A huge explosion rocks the bunker, throwing Tarasov and the Stalker to the ground.
“RPGs! The bastards come up now with RPGs!”
“Let’s get off the bunker! Kravchuk, on me!”
Skinner and his Stalkers are already there when Tarasov reaches the sand bags overlooking the ridge. The wind has grown into a storm. Dust whipped up by the wind quickly mixes with the driving rain and covers the men with filth.
“The cocksuckers know what they are doing, Major,” Skinner says, rivulets of rain running down his face as he glances in Tarasov’s direction. “They pushed us back and now come against us from the rear! But you know… there was a moment when I almost thought we could actually make it.” Skinner holds his rifle over the sand bags and fires a long burst. The dushmans’ blood curdling cries are so close and their bodies so tightly packed together that he doesn’t need to aim. “Duty calls, bastards!”
Tarasov looks around, squinting into the storm. Ilchenko is still there, firing his PKM with a scream that distorts his whole face. Kravchuk has dropped his sniper rifle in favor of an AK taken from a fallen Stalker. Squirrel drags a fallen comrade into cover; a man Tarasov recognizes as the other Stalker they met in the forest.
He realizes it’s just a question of minutes before they are overrun and annihilated. Hearing their triumphant cries, he knows that the enemy is aware of this too.
“Zlenko!” Tarasov screams with all the air left in his lungs. “On me!”
The sergeant scrambles up to him. “Major?”
“Now is the time,” Tarasov says, panting. “You know what comes next if we stay in the trench. Give me that flare gun and wait for my command. Let’s die a good soldier’s death!”
A wide smile appears on the sergeant’s blood-smeared face. What Tarasov sees in those shining eyes is the one thing he would have least expected: happiness.
“Strength! Courage! Honor!” Zlenko bellows. Then he raises his hand and shouts. “Men! Fix bayonets!”
At this moment, Tarasov wishes he was a believer, not so he could pray for deliverance but so he could give his thanks. All ways to die are bad, save for that which a man chooses of his own will. Hearing the steely click as his combat knife attaches to the AKM’s barrel, he feels that his wish has been granted. He fires the flare gun.
“Are you ready?” he shouts.
“Ready,” the scattered defenders reply one by one.
Tarasov hears the attackers drawing closer through the pouring rain and darkness, appearing in the flashes of lightning like ghosts.
“Hold!” he shouts. “Keep steady… steady!”
In the moment when the flare bursts out into a bright cupola of blinding red light, he thrusts his fist towards the enemy. “Charge!”
“Forward!” Zlenko shouts. “Vperyod! Rota k boyu!”
Soldiers and Stalkers jump out of their cover and charge down the hill. No one can keep up with Tarasov, his limbs quickened by the Emerald artifact. He doesn’t need his bayonet. Wielding his AKM like a club, he smashes skulls and shatters bones adding the weight of his down-hill charge into every punch. He sees the orange tracers from Ilchenko’s machine gun form a deadly arc in front of him, the gunner’s mouth opened wide by his terrible battle cry. Skinner runs down the enemy, then falls, still firing his rifle as he hits the ground and rolls over to jump up again. The tiny group seems to break up with every man fighting for himself.
“Keep the line,” Tarasov roars over the battle noise. “Keep the line!”
He sees a Stalker firing his AKSU with one hand and a handgun from the other. A Stalker falls, either dead or wounded, and another grabs his shotgun. A soldier screams in agony. Another throws his body between his wounded comrade and the attacker, his rifle spitting a full burst as he screams like a desperate animal. He recognizes Lobov.
“They are on the run! Press on, press on!” Tarasov hears a Stalker shouting.
Where is Zlenko?
Tarasov at last sees him appearing way down the hillside and dashes after him, hitting an enemy and kicking the dushman’s head as he falls to his knees, jumping over him, tearing the pistol from his hand and shooting another enemy in the chest just as the dushman was about to smash the sergeant’s head in with his rifle. Other enemies immediately close in.
But otherwise the dushmans are routing as the storm closes in, firing as they cover their retreat.
The thunder in the sky sounds as if it is right over the battle, the sand swirling above the shaking earth, turning into mud under their heavy boots.
Someone hits his left arm. As he turns towards to his attacker, he sees no one.
Shit, I’m hit! He empties his pistol magazine blindly into the darkness. The sergeant is gone. The full fury of the storm is now only seconds away.
“Men!” Tarasov cries desperately. “Fall back! Fall back into position!”
They run uphill, jumping and trampling over dead and dying enemies. Tarasov hears someone repeating his order, fall back, fall back! It’s not Zlenko’s voice.
“Ilchenko,” he shouts, “cover our rear! Give us covering fire!”
But the machine gun’s rattle is nowhere to be heard.
Panting heavily, he jumps over the sandbags and looks back to see the last man getting back to the hilltop. He grabs a wounded Stalker’s shoulder and drags him into the bunker, not so much entering it as falling inside. The door slams. A Stalker makes sure it is closed tight.
His men are lying on the ground and over each other’s limbs, totally exhausted. He sees Bondarchuk and Kravchuk. But where is Zlenko? Where is Ilchenko?
“Where are the sergeant and the machine gunner?”
“I didn’t see them coming back,” the medic replies. His voice is trembling.
Tarasov closes his eyes in pain. “Corporal Lobov, you’re in charge while I’m gone,” he whispers.
“What? You can’t…”
The storm almost knocks Tarasov to the ground as he opens the bunker door. He can barely see, his Geiger counter doesn’t just click anymore; it bursts into a high-pitched tikitikitik. Photons dance in the radiating dust storm that is painted in an eerie green by his night vision goggles, mingling with the stars he is already seeing due to the pain behind his eyes.
A flash of lightning illuminates a bulky figure on the ground. Bending against the wind, Tarasov kneels down and realizes there are actually two bodies, one of them still crawling up to the hilltop. He grasps both men and, with an effort requiring a level of energy that would be impossible without the Emerald’s power, drags them to the bunker. He tears the door open and pushes the bodies inside. His knees are trembling, forcing him to lean against the wall.
“Antirads!” he snarls. “Pump them full of antirads!”
“I only have one and that’s for myself,” he hears a voice say. It’s a Stalker in a Freedom suit. The major aims his pistol at him and pulls the trigger.
Clack. The magazine was empty, but half a dozen hands now open the armored suits on the two soldiers and push syringes into their skin.
“It’s all right, Major,” Skinner says, taking the pistol from Tarasov’s hand. “It’s all right now.”
Tarasov is too weak to resist. Every molecule of adrenalin has been spent. He sinks to the ground.
We did it, flashes into his mind before everything fades to black.
Bagram, 23 September 2014, 18:23:32 AFT
“Ashot! Where are you when I need you?”
This sounds familiar. But from where?
“Leave me be, I’m feelin’ so high right now!”
I hear words but don’t understand them.
“Are you having sex with a gun barrel again?”
That sounds like the Zone.
“I wish I could, me dear, but there’re no tubes of heavy artillery around!”
“Then try a blowgun! That’s the only thing willing to give you a blowjob!”
A blowjob… must have been ages. There is no blowjob in Hell. Would that put me in Heaven? There
’s someone close. Maybe it’s an angel. Fuck, I need a blowjob.
“YAR AND ASHOT — CUT IT! I REMIND BOTH OF YOU THAT UNSOLICITED USE OF THE INTERCOM WILL BE PUNISHED!”
Damn. I am alive. And in Bagram of all places.
Tarasov tries to sit up but as soon as he moves his head seems about to explode with pain.
“Oh, our local celebrity has woken up!”
He turns his head towards the figure standing next to his bed in the makeshift first-aid room.
“Crow? What the…”
“Rest, Condor,” the sniper replies with a reassuring grin. “With all the radiation you collected up there you should qualify for a new call sign. Perhaps Liquidator? Like those chaps who cleaned up Chernobyl?”
“What about my men?”
“Those still in one piece think you’re some kind of a demigod. Maybe I should tell them how I picked you up with a jackal at your throat.”
Tarasov tries to laugh but breaks out in a horrible cough.
“Just rest now. To be honest, I’m bloody happy to see you alive. First I was thinking you’d become a zombie, but when you started murmuring blowjob and Zone I thought you would actually make it.”
“How come you are here?”
“I was late to join your show,” Crow sighs. “God knows that I wanted to give you a helping hand. Anyway, I better tell your men that you regained consciousness. They pretty much admire you now. But don’t count on any blowjobs.”
Tarasov grins. Now he feels he has bandages all over his face. “Hey, Sergeant,” he hears Crow’s voice calling, “Sleeping Beauty is awake!”
After a minute, the sergeant storms into the room. He is in bad shape with anti-radiation cream smeared all over his face and a bandage covering his forehead, but this doesn’t prevent him from cracking an ear-to-ear smile.
“Major Tarasov!” he cries out. “I am happy to…”
“What about Ilchenko?” Tarasov interrupts him.
“He’s fine and should be here in a minute.”
“And the rest?”
“Two dead, three heavily wounded, the rest… well, they can walk. The Stalkers lost six men altogether.”
“Squirrel?”
“The lucky bastard made it through without a scratch.”
“At least one of us was lucky… How did we get back here?”
“Bone’s truck came when the storm was over. But… well, Major, I think I better let you rest now.”
Tarasov doesn’t mind the sergeant leaving with his wounds torturing him. “It’s good that you’re such a thin little kid… I would have needed a crane to lift two Ilchenkos.”
Zlenko laughs.
“Major, I — “
“Thanks, Viktor,” Tarasov whispers. Closing his sore eyes, he doesn’t see Crow pulling his silenced Glock from its holster.
Seconds later, a loud bang pierces into Tarasov’s aching head. Then he feels more pain all over his body.
Encrypted digital VOP transmission. New Zone, 23 September 2014, 18:50:33 AFT
#Did you get the shipment?#
#Positive. Good job. But he is still alive.#
#Forget him. Jerk off on those damned exos or do whatever you want. What the fuck do you expect me to do anyway? Shoot him myself? #
#Positive. You are running out of options. He is becoming troublesome.#
#Actually, you bastards have a point…[sharp, unidentified noise] Hey, wait… #
#Come again?#
#[sharp, unidentified noise continues]#
#Someone has sounded the alarm. Breaking contact.#
#I have difficulties in hearing you. Repeat…#
#[unidentified human voice]We have a man down! Man down in the base!#
#I have no copy on you. Check your transmission.#
#[another unidentified human voice] Everyone, to the infirmary! Now!#
#[static noise]#
#[static noise]#
Bagram Blues
25 September 2014, 16:45:27 AFT
“It was a flesh wound, but try not to exert your left arm too much… As your doctor, I forbid you from firing any pump-action shotgun for at least two weeks. Otherwise, you’re in surprisingly good condition.”
The Stalker doctor, nicknamed Bonesetter, motions for him to stand up. Tarasov does so, stretching his arms and back.
“Two days in bed with a flesh wound and a little radiation…” he says getting to his feet. “Am I feeling my age, Bonesetter?”
“That’s the best thing one can feel because it means one is still alive. You’ve had a close shave. Now, take care and stay healthy…”
The doctor shuffles to the next bed where another wounded Stalker lies and the major freshens himself up from the bucket of water standing in the corner of the infirmary, enjoying the sensation of splashing cold water to his sweaty face. He can barely wait to get out of the metal container.
The sun hurts Tarasov’s eyes as he steps out of the infirmary. A paratrooper guards the entrance. Seeing Tarasov appear, he stands to attention and salutes. It is one of the wounded they left behind to recover, which he obviously did well enough despite the bandage on his arm.
“As you were, Stepashin,” Tarasov says after a brief glance at the soldier’s name tag. “What’s all this security about?”
The paratrooper gives him a baffled look. “Sir, you were probably unconscious. A Stalker tried to kill you. One of Bone’s guards interrupted him. The Stalker shot him and disappeared in the fray.”
“A Stalker?”
“Yes, sir. That bastard who was sitting at your bed. Probably he was waiting for the right moment.”
That’s odd. Why would Crow want to kill me?
“Where are the others? I’ll need to talk to the sergeant.”
“Three are still in the infirmary. Sergeant Zlenko was here earlier. He and the others have set up camp in that shack, just behind you.”
“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 lit
ter 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?”
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