by John Mason
“All right… I suppose you were guarding me?”
“Yes, sir. On Sergeant Zlenko’s orders.”
“Your watch is over.”
“As ordered, sir,” the paratrooper replies, shouldering his rifle with a relieved grin.
Still weak and light-headed from two days of lying around, Tarasov is on his way toward the paratrooper camp when Uncle Yar’s voice sounds from the loudspeaker.
“Ashot! Drag your sorry ass over here.”
“Sorry me dear, I can’t! I’m trying to find out why me new hash pipe ain’t working!”
“Maybe before lighting it up you should remove your gas mask first?”
“You don’t get it, do you? Me gas mask is me new pipe!”
“ASHOT! LET ME REMIND YOU THAT ANY MODIFICATION OF EQUIPMENT TO FACILITATE DRUG CONSUMPTION WILL BE PUNISHED!” Captain Bone’s voice booms.
“I hear you, Captain, I hear you! What’s wrong about me finding a new meaning for ‘integrated breathing system’?”
Bone’s voice returns on the intercom, but this time it is not directed at the misbehaving trader.
“Major! I am delighted to hear you’re on your feet again. Come over here. Let’s have a little chat.”
What the hell could Bone want from me?
Tarasov feels uneasy as he enters the Captain’s fortified compound. Judged by the tower overshadowing the half-ruined building, it might have been the control center of the airport once upon a time. The guards salute and let him in, and he is about to open the door when one of them bars his way.
“You can’t go there.”
“I’m on my way to see Bone.”
“The Captain’s room is in the tower. Take the stairs.”
Tarasov shrugs him off and climbs up the stairs to the former air traffic control room, from where the whole base can be seen. Encircled by the wall of containers, Bone’s headquarters are at the center of the perimeter. Not far from here, a dilapidated transport airplane is collecting dust and rust. Wires run from its tail to the central building where the generators should be. Makeshift shacks and tents litter the cracked concrete, sitting among all kinds of war debris, from gutted military vehicles to helicopter wrecks. Stalkers with an affection for personal hygiene have set up a field shower by attaching a plastic water tank to the trunks of a metal structure that might have been a radio relay tower once upon a time. All looks peaceful, like a boy scouts’ camp – except for the armed Stalkers keeping watch in the fortified positions, the look-out posts along the container wall and a watchtower where a sniper scans the horizon through his binoculars.
The commander is standing in front of a huge, detailed map of the area. He is wearing his armored suit with the helmet on.
Does he ever wash himself? comes to the major’s mind. The sight of the field shower made him realize how much he desires a long, refreshing bath himself.
“You are feeling better, Major? Congratulations on a battle well fought. Now that you have proven yourself, I’ll let you stay for a few days. A deal is a deal. But that’s enough idle talk. I want you to do something for me.”
Tarasov stares at him curiously, hoping that his anxiety is not too visible.
“Here,” Bone says, pointing at a position on the map that lies to the north-west of Bagram, “is the location of a mercenary base. They constantly harass the Stalkers moving between Bagram and the small Stalker base at Ghorband, here. I want you to find and eliminate the mercs.”
“I’ll need to check on my men first.”
“No need for that. I want you to do it alone, because your men are needed here.”
“They are still under my command, Captain, not yours.”
“Listen! Those cocksucker mercenaries have become very active recently. I need your men to help us defending the base, should we be attacked. You do this mission for me and leave your men here, or I’ll have you all kicked out of Bagram. Period.”
Tarasov has to admit that no matter how arrogantly presented, Bone’s idea is not entirely unreasonable. “I suppose that only leaves me with two choices… to do it or to do it, right?”
“Exactly, Major,” Bone nods. “At least your wounded men can recuperate while you are gone.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. By the way… now that we defended the Outpost we can have our exoskeletons back, I suppose?”
“Well… I’m afraid, that’s not the case.” The helmet might hide Bone’s face but his gestures reveal his embarrassment. “Your suits were stolen from our armory.”
Hearing this, all his suppressed anger is released into Tarasov’s face. “Stolen? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Yes, it’s… shameful. I have already initiated an investigation but… In any case, if Ashot is involved in this, I’ll shoot him myself. That’s a promise.”
“Why on earth would he steal them?”
“Do you know how much such a suit costs, Major?”
“Actually, I don’t but…”
“It’s about eighty years of your salary. Yes! People turned into scoundrels for a fraction of that… Anyway, go talk to that no-good anarchist. And we are clear about those mercs, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Tarasov reluctantly replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”
18:25:14 AFT
Leaving Bone’s compound, Tarasov runs into Ilchenko and the sergeant. The machine gunner’s nose is bandaged and his face blue from multiple bruises, but that does not prevent him from giving Tarasov a bearish hug. Zlenko acts more reserved, though equally glad to see his officer on his feet again, and it’s Tarasov’s turn to hug the young sergeant.
“What happened to your nose, Ilchenko?”
“That damned Stalker who wanted to kill you knocked me out.”
“You? You are one meter ninety and more than a hundred kilos. One would need a sledgehammer to knock you out.”
“Shame on me, Major. That piece of shit was a damned quick little son of a bitch,” Ilchenko replies, embarrassed. “But if I ever see him again I’ll break his neck. I swear it!”
“If you get close enough to him, that is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind… What about the squad, Sergeant Zlenko?”
“Privates Nakhimov and Obukov are still in the infirmary. Bondarchuk too - he got a nasty stab in the stomach during our charge. We had two KIAs.”
“Damn!” A curse escapes Tarasov’s lips. “I hope no one was left behind.”
“No, sir. They’re both here – Kamensky and Vasilyev.”
Zlenko points toward two crosses close to the container wall, each made up of a rifle stuck into the sandy ground with a helmet on top. The boots of the fallen soldiers stand at attention beside them.
Tarasov bows his head. “Did Skinner make it?”
“Yes, but he didn’t stay. He went on to a place called… what was it, Ilch?”
“Ghorband, Sarge. Actually, as soon as he got off the truck he wanted to kill the Captain but the guards kicked him out.”
“Pity he didn’t succeed,” Tarasov grumbles, looking at the graves. “Two men. What a goddamned waste. And I suppose there’s no priest among the Stalkers.”
“We said a prayer and let off a rifle salvo for an amen.”
“Proper funeral for our paratroopers.” Tarasov sighs. “Well, then… let’s have a toast on their memory. How’s that famous Stalker bar?”
“We haven’t checked it out yet.”
“How so?” Tarasov is surprised.
“We held off on the toast until you were on your feet again.”
“Well, I am… and your patience is appreciated, Viktor. It must have been a sacrifice second only to dying.”
“Honestly? It was hard.”
“Let’s go. Where’s Stepashin?”
“Last time I saw him he was taking a shower. I’ll go and get him.”
“On second thoughts – I’m dying for a shower myself.”
A few minutes later, refreshed and cleaned up, th
e soldiers make their way to the wrecked Antonov. Ripped off its landing gear long ago, two rusty tank hulls balance out the fuselage. It is covered with graffiti but the ghost of a single red star is still visible on the tail. The ramp below the tail gunner’s compartment is lowered. Warm orange light permeates from inside, making the interior look cozy and inviting in the approaching dusk.
“I hope that Ashot character wasn’t lying about the chilled vodka,” Ilchenko mutters.
“There’s only one way to find out. Inside, everyone!”
The order is eagerly obeyed: walking up the ramp, the narrow confines of the airplane reveal a den covered by carpets, cushions and pallets used for tables, some on the metal floor, others placed on wooden crates still bearing the word USAID on their age-worn sides. Under the humming ventilators, the jingle of vodka glasses blends in with a Stalker’s attempt at an old song on his guitar, the tune not quite matching the muted beats of reggae from the music player, but not jarring too bad either. Stalkers sit or lie around, some of them smoking on hookah pipes. Thick clouds of smoke float in the dim light of candles and petroleum lamps, and Tarasov detects the heady smell of marijuana too. At the other end of the fuselage, behind a bar made from crude battens, the barkeeper waves his hand. He is wearing a battered Freedom suit and smokes on a thick, hand-rolled cigarette.
“Welcome to the Antonov! She’s gonna take you real high!” He protracts the word real, suggesting means for uplifting spirits the major has never been fond of.
“Ashot, you old anarchist,” he says, “don’t even think about offering bhango to my men. But if you have a chilled pollitra – spill it!”
“Yo, dude!” Ashot shouts cheerfully. “If no soft smoke, then a hard drink! Here you go – at me place, every hour is happy hour!”
Tarasov raises his dewy vodka glass. “To our fallen comrades!”
His soldiers repeat the toast and clink their glasses.
“Oops…,” Ashot retorts in embarrassment and lowers his tone. “Ooo-kay, maybe this one is not a happy hour… sorry, brothers! This round is on the house.”
The major, always fond of good vodka, raises his eyebrows: the spirit tastes as if it had been watered down. His soldiers don’t seem to care, however. Tarasov is about to announce another toast when his PDA signals a new message.
Condor, I had to leave the base in a hurry. Sorry for your trooper’s broken nose. There’s a Stalker den at Ghorband. Get some sniper gear and visit me there ASAP. And watch your back in Bagram! Crow.
Tarasov raises his eyebrows.
I wish that elusive son of a bitch had told me what this is about. Could this be a trap? I still don’t get why Crow would be after me.
He listens to his soldiers’ chatter, at first heavy-hearted as they remember their squad mates but soon growing cheerful with the drink washing away their somber mood. Ilchenko is already regaling them with anecdotes about a Bosnian prostitute and the ‘special treatment’ he’d ended up receiving from Lobov, but Tarasov is too lost in his own thoughts to follow the story.
“Hey Ashot,” he says bending over the bar and continuing in a whisper. “Do you have any exoskeletons for sale? Or anyone else in Bagram?”
The barkeep recoils and almost lets the joint fall from his lips.
“What? Exos? Hell, no!”
“Why so jumpy? You look as if I asked you to kiss a bloodsucker.”
“Bro, ask me for a crow bar, a 10 millimeter pulse rifle, a golden Kalashnikov, a Gatling laser - any weapon made or not and I’ll get it for you. I also guarantee you the best Duty-free prices… when Bone’s dick-heads aren’t around. But exoskeletons… I no have them. I no deal in that stuff here, nor does anyone else.”
Tarasov carefully studies his face. “All right, never mind… It’s actually something long and silent I need.”
“Oh yeah, now we talk business!” Ashot says with huge relief, unlocking a huge metal cabinet. Inside, a dozen assault rifles and pistols are arranged in a weapon rack. “There’s no way to unload any crap on you!”
“What happened to all the nice NATO stuff that you’d been dealing in?” Tarasov asks looking down the rather motley stash of weapons.
“They are a little hard to come by nowadays. But don’t worry – I have the whole Kalashnikov family here. Look at this AK47 in pristine condition. Want something more up to date? Here’s an AKMS. Okay, you already have one, but what about this AMD-65? Very practical and with low recoil! I also have a Khyber Pass-copy Lee-Enfield. Not interested?”
“I need something like an AS Val with adjustable scope. A Vintorez would also do.”
“Mercanteleezem, shmerkanteleezem! It’s so good to have at last one customer who knows what he wants! The only better thing than that is a seller who actually has that stuff… imagine, last week a Stalker comes to me shop and says, ‘I want a Desert Eagle.’ I show him me collection and he says…”
“I haven’t got all day, you know?”
“You’re late for a date? Come on, me dear, she’ll have to wait. It’s men talking guns now! But the problem is, I no have the Val. You know, last time you could get such weapons here was back in the Eighties, and even then only from the hands of a dead Spetsnaz – I mean no offense. Now it’s from the hands of a dead Stalker expert… which means that even if I had such a weapon, let’s say a Vintorez, it would be very, very expensive.”
Tarasov smiles. He already knows where the trader’s story is going. “Do I smell a dead Stalker expert in your den?”
“His name was Charon,” Ashot replies with an ear to ear grin. “He comes in one day and everyone freezes. He says, never mind me armor, I no longer with the Monolith. He had that ‘been there, done that’ look all over his scarred face. Then he went to a place he’d never been before and did something stupid – got too close to a Geyser. You know, the anomaly that can boil you. Must have been painful…”
“I guess so, and I also guess that he had a Vintorez on him that miraculously found its way into your stock.”
“Something like that. But first things first: do you have enough money? I accept dollars, euros, British pounds, rubles and of course artifacts. Why, what did you expect, me dear? Paying in bullets or bottle caps? I no have use for that, you see…”
“I do have money. Rubles and dollars.”
“Excellent!” Ashot takes a long bundle from under the bar. “Ain’t this a beautiful little baby? You pay the ridiculously low price of 75000 rubles or 2500 dollars for a 2-to-10 pancreatic scope with a 52 millimeters objective –”
“What?!”
“… with poor old Charon’s Vintorez attached to it. And if you buy it in package with an AMD-65, I’ll give you a set of scope cleaning tissues for free!”
“Are you kidding?”
“Of course! But the tungsten-cored SP-6 ammo that I have on sale is no joke, and one full magazine is already included in the price! Make up your mind – this Vintorez is the first and last thing a Spetsnaz like you needs!”
“I’m not convinced,” the major says, studying the weapon. It’s in dreadful condition and even if he made the trader lower his price, it would still take the better part of the money given to him to buy information. “It looks as if a herd of mutants has trampled on it. In this condition, even dog food is more valuable than this!”
“Chill out, brother! What do you think we have Mr. Fix-It for? Yar will only need to replace the trigger and the loading mechanism and maybe straighten the barrel but you’ll get yourself a discount, don’t worry.”
I could throw my Emerald into the deal, but it’s not just any artifact… it’s a useful artifact.
Seeing the rare, silenced automatic rifle that performs equally well as a sniper weapon and at close quarters, Tarasov tries to fight the temptation – but fails.
“Keep that long scope. What about 45000 rubles for the Vintorez with three magazines and three more boxes of ammo?”
“You wanna ruin me? Even an airsoft version costs 700 dollars or 21000 rubles, and we�
�re talking about the real stuff here! Sixty thousand rubles.”
“What if I don’t make a big fuss about you watering down your vodka, and you give it to me for forty thousand? Come on, don’t make such a face. I’ll throw my scoped AKM into the deal.”
“You’re really a pushy one, you know that? Now take it before me heart breaks!”
Tarasov puts the money and his assault rifle on the table and happily takes the Vintorez, hoping that he won’t regret the deal.
“Anyway – how did you end up here, Ashot? The last time I heard about you, you and Yar were with Freedom back in the Dark Valley.”
“Oh yes, the Zone… the good old days, as Yar would say.” Ashot leans closer and gives Tarasov a shrewd wink. “The Dark Valley got a little too dark for me. You know, being on the competition’s black list is not good for business. So when the news came of this comfortable place in the south, I moved me business. And so did Mr. Fix-It. The old Zone was too wet and cold for his old joints. Talking about joints…”
“No, thanks. What happened to Ganja? Did you take over his barkeeping business?”
Ashot’s face darkens. “He was killed by Duty in a skirmish, when everyone and their aunt were rushing to the CNPP... But how do you know so much about Freedom, anyway?”
“I’ve been to your base several times, disguised as a Loner Stalker.”
“Have you? You’re worse than that SBU badass who stirred up trouble at the Jupiter plant. Commander Loki never forgave him, recruiting those rogue Monolithians for Duty. Phew!” The trader spits onto the ground, obviously in lower spirits now after failing to rip Tarasov off by as much as he’d wanted.
“I’ll take that as a compliment”, Tarasov smiles. “Now, where is Uncle Yar’s workshop?”
“In an old Chinook chopper close to Bone’s headquarters. You know, he always wants to compete but his place is much smaller and shorter than mine.”
“I’ll go and check him out. This rifle badly needs an overhaul.”
“There’s an itsy-witsy little problem,” Ashot replies scratching his head. “Yar is… out of mood nowadays. His pet is missing.”