the close air.
Removing his heavy backpack, he stretches his shoulders and is about to reach for his canteen when he hears rifle fire. He immediately orders the soldiers to take cover and, with Zlenko at his side, climbs up onto a rock for a better view.
“Look,” he whispers handing the binoculars to the sergeant. “Stalkers.”
“As I see it, soon to be dead Stalkers.”
Not far from them, four Stalkers are fighting off two huge bears, similar to the one that had chased Tarasov the day before. However, here the mutants have the advantage. The Stalkers kept trying to climb up the steep sides of the riverbed in desperation. One of them, obviously already wounded, stumbles and falls. Tarasov puckers his lips in disgust as he sees one of the mutants start tearing the luckless Stalker to pieces.
“Should we intervene, sir?”
“It’s time to earn some Stalker goodwill. Too far for our AK’s, though… Get the sniper and Ilchenko with the PKM.”
“As ordered, sir. Hey, Ilchenko, drag your ass over here! Kravchuk, where are you when I need you?”
The soldiers arrive quickly. Tarasov points to the fight.
“See those mutants? Kill them.”
“With pleasure, sir!”
Tarasov now forgives the machine gunner for his garrulity. Making the best use of his advantageous prone position, Ilchenko displays remarkable marksmanship with his otherwise inaccurate weapon, while the sniper joins in the carnage with his Dragunov. The sergeant watches the scene through his binoculars.
“Kravchuk, can’t you hit that fucking mutant from three hundred meters? It’s bigger than your aunt’s ass, goddammit!”
The young sniper looks at Tarasov from the corner of his eye, his face red with shame.
“No wonder, Private,” Tarasov says without turning to the sniper. “If you keep looking at me you’ll never hit them.”
But it was no longer necessary for the sniper to continue shooting. The two mutants lay motionless on the other side of the riverbed.
“Am I good or am I good?” Ilchenko theatrically blows the smoke from the machine gun’s barrel, as if he was a cowboy in a bad western, and grins, pleased with himself. Tarasov can’t blame him. For two of the Stalkers their intervention came too late, but the remaining two seem unscathed.
“Let’s collect our reward,” Tarasov says cheerily as he jumps down from the rock. No sooner has he landed on the ground, however, than a bullet whizzes by his head. He drops on his belly and yells “Hold your fire!” His voice is lost among the noise as his whole squad opens fire. Fearing the worst, Tarasov looks up – and notices that the Stalkers hadn’t been shooting at him and his squad isn’t firing at the Stalkers.
“Hostiles!” Zlenko screams. “Close ambush from our nine!”
The Major quickly realizes that it would be unwise to climb back and thereby offer a clear target to whoever is shooting from the shadows. With a loud thump, Kravchuk lands at his side.
“Who the hell ordered you down from your position?” Tarasov shouts at him.
“I had no visual on the enemy from there, komandir, and thought you might need some backup!”
“Listen up,” bellows Tarasov amidst the gunfight, “you see that slope over there? Let’s make a run for it!” Then he shouts up to the sergeant, “Zlenko!”
“Here!”
“Keep this position! In two minutes exactly, give suppressing fire with everything you got! Kravchuk, let’s move, now!”
They dash to the slope about fifty meters away. Reaching it, Tarasov signals the soldier to crouch. Silently moving into the trees, Tarasov proceeds for a hundred meters before turning towards the north. In this moment all hell breaks loose as the squad lays down suppressing fire.
“Cover our left,” Tarasov barks to the sniper, then, moving fast from tree to tree, he advances.
He doesn’t have to look long before he spots the enemy: about two dozen men with AK rifles, all seeking cover from the hail of bullets coming from the paratroopers. To his relief, their opponents are not the highly trained commandos of yesterday. And, judging by the light armored vests they are wearing over long linen cloaks, they must be either be suicidal or very much adapted to this environment – or maybe both.
“Kravchuk! Here we go!”
Their enemy clearly hadn’t expected a flanking attack and several of them fall before they see the pair of soldiers or hear their fire. One, however, better armed than the rest, unleashes a terrible scream and dashes toward Tarasov, firing his light machine gun from his hip.
Tarasov remains calm and aims his rifle, only to hear a faint clack from the empty weapon when he pulls the trigger. Temporarily disarmed and cursing himself for such an oversight, the Major throws himself to the ground. His assailant is so close now that his bullets will find their target even if fired from the hip. As he rolls to the side, releasing and switching the magazine, enemy bullets throw up dirt from the ground, missing him by a hairspan. Still rolling in the mud, Tarasov gets the magazine home and cocks the weapon, knowing it might already be too late but only hoping that his armored suit will save him from the worst.
Abruptly, the hostile fighter’s head jerks back, his skull spurting bone and blood. Looking up, Tarasov sees the sniper kneeling over him, the Dragunov slung over his shoulder and his Fort pistol still at aim.
“Thanks, Kravchuk,” Tarasov says as he gets up to his feet.
Suddenly, a roaming hurrah hits his ears from the squad’s direction.
“Hold your fire,” he tells the sniper, “that… Zlenko has just ordered a bayonet charge!”
Tarasov had almost said: that idiot, and thinks, How can somebody order a bayonet charge with four men?
But by now he can already see the paratroopers approaching, firing their rifles from the hip and finishing off the few remaining hostiles. Their faces are full of excitement. The swiftest one catches up with a running enemy and stabs him with a triumphant yell. He recognizes the victorious soldier as Kamensky.
“Hold your fire,” he shouts at the paratroopers. “We’re coming through!”
Still unsure if he should reprimand Zlenko in front of the troopers or have a very serious talk with him afterwards, Tarasov walks up to the sergeant.
“I can’t believe what I’ve just seen, Sergeant.”
“That makes two of us, sir. Your flanking trick was brilliant!”
“I know.” Tarasov cuts into his words and takes a deep breath before continuing but Zlenko, still running on adrenalin, keeps on talking.
“Major, when I saw those bastards on the run I let the men move in by force. There was something about them that had to be unleashed… I apologize if I did something wrong.”
Tarasov looks at the dead hostiles and the soldiers searching the bodies. They are as elated as if they had just won the biggest battle of their lives. To the sergeant’s luck, all appear unscathed. Tarasov looks deep into Zlenko’s brown eyes.
“How old are you, Viktor?”
“Twenty-five, sir.”
“How many real battles have you been in?”
“None, sir. This was my first.”
Tarasov sighs. He knows he should reprimand Zlenko for his reckless attack. After all he, Tarasov, knows only too well how disastrous hotheadedness can be. But then, it comes to his mind that enthusiasm is a rare treasure among a squad of wounded and emaciated soldiers, left to fend for themselves in a terrain far from home with dangers they have barely come to know.
“Be proud of yourself. There are many generals who never had the chance to order a bayonet charge.”
Zlenko is smart enough to understand that he made a mistake. “Do you think
that I took an unnecessary risk, komandir?” he ask anxiously.
Tarasov gives him a grim smile. “Keep it up, Viktor… but next time you give such an order without asking me, I’ll rip your buttocks so far apart that you’ll be able to shout fix bayonets! through your asshole. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. I apologize.”
“Don’t. Now go and check the bodies for anything useful. I’ll catch up with those Stalkers before they disappear.”
“Yest, komandir!”
Sergeant Zlenko’s salute is as perfectly presented as if they were on a parade ground. Tarasov returns it and hurries towards the riverbed. He slows down after a few steps, where the two remaining Stalkers appear in the woods, their weapons unholstered. One of them wears a light, raggedy Freedom suit, keeping his MP-5 submachine gun on his shoulders. Half of his face is covered by a brown shemagh but his blue eyes look shrewd and cheerful. The other looks like rookieness incarnate in his light, Kevlar-padded jacket – nor does his sawn-off shotgun make him look any more impressive.
“Thanks for helping us out, bro,” the rookie says by way of greeting. “We wanted to help you deal with them zombies, but… oh no, you’re fucking boyevoychiks!”
He raises his beat-up shotgun but the other Stalker pushes the weapon back down.
“Shut up, Danya, they’ve just saved our skins!” Turning towards Tarasov, he continues with a grateful tone in his voice. His Russian is impeccable, yet the way he speaks betrays that it’s not the Stalker’s native tongue. “You were the last ones we expected here, man… military or not, we will not forget your help anytime soon! Drop by our base and we’ll show you our gratitude!”
Tarasov grins and looks at the Stalkers.
“Why not right now?”
The smarter-looking Stalker returns his smirk.
“Well, we could offer you some MP5 ammunition or a can of meat, perhaps a half-empty medikit but…
“Keep it.”
“… but I think you might like this better.” He rummages in his side bag and holds a small artifact to Tarasov. “It’s called an Emerald. Keeps you running for a while when you’re out of breath, with no radiation emitted that your armor can’t deal with. Please, accept it as a token of our gratitude.”
“If you insist.”
Satisfied, Tarasov takes the artifact that looks like a dull pebble with a pale green core. The one who named it ‘Emerald’ must have had a vivid imagination, but as he lets it slide into the artifact container on his belt he feels as if the ugly little thing has sucked all fatigue from his limbs.
“I hope you haven’t depleted your stocks of gratitude yet. We were on our way to Bagram. Could you lead us there?” Seeing the Stalkers’ concerned faces, he tries to calm them. “We are up to no trouble. Our chopper crashed and we need a safe place where we can pull ourselves together. We’ll leave again in two or three days. That’s a promise.”
The Stalkers look at each other. “It’s not up to us, actually,” the rookie says, “it will be up to Captain Bone to decide if you can stay.”
“That might be so, but first we have to get there so that he can make up his mind.”
The Stalker who gave him the artifact looks at Tarasov and the grim-looking, battered soldiers approaching behind him. “It’s your lucky day, man. Call me Squirrel - I am a guide and a very good one too! ”
“This guy is looking like a pot-head to me,” Zlenko says under his breath. Tarasov nods in agreement. Oh God, he thinks, am I really to trust a junkie from Freedom, even if he’s obviously a Loner now? It can’t get lower than that.
“Come, on, man! Don’t look at me like that. Believe me, I can lead you there straight as the crow flies, avoiding zombies and all that shit,” he says licking his lips. “Our raid is blown anyway with Misha and Vitka dead.”
He was directing his last words more to his fellow Stalker than to Tarasov. But his mate resists.
“Are you out of your mind, Squirrel? Guiding the military to Bagram? For free? You charged me eight hundred rubles for the trip to Hellgate!”
“See, Danya, first you didn’t save my life. Second, they have half a dozen weapons pointed at us which puts them into a pretty good bargaining position. Why not be friendly with them? Chill out, man!”
“I have a bad feeling about this. My stomach turns at the thought of getting involved with the army’s business!”
“Ask Lobov for something that helps you with your nausea,” Tarasov jerks his thumb in the medic’s direction. “And don’t worry about guiding us. You will only assist us carrying the stretchers.”
Then the Major remembers Degtyarev’s words about making friends on their way. He pats the rookie on the back. “It’s all right,” he tells him with a wide smile. “We are here to protect you from this place, not this place from you.”
The Stalker returns his friendly look with a scowl. “Damned boyevoychik… you have the smile of a jackal. I’d prefer you shouting at me.” But Tarasov doesn’t have to comply with his wish as the young Stalker reluctantly falls in line.
With him giving the stretcher-bearers a helping hand, they proceed much quicker through barely trodden paths and shortcuts through the forest. Either because the intensive fighting scared them away or because they are less active during daytime, no mutants harass them. But Tarasov is still worried about the enemy who ambushed them.
“Those were zombies, you said?” he asks the guide called Squirrel, who is marching beside him.
“Nah, just a manner of speaking. I call them zombies because they’ve got no brains. Imagine, you are peacefully enjoying the scenery or looking for artifacts, and then they come at you out of nowhere, shouting allaaaaah and stuff like that. One can shut them up with bullets only.”
“They are Taliban then?”
“Call them whatever you want… we just call them dushmans, for old times’ sake, if you follow my meaning.”
“I do,” Tarasov nods.
“For us, they are just another kind of mutant. And they look like mutants too. You’ve seen their faces?”
“I did and they weren’t pretty. They looked like they had a serious case of radiation sickness. No surprise, with the pajamas they wore for armor.”
“Well seen, man. They don’t value their own lives too much. The problem is, neither do they value our lives.”
“Are there many of them around here?”
“One can never know… their den seems to be somewhere to the south, down the road to Kabul.”
“So Kabul still exists?”
“In a way. See, instead of Kabul I should have said Kaboom, because that’s what happened there. Anyway, sometimes they make it up to Bagram but we have an Outpost to keep an eye on the road. It’s a funny place.”
“How come?”
“Well, Captain Bone is an asshole but he values discipline. If a Stalker is caught stealing or something like that, he is sent to the Outpost for a few days. If he survives, he can come back and stay with us. If not – good riddance.”
“This Captain Bone… I heard he is from Duty.”
“Dunno, maybe he was. But with all the former Freedom guys around, he won’t turn the place into a barracks. No way we will be doing morning drills man!”
“Why are there so many Freedomers here?”
The Stalker laughs. “Bhango, man.”
“What’s that?”
“Try to think harder. What has always been the Afghan delight?”
“Weed and opium, or so I’ve heard.”
“You’re super-duper smart for a boyevoychik. Now, tell me what happened to plants in the Zone after the CNPP accident?”
“Polyploidy… some plants grew to unbelievable proportions.”
“And you still don’t get it? Oh, you guys really miss all the fun in life…”
Despite the pain in his chapped lips, Tarasov has to smile as he imagines drug-addicted Freedom soldiers flocking to the New Zone to smoke weed made from marijuana buds as big as a fist.
 
; “Now you got my meaning, man. Give it a try in Bagram because you need to get high. You’re as pale as a vampire!”
“Thanks, but no thanks. You know, in the army we stick to bum-bum,” Tarasov replies, adding an explanation when the Stalker gives him a curious look. “You take brake fluid, add some raisins and sugar, then let it ferment for a few days in the sun. Gives a pretty good kick.”
“That explains why there were no usable vehicles in the Old Zone... Hey, wait a minute! Where are you going? I’ll need to upload this recipe to my PDA!”
Tarasov, who was about to check the column’s rear, turns back to the guide.
“Listen… after your comrades died I guess you stripped them naked?”
Squirrel shrugs the question off.
“Once dead, a Stalker doesn’t need his kit anymore, does he?”
“I could use their PDAs.”
“Difficult, man,” Squirrel replies scratching his head, “difficult. Ashot pays a good price for used PDAs. They’re always in demand by rookies.”
“Give one of them to me and the other to Sergeant Zlenko. Tell him to provide you with one of our rifles and a few mags in exchange.”
“That’s robbery!”
“No. It’s charity. Think about it: you get a mint condition Kalash for two lousy PDAs.”
The guide sighs and looks at his battered submachine gun. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind a weapon with more punch… all right.” Squirrel draws the devices from a pouch on his ammunition vest. “Which one you want?”
Switching on the devices, Tarasov finds that all data has been deleted from the memory units. It could have been done out of respect for a dead man’s privacy, but the major rather suspects that Squirrel wanted to keep the location of any personal stash for himself. However, Tarasov only cares about the map mode. The PDA is not as tough and sophisticated as his own army-issue device had been but the digital map seems accurate enough. To his surprise, there are no indicators on the screen to show the position of fellow Stalkers and important locations.
“No signal beyond a ten-kilometer radius around Bagram,” the guide explains. “Only Bone has gear that covers the whole area. He’s the only one with access to the outside world too.”
“Damn!”
“I agree, man. But about your end of the bargain - where’s that sergeant?”
“Keeping his eyes on our rear. And when you give him the PDA, don’t forget to tell him how to use it.”
Southern Shamali Plains, 2014, 16:56:21 AFT
Tarasov and his squad might have saved the two Stalkers from death, but as the sun starts setting beyond the snow-capped mountains, he admits to himself that they saved his squad from getting completely lost in the forest in return. The Stalker guide has led them through the wilderness on pathways only known to him, until they now emerge onto a road littered with vehicle wrecks. They have left the forest behind and a wide, sandy plain opens up in front of them. Electro anomalies fizz around ruined utility towers that look like the steel skeletons of fallen giants. Exercising a little caution sees them through. After another half hour’s march, at last Bagram appears.
Or what’s left of it, Tarasov muses.
Degtyarev’s words come to his mind as he scans the ruins through his binoc, taking in the sight of steel containers thrown across the mass of concrete and sand that must have once been the runway, the broken masts from which no ensign flies and the gutted airplanes and helicopters – most of them dating from the Soviet war, others left behind by the Western allies when they too had abandoned the country – like enormous bugs that had survived every cataclysm to hit this cursed place.
“It’s a sad sight, Major.”
“I didn’t take you for an emotional man, Viktor,” Tarasov replies.
“I don’t mean shedding tears. But… imagine, it’s 1986 and you’ve been drafted to the army from Kiev or Pripyat and deployed here. Then you hear the news about what happened at the CNPP. And you still have to fight that senseless shit of a war without knowing what happened to your kin at home.”
“They didn’t know about it… remember, Moscow tried to keep it secret. The folks in Pripyat learned about it last. Those bastards didn’t even tell them what happened when the KGB was already out on the streets taking radiation measurements in full protective suits. Imagine - Dynamo Kiev thrashed Atletico Madrid when the disaster happened, and our football players learned about it from Spanish journalists! But one more thing…” Tarasov points at a junk yard full of wrecked, Soviet-made helicopters and airplanes. “You see those wrecks?”
“Yes. Gospodi, it looks as if we left half our air force behind!”
“Bagram was the base of our best helicopter pilots. When Chernobyl happened, they called them back to take measurements, extinguish the flames and drop chemicals to block the discharge of radioactivity from the reactor… no other pilots could do that. They took off from the very same spot where we stand now. It is a place where our two fatal disasters meet: Chernobyl and the Afghan war.”
The sergeant frowns. “Honestly, komandir, sometimes I felt sad about the USSR collapsing… nostalgic even. But now, seeing those wasted helicopters over there, I get your point.”
Tarasov is surprised at the change in the young sergeant’s expression. His lean, handsome face has become like a cold piece of metal in an instant.
“I can guess the rest of the story, Major. Once the job was done, they were given a medal and sent back to this godforsaken place to die. Do you know what I think now? Fuck the USSR. Fuck its damned war.”
The major has seen many people change in the Zone. Usually it was terror turning their hair grey after a night spent in the underground laboratories. Sometimes, it was rage over a fallen friend that caused the change. Other times, greed over an artifact that was supposed to make one a millionaire outside took over. But he never saw anyone slaughtering his own illusions so palpably like this young soldier right in front of him, and it leaves him at a loss, not knowing how to reply. Suddenly, the photograph comes to his mind: Yuriy and the Gang.
“Well… whatever lies in the past, here we go again,” he finally replies. “This is our little war now and this time we’re not here to lose it. What’s the name of that trooper carrying the grenade launcher?”
“Vasilyev.”
“Give Vasilyev a hand. He can barely keep it on his shoulders.” Tarasov looks at Zlenko who is still staring at the ruins. “Come on... Let’s move, son.”
Shamali Plains, 17:20:15 AFT
Among the bushes spawning from cracks in the asphalt where heavy airplanes had once landed and the rows of ruined buildings that seemed to stretch endlessly along the former runway, the Stalkers lead them towards a veritable bastion erected from steel shipping containers with sandbags on top. One bullet-riddled container blocks the entrance, the word MAERSK still visible in faded white letters. A loudspeaker crackles from inside.
“Stalkers! Veterans and rookies from the far north! If you’ve had enough of dust storms, mutants and dushmans, come to the Antonov – we have all comforts the New Zone has to offer!”
The invitation comes from tantalizingly close by. Tarasov swallows hard.
Two huge chains run up from the container blocking the entrance and disappear into holes in the metal rampart above. A sentry rises to his feet and emerges from under a shady camouflage mat, casually turning a fixed machine gun towards them.
“Halt! Who goes there?” he shouts down.
“Yo, Grisha! It’s us, Squirrel and Danya!” the guide shouts back waving his hand. “Try not to shoot us, fellas!”
“And those dirty zombies you have in tow?”
“Er… they look like military, but that’s only a birth defect! They are cool, I swear it!”
“What? You brought the military here? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“They saved us from two bears! And then we routed a squad of freaks together!”
The sentry hesitates. “Wait… I need to ask Bone first,” he repl
ies, and disappears behind the sand bags. Squirrel sighs and looks at Tarasov with doubt written all over his face.
“Stalkers! Visit the Antonov! Chilled vodka, deer steak salted with potassodium iodide, and all kinds of shiny new weapons await!”
“If he mentions chilled vodka one more time, I’ll take this damned place by storm,” Ilchenko moans. “I swear it.”
Tarasov has a queasy feeling in his guts. Back in the Old Zone, he did everything he could to ensure a fragile coexistence between his soldiers and the Stalkers, and the military had always been on good terms with Duty fighters. But that might as well have been on a different planet.
“Do you think they will let us in?” Zlenko asks with concern.
“I couldn’t blame them if they don’t… It was not so long ago in the Old Zone that we had orders to shoot Stalkers on sight.”
Dark clouds gather on the southern horizon but the sun still shines down mercilessly on the exhausted soldiers. At last they hear a generator starting up and the MAERSK container is pulled up by the heavy chains. As the gate opens, a dozen Stalkers step forward from the swirling dust, all wearing heavy armor with an exoskeleton-clad figure in the middle. Their Russian-made Groza assault rifles are aimed at the soldiers.
Tarasov frowns. Veteran Duty fighters. We wouldn’t stand a chance against them… not in this condition.
“No fooling around, men,” he tells his soldiers and raises his arms to signal his peaceful intentions.
“Now look at this miserable bunch of boyevoychiks,” the Stalker leader says with a mocking laugh. Then he turns to Tarasov. “What the hell are you here for, assface?”
Assface?
Tarasov is sure he has heard this insult before, spoken in the same disdainful tone. However, the exoskeleton’s visor hides the leader’s face and the voice, distorted by the gas mask, is not recognizable.
“Captain Bone,” he replies, “even if we’re on strictly neutral terms, I was hoping to receive a slightly warmer welcome from a Duty officer. I am Major Tarasov from the Ukrainian Armed Forces, and these are my men. We have no hostile intentions and need your help.”
“I would sooner put my dick into a snork’s mouth than help you.” Bone looks at his gunmen. “This is not the Old Zone and we are not bound to Duty or their alliance to the military. We are our own masters here and don’t want any interference in our affairs.”
“We are not here to bother your business. We have many wounded who need medical assistance. Let us rest for one day, then we’ll leave you in peace and never come back.”
“Even if you paid for it, and you don’t look like someone who could, we haven’t enough resources to patch you up. You are not welcome here. Go back to the desert and get eaten by jackals, I don’t care a damn.”
“Stalkers! Enjoy…”
Tarasov considers his less than favorable options and is about to order his men to charge down the arrogant captain and his troopers, choosing to die a soldier’s death when the looped message in the loudspeaker is interrupted by a cheerful voice.
“Yo, Captain! Why dontcha let’em in? They must be thirsty like a bloodsucker with no necks around. It would be good for me business!”
“Ashot, you bozo,” Bone snorts into his intercom, “stay out of this. It’s adults talking here.”
A trooper with telecommunications gear on his back comes up running to Bone and holds a speaker to his commander. “It’s the Outpost, captain.”
Bone listens to the message and orders his men to lower their weapons.
“A solution has just come up. We have a few men stationed to the south. They are about to be attacked by dushmans. You take your men and help them defend their position. Survivors will be permitted to enter our base.”
The Major gives Bone a scornful grin and darts a freezing glance at Zlenko, who is about to shout something back, his face burning with anger.
“I understand that Duty needs assistance from us professionals, but with half of my men barely able to walk we wouldn’t be of much use now. I heard you have a doctor in the base. Have him patch up our wounded and maybe we’ll give you a leg up.”
“You overestimate your bargaining position, Major.” Arrogance still lingers in Bone’s voice but he seems less sure of his ground. “All right, here’s the deal. Your wounded can stay. Those who are still able to lift a rifle go to the Outpost at Hill 1865.” Tarasov wants to interrupt but Bone has not finished yet. “Of course, you’ll leave those exoskeletons here, together with half your remaining ammo. Don’t look so angry, Major: you’re making a valuable contribution to the future defense of Bagram!”
Tarasov bites his lips. What he just heard is equal to a death sentence. If I ever get back to the Zone, I’ll lead a strike force against Duty’s headquarters and burn it to the ground. I swear it.
“You bastard. Why don’t you shoot us right here, right now? A damned big victory for you, with half of my men wounded!”
“Ah yes, that’s the cocky major speaking now. To answer you properly: first, we save our ammo for mutants and dushmans and don’t waste it on cockroaches like you. Second, I am actually being generous. You can survive at the Outpost after all… your chances are a hundred to one. Go for it!”
“Even a brainless Dutier should see that we won’t get there in time!”
“You won’t have to walk on your stinkers,” Bone replies and turns to one of his troopers. “Corporal Glazunov, go and prepare the truck.”
Barely able to swallow his anger, Tarasov turns to the sergeant. “Collect half the ammo from the men. Line up those still capable to fight.”
“But…”
“Do as you were ordered.” Tarasov’s eyes flash like a lightning as he glares at the young sergeant. Then he adds in a more forgiving voice: “We don’t have much of a choice here, son… I’ve been concerned that one way or the other, we’d have to win over the Stalkers’ hearts and minds. Don’t worry.”
Zlenko looks at him with a mixture of anxiety and trust. “It’s their hearts and minds, but our blood and guts… We’ll do as ordered, sir.”
“And what about me and Danya, captain?” The Stalker has been watching over their conversation without a word, but now sounds genuinely scared.
“Squirrel, you and your buddy made a mistake by leading these bastards to our base. Both of you will join your new friends.”
“But we belong here! You can’t do this to us!”
Bone ignores the guide’s desperate pleas. A heavy engine starts up behind the wall and a huge URAL truck appears. Thick armor plates cover the driver’s compartment and manned by two of Bone’s guards, a double-barreled anti-aircraft gun rotates on the vehicle’s back as it slowly rolls out through the gate.
“It will take you to the Outpost… and if you’re lucky, back here tomorrow morning,” Bone laughs. “What happens in between is not my concern. Get onto that truck and leave my base. Move! What are you, a statue?”
“I’ll see you again, Bone.”
“Forget that attitude, Major. Remember, your wounded are now with me!”
Climbing up to the truck, the only thing Tarasov can think about is if he hasn’t made another mistake by calling at Bagram.
My men are worn out, I have no contact with Termez or Degtyarev… I’m completely on my own now. What the hell was I supposed to do?
Still thinking about what a difference one more night of fighting could make, he looks out at the desert and the arid mountains behind. All of his soldiers have exhaustion etched on their faces, with the exception of Ilchenko who is doing his best to clean his machine gun as the rocking truck jostles along the bumpy road.
They could be worse off, Tarasov thinks. They could be spending days in the godforsaken ruins of an underground laboratory at Yantar, or getting marooned on a lookout tower in the Swamp with their ammo wasted and hordes of mutants crawling beneath. Or maybe facing trigger-happy mercenaries while reconnoitering Rostok with an AK that keeps jamming and should have been cast off a decade a
go.
Tarasov has never been abroad, nor has he ever served outside of the Zone. Now the wide, open space around him and the clear sky, shining with a deep blue he has never seen before, fills him with exhilaration.
“You seem happy,” Zlenko says, trying to make himself heard over the laboring engine and the wind.
Tarasov frowns, realizing that the sergeant has a point. His strange exhilaration is similar to what he had felt when arriving back in the Zone after a leave, like feeling the familiar smell of one’s home or the perfume of a lover not seen for a long time. He feels sorry for his soldiers who have never experienced the Zone but, looking over the vast plain, Tarasov wonders if this land doesn’t offer much more than the area around the CNPP could. The Zone was so small compared to this vast wilderness. And with this thought, he realizes that his exhilaration comes from just this expectation – the promise of a new Zone, with new secrets awaiting discovery. But all this would need too much explanation, and Tarasov decides to direct Zlenko’s attention elsewhere.
“Tonight, we will teach the dushmans a lesson!” he replies. “It is payback time!”
“Sure! But I hope one day we’ll also get that bastard Captain Bone by his balls!”
“Maybe, if the mission is complete. We’re a rescue team, not assassins.”
He can’t hear Zlenko’s reply over the truck’s roaring engine noise and squeaking suspension as it speeds down the uneven road, but he sees the expression on the other man’s face. It’s enough to tell him what Zlenko’s thoughts are. The major turns away and, taking his binoculars from their case, studies the hill in front of them.
The rise is slightly lower than the ridge on the other side of the road but still offers a perfect view over the area and the narrow pass where the road enters the plains leading to the ruins of Kabul. His Geiger counter, ticking at survivable values around Bagram, now climbs up to more dangerous levels. The truck rolls on, along a broken road that crosses over undulating sand riddled with vehicle wrecks and shell craters before it starts to climb up the hill, spiraling all the way to the top.