“Make a bonfire,” Tarasov orders, “and be prepared for another long night. This time tomorrow we can rest in Bagram.”
“Are you sure the fire will keep those beasts at bay?” the medic asks. Fear looms in his eyes behind the thin spectacles.
“No.”
“But then… why?”
“Because it’s cozy.”
“Lobov has a point, sir,” the sergeant interjects. “What if hostiles see it?”
“The hostiles we should be concerned about don’t need a campfire to see us.”
“If you say so, Major… I’ll go and see to that fire.”
Tarasov nods in approval and leans against the helicopter’s wreck to rest his aching body. Soon, a bonfire casts its relaxing light over the perimeter. The warm flames, together with the soldiers’ quiet chatter, remind him of nights in the Zone. This familiarity eases his nerves; he feels safe at last, but still doesn’t let his AKSU out of his reach.
A trooper comes and offers him a loaf of bread. It’s still fresh and must be from the rations they got in Termez. Tarasov gladly accepts it. His stomach is rumbling almost as loudly as the mutants growl in the gloomy night.
Shamali Plains, 22 September 2014, 07:10:15 AFT
The dawn brings rain, turning the already muddy forest ground into a veritable swamp. Tarasov orders the squad to move out at first light, or better when according to his watch — or at least when first light should have appeared. He watches the slowly moving column of soaked soldiers, all of them carrying as much extra equipment from the crashed Mi-8’s load as they can bear. Sweat and rain blend on his face as he moves on, keeping his eyes on Ilchenko who walks in front of him. Like a gray ghost shrouded in a veil of rain, Sergeant Zlenko follows them at the tail of the column. With the mud sticking to his boots and making every step twice as difficult for his wounded legs, Tarasov is content with the slow pace.
It is not only the heavy rain that slows them down. When Tarasov tries to find a path through the anomaly field surrounding the crash site, he makes an unpleasant discovery: unlike in the Zone, where anomalies more or less stay in one place, their southern counterparts move, making it difficult to navigate through them. It is like walking through a minefield where the mines are shifting position, making Tarasov realize again that, no matter concerning its similarities with the Old Zone, this is a more evil place where he has to learn the local ways as if he were a rookie once again.
After burying the fallen in the morning, Tarasov’s task had been to exchange his battered AKSU to an AKM-S rifle with a scope attached. He also finally got rid of the ragged pilot’s outfit in favor of a Berill-5M armored suit. The Berills were standard equipment for the paratroopers and, with almost half of the squad fallen, there had been more than enough suits and weapons to choose from. He’d ordered the soldiers to carry as much of the weapons and supplies as they could and had had the helicopter’s wreck blown up before leaving. Once the medic pumped him full of painkillers to get him on his feet again, he was able to walk and lead the squad, albeit with a heavy limp.
As he stands and watches over the troopers passing by, the sergeant turns up at his side.
“Permission to speak freely, komandir?”
“If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Sir… maybe it wouldn’t be too shameful to abandon the mission, given our condition.”
Tarasov looks at a trooper with a badly wounded arm. He’d watched the medic changing the bandages that morning, but he can see blood oozing through again already. Another soldier is wearing an exoskeleton, its kinetic motors making walking easier, though he still has to be helped along by one of his comrades. Two other soldiers carry a third on a field stretcher.
No, the Major thinks, it wouldn’t be shameful to abandon the mission.
For him, it would be more than that. It would be disgraceful and being court-martialed with Kuznetsov in charge would mean not only the end of his military career but also many years in prison, all for one mistake. Even so, he would bear that if his men needed him to. However, in the Zone he became used to succeeding in missions performed against all odds, and these soldiers seem tough and resilient. Moreover, recent events have left a bitter taste — he, who made it to the rank of major and military Stalker commander of the Zone, had been forced to run from a mutant and had also been carried by two grunts to the crash site like a helpless rookie. His pride is perhaps even more deeply hurt than his legs and, whatever happened, he had to show his new squad that he hadn’t put in charge for nothing.
He frowns as he looks into the eyes of his second-in-command. “Honestly, Sergeant, from the very beginning this mission, with close air support and two good squads seemed to be too good to be true.”
Zlenko doesn’t reply, but keeps looking at Tarasov in anticipation.
“If we can make it to Bagram, we can properly patch up the wounded. We can wait a few days until they gather enough strength and maybe even contact Whiskey to get new instructions. Then we continue our mission. After all, we are here to find those scientists, Sergeant, not to conquer this cursed place.”
“So we will press on?”
Tarasov likes the sergeant’s attitude. Had he asked if he, Tarasov, wanted to press on, it would have meant that he disapproved. But he doesn’t know the men well enough. The sergeant might be ready to follow orders but his sense of duty is less important now than the state of his soldiers.
“Sergeant Zlenko… what’s your given name, anyway?”
“Viktor, sir.”
“So, Viktor, if I give the order to continue, are the men with me? Are you?”
“Sir… When we landed in this hellhole with all those anomalies, as you called them, around us, the only thing we hoped for was a rescue mission. But your appearance boosted morale. Now they think that if you could make it through alone, they too can make through together.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think the same way.”
“Good,” Tarasov replies laconically, “then you better go back to the rear. Make sure no one tails away.”
“Tak tochno, komandir.”
“One more thing. Keep in mind that Stalkers will be neutral towards us at the best. If we encounter them, we must not provoke any hostile action.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll pass the order not to shoot first. And if we are attacked?”
“We blast them.”
With a satisfied grin all over his lean face, Zlenko hurries back to the soldiers. Tarasov takes a gulp from his canteen and follows him. He can already hear Zlenko translating his orders into language the grunts can understand.
“Keep moving that stretcher, Bondarchuk, it ain’t time to relax yet… Ilchenko, keep moving your chubby ass! Finger off the trigger until we are being shot at!”
Hearts and Minds
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 interv
ene, 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.”
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