There are no ghosts. But this is one. But there are no ghosts.
Undeterred by the fear crawling under his skin, he steps closer. Now he sees the crying child, sitting on the ground, sobbing, tugging on the dress of a dead woman with a still fresh wound on her chest. The child looks up at him and Tarasov sees a hole in its head. The apparition raises its hand as if showing a way and, as the major involuntarily looks in the direction shown, a group of people appear, shuffling ever closer, with the row of ruins faintly visible when their bullet-riddled and mutilated bodies should be blocking them from view.
Instinctively, he grabs a grenade from his armor and throws it towards the group. It falls through them and detonates without having any effect on them. The crying becomes so loud that Tarasov feels as if he could touch its source. Turning his head to locate where the sound is coming from, he switches on his headlight and steps to the door of the house where the child first appeared. The fresh body of a woman lies in front of it. There is no visible wound on her body, but blood streams from between her legs.
Pulling all his courage together, Tarasov kicks the door in.
The blood-curdling howl is almost a relief after the sobbing. A human-like mutant stands in the headlight’s beam, its unnaturally long arms scything towards him as if throwing something, but it is no weapon or projectile that hits him, only more images of dead people, their wounds heavier and their bodies more horrifically mutilated with each step he takes.
Tarasov aims his weapon and fires. He has barely emptied half the magazine when the mutant falls, its limbs writhing in agony before becoming still. The crying continues, so the major takes out his pistol and fires more shots into the creature’s head. Now, the crying weakens, and finally disappears, leaving only the buzzing sound of flies in the filthy room.
He grins triumphantly.
That was a nice try, but don’t threaten a whore with a dick or a Spetsnaz with corpses.
But as he exits the house, his knees tremble so strongly that he has to sit down. Only now does he realize that the most horrifying thing about this experience was not the sight of wounds and corpses, but the natural way they appeared. They had been nothing but apparitions, yet all of them had been in realistic poses: the dead woman’s hand reaching out for a wooden beam as if to help herself up; the child grabbing her dress as if it was a tangible thing; one of the dead men stepping over some bricks lying on the ground… It was as if he had just seen the eerie reenactment of something that had actually happened here.
The Colonel’s words come back to Tarasov’s mind: “It was… marvelous. After that, no shots were fired from the village anymore.” Now, confronted with what the Colonel’s idea of warfare could mean in reality, Tarasov now views him in a different light, and the respect he had for his brutal philosophy vanishes.
It is odd, though… he only hinted at a firefight. He said nothing about slaughtering civilians and rape. What the hell is it that the Bhegum wants me to find here?
He moves on. The trail leading upwards is steep, but he can soon see over the dark green foliage as he climbs higher and higher up the path.
Reaching the hilltop, he sees a cluster of trees with a large vehicle among them. Looking through the binoculars, he zooms in to identify the wreckage of a white van with a broken satellite dish on the top. With his weapon held ready, Tarasov approaches the wreck.
It was an unusual car, obviously civilian but heavily armored. Behind the tarnished windshield he sees a white sign with the word PRESS on it, written in huge letters. The bullet-riddled doors are locked and show the signs of several attempts to pry them open from the outside.
That car was like a tank… but somehow whoever was after these guys must have gotten inside, because there are no survivors here for sure.
He looks around. Close to the wreck, the heavy branch of a tree almost reaches the ground. Carefully balancing his weight, Tarasov climbs up it. After a few steps, he can comfortably leap over onto the top of the van.
They cut a hole in the weakest part… too small for a man to climb through, but big enough for a grenade. Now how can I get inside?
A closed hatch lies next to the satellite dish. Taking his pistol, he reaches through the hole and fires, aiming towards the hatch as best as he can. After a lucky shot the hatch moves, as if its lock has been suddenly released. After that, it is easy to force it open. Leaving his bulky backpack outside, Tarasov lets himself slide down into the compartment.
Three grimy skeletons appear in the dim circle of his headlight, their clothes long rotted away, along with their flesh. Without knowing what he is looking for, he rummages amid the debris. A camera lies on the ground alongside a broken laptop and he picks them up. The computer is nothing more than garbage now so Tarasov lets it fall back to the ground, where it breaks into small pieces. Something shiny falls out, a CD or DVD, and when he leans down to pick it up, his headlight falls on a tiny orange object amongst the bones of one of the skeleton’s hands. Upon closer examination, the major realizes it is a pen drive.
Climbing out through the shaft, he seeks a safe spot where he can have a closer look at his loot. Behind a boulder, hidden from any hostile sight, he plugs the device into his PDA.
Now let’s pray it’s not encrypted… Ah! It seems to be my lucky day indeed.
A folder system appears on the screen. Some are labeled in a script he recognizes as Arabic, but most of the folders have English names. There is one titled DIARY, but only one message is readable.
July 2, 2006. Kabul. Hooked up with Gardi and Hetherington at the Mustafa Hotel over a few cans of contraband Heineken. Those boy scouts still dream about being embedded with a USMC unit. Had to listen to their endless lectures over ethics again. Gardi was quite happy with his photographs of Medecins sans Frontiers turning an old prison into an asylum. I couldn’t care less about such BS. They just can’t understand that the real story is on the other side.
He opens ARCHIVE. It’s empty. Switching to a folder titled MISSION REPORTS 07/2006 brings more success: a few readable files appear on the screen.
08.13. AM, July 6, 2006. ISAF’s new rules of engagement make it difficult to provide the coverage that our peak-time audience is seeking. Phyllis hopes to find local sources to get behind the scenes. She better do it, otherwise we’ll all lose our jobs.
09.24. PM. July 14. Phyllis came up with a new source today. The idea is pretty risky but if it works out we’ll have a really big story. We leave tomorrow morning. I hope Mahmud and Phyllis know what they are doing.
11.30. PM, July 15. If I hadn’t got my fucking divorce to deal with I’d not go along with this, but I need my damned salary to pay that bitch. Fucking English legal system, robbing bastards… Anyway, this is our chance to land the scoop of our lives. The source has prepared everything. We only need to wait till morning and then keep the camera rolling.
01.57. PM, July 16. That was one hell of a show. The Yanks took the bait and were busted as soon as they arrived in the village. And we got the whole thing on tape! We wanted to move in quickly after they left but the source didn’t let us. For our own security, he said. But when we eventually saw it… shit! Chuck-Up Central. Anyway, the only thing that counts is that the suckers have now their second My Lai coming.
02.43 PM, July 16. Something is not OK. While Phyllis was arguing with the source about money I saw the mujahedin dragging their fallen from the ruins. I also saw a shepherdess approaching the village. I grabbed my camera to take a photograph of her face when she saw what had happened — it would have been my WPP winning shot — but then the mujahedin wanted me to photograph a dead civilian. As I went there he moved and they just shot him in the head. Could it be that… it’s too late now, we have already transmitted the footage. Should be on air tonight. The shepherdess ran away though, and with her went my chance to take the photograph of a lifetime. I’d better check on Phyllis now, it looks like their argument is getting out of hand.
03.55 PM, July 16. Shit shit shit! I can’
t believe I am part of this. They fucking drove the villagers away before the battle! They fucking shot them after the Yanks left, then arranged their fucking corpses. They even raped a woman, at least that’s how it looks…That’s why we had to wait and that’s why they demanded extra payment. We want to drive away like hell but those bastards have blocked the road. We are now hauled up in the van. Phyllis is desperately calling the bosses to sort this mess out.
13.25 PM, July 16. We’re fucking screwed. They’re not letting us go. We wanted to ask ISAF for help but our comms are down because those bastards climbed up and smashed our antenna. I just hope the hatch will hold…
Tarasov removes the pen drive and carefully puts it away, thinking deep, dark thoughts
This explains a thing or two… Bhegum Madar was right. I must take this intel to the Colonel.
He is about to close his PDA when a LED indicates that somebody is calling him. He switches to the helmet’s intercom.
“Tarasov here.”
“At last! I have been calling your for two days. Where have you been?” Captain Bone’s voice sounds anxious, even terrified.
“It’s a long story. What’s up?”
“We came under attack yesterday. It was the damned Chinese during the day and the dushmans by night, but now they’ve joined forces! Major, you need to collect all Stalkers from the Ghorband area and relieve us!”
“That’s bad news…” The events of the last couple of days have kept him so preoccupied that Tarasov had almost forgotten about Bagram and the Stalkers. Then his soldiers come to his mind. “What about my men? They should be assisting you, Bone.”
“They are but we lost two of them already. Many Stalkers too.”
“What? Who is dead from my squad?”
“I don’t know their fucking names and I don’t care to, either. The only thing that counts is that you get all the men you can assemble in the west and help us! Now!”
Tarasov hesitates. If Bone is panicking, the situation must be dire. But he also has to deliver the pen drive to the Colonel. “How long can you hold out?”
“One and a half days, two perhaps. We are already running low on ammo but they just keep coming!”
“There aren’t many Stalkers in Ghorband. What am I supposed to do with a dozen men?”
“Every Stalker and bullet counts. Bring everyone you can gather or we are done for… including your precious soldiers.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Tarasov receives no reply and he looks toward the north where the road, invisible in the vibrating heat, forks to the west and east. To the west, there is an opportunity to restore the honor of the Colonel and his Marines, because what he found has made it clear that they had been lured into a set-up and hadn’t committed the crimes they had been charged with. To the east lay the strong chance that he would die in a futile attempt to protect Bagram, or even before getting to it, taking the white van’s secret with him to the grave. Go east, and he might be able to help the Stalkers and his soldiers as they fight for their lives. Go west, and they would surely die horrible deaths.
Nooria is to the west. My men to the east. Where do I go now?
Then an idea comes to his mind, so daring that he himself doubts it could ever succeed.
For Whom the Bell Tolls
The Colonel’s tower, 7 October 2014, 16:18:09 AFT
“You disappoint me, Major. After all that I have told you, you still fail to understand.”
The notes from the pen drive are still flickering on the Colonel’s computer screen, but though he has finished reading it, Tarasov can’t see any change of expression in the former Marine’s face.
“But this proves that you were framed! You did not commit those crimes!”
“Can’t you understand that we were not running from justice? We are not renegades and outlaws. We are the Tribe now!”
Tarasov sighs. I don’t even know what I was hoping for.
“No,” the Colonel says, looking out of the window into the wilderness. “We will never return. This is our home now. Tell this to the Beghum. I know it was her who sent you to find this. She could never comprehend…” The Colonel falls silent. After a long minute he turns back to Tarasov and takes something out from a wooden box. “Anyhow, you have my gratitude for your efforts. This is for you. I will also let you re-supply from our armory. Take whatever you like — I’m sure you’ll find something useful.”
“Thank you,” Tarasov quietly replies.
“You have also proven yourself worthy to be called a warrior. For many, we are the worst enemy but for you, we will be the best friends.”
Removing the oilcloth wrapper from the Colonel’s gift, Tarasov sees a beautifully forged combat knife. A delicate pattern runs down the blade, and its razor-sharp edge glows with a pale red hue. The weapon is not only beautiful as an object in its own right, but has obviously been alloyed with fire-emitting artifact too.
“This is our special Ka-Bar, as used by our warriors. Take it and bear it with honor.”
“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to join your Tribe,” Tarasov boldly says. “I do have my own duty, that of my own country. I am still an officer of the Ukraine.”
The Colonel looks at him as if Tarasov has uttered the lowest profanity. “Don’t mistake a gift for recruitment. Even if you begged, I wouldn’t take you in. You are a friend, no more and no less… for now.”
“Fair enough.” Realizing how much he has overestimated his standing with the Colonel, Tarasov hesitates for a moment before continuing. “But there is something I need to ask you. As a friend, with all due respect.”
“And what would that be?” the Colonel asks, his voice promising nothing good.
“The Stalkers at Bagram are under attack by the dushmans and their allies. If the Tribe doesn’t help them, they will be annihilated.”
“So what?”
“If you helped them, you would have an ally to watch your back. They have traders too who could supply you with everything.”
The Colonel mockingly laughs. “We don’t need anyone to watch our back. Nor do we need Ashot’s rubbish.”
“You seem to have excellent spies, but they didn’t report everything to you. There is a technician there too. Name of Yar. He can work wonders with weapons.”
“You test my patience, Major. Didn’t you see that blade? If we go to such lengths to improve the most basic of weapons, what do you think we do to our rifles? We need no tinker man. But why do you care so much about them? You are with the military after all.”
“You think they are without honor, and you are right: many of them are scavengers, trespassers, adventurers, killers and robbers. They are, because in the end Stalkers can rely on no one but themselves. Right now you can teach them what honor means and make them your friends, and that would be a good thing for the Tribe. Because what good is there in being everyone’s worst enemy, without being anyone’s best friend?”
The Colonel keeps looking at him with the same measured state. Tarasov is at the end of his wits. There is no way to influence this man. Whatever I say keeps rebounding off him.
Leaning against the wall with his hands, the Colonel now turns back to the window, drumming his fingers. Tarasov stands patiently awaiting a reply for so long that he begins to get the feeling that the Colonel has forgotten about his presence. It therefore startles him when the Colonel suddenly addresses him again.
“Would you be ready to die for your men, Major?”
“I am a soldier, trained to kill and to stay alive,” the major replies without hesitation. “But if dying would make a difference… I would take it on as a sacrifice with meaning.”
“Well spoken. Too bad there are bigger sacrifices than dying!”
Tarasov gives the Colonel a baffled gaze but the big man turns his back on him to look out into the dusk again. “Go and see to your woman now. I will have my decision in time.”
The major knows the Colonel has nothing more to say. He also knows that, w
hile the Lieutenants are standing at the door like statues, they are watching every move he makes. With nothing left to say and no action to be taken, Tarasov salutes and takes his leave. The Lieutenants let him pass and, stepping out of the Colonel’s tower, the major becomes silently preoccupied with his own concerns.
So… probably it will be me alone, maybe with a few Stalkers from the Asylum at best. I’ll leave at dawn.
Tribe stronghold, 18:41:56 AFT
It is the first time he finds himself unguarded and free to roam the Tribe’s stronghold, and it comes as a surprise to him how peaceful, even romantic the encampment appears. Small fires light up the narrow street leading down to the gate, each one with fighters sitting around, relaxing. Warm light emanates from the small windows of the mud houses overlooking the valley that is now cast into darkness by the approaching night. Some homes have been built into the rocks with rope bridges leading up to and connecting them. The jagged mountains gleam crimson for a few minutes before the sun sets, leaving only shades of deep blue and purple on the horizon. But with the eyes of a well-trained soldier, Tarasov can also see that every stone in the stronghold has been placed with only one goal in mind: defense. The serene lights from the fighters’ homes come from a direction where the valley could easily be kept under fire. The way to the gate is winding, with pillboxes perfectly aligned at positions to intercept intruders with machine gun fire. The fighters themselves may be chatting and smoking on hookah pipes, but all keep their rifles within reach, and here and there sandbags lie uniformly stacked up, ready to bolster the defenses. On the ramparts and bastions, rifle lights shine as guards keep their watch, and he also recognizes the small but well-trodden path that leads to the Pit. The thought of a home here with Nooria waiting for him almost makes him regret his words about not joining the Tribe.
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