Ontario Freeway, California
“Never believed I’d ever see a road sign for Las Vegas,” Tarasov says as their Jeep takes exit 58A from Interstate 10E and merges into the heavy morning traffic on Ontario Freeway.
“We’ll leave the freeway long before Vegas. In exchange you’ll have a glimpse of AFB Andrews,” Hartman replies. “Not as if you could see much from the distance.”
After thirty miles they take an exit toward Adelanto and continue northward on Three Flags Highway.
“Love this landscape. Reminds me of the sandbox. The New Zone, as you call it,” the Top says with a reference to the Afghan wilderness. “Wide and open. Makes me feel free… Doesn’t look it like home, Nooria?”
“I miss our valley, Top.”
Hartman takes a bottle of mineral water from the holster and draws on it. “Where we’re going is as close to the Alamo as it gets.”
“Must be some secret boot camp where you brainwash perfectly normal kids,” Pete grumbles.
“You almost got that right, kid. Almost.”
“Guess we’ll meet a bunch of rednecks with a vocabulary limited to Semper Fi and gimme a mag, oorah.”
“Listen, kid—instead of making us aware every minute how miserably you feel about us, give me your MP3 player. I prefer listening to music than your moaning.”
“Don’t think you’ll like my tracks,” Pete says handing over his iPod to the Top. “You’ve been warned.”
“You have any Metallica?”
“Metallica was yesterday.”
“Say that again and I’ll throw you out of my car.”
“You ever heard about Slayer? Songs like Raining Blood or Have no Mercy?”
“Nope, though the titles sound promising. Mikhailo, plug it in, will you?”
“Pop up the volume,” Pete says. “I want to see the pain in your face, Sergeant Major.”
The Top begins to grin and pat the rhythm on the steering wheel. Pete sees Nooria and Tarasov sharing a tortured grimace in the rearview mirror.
“Slayer,” he says with a shrug. ”You’ve been warned.”
“That was enough,” the Top says. “Switch it off.”
Tarasov gladly complies.
“Told you wouldn’t like it,” Pete triumphantly says.
“Son, this stuff makes me want to drive with at least a hundred and fifty but speed limit is sixty-five,” the Top replies. “Pedal to the metal and a highway patrol will be on us in a second. We can’t risk that now. Let’s have something more relaxed.”
“I don’t have any music you’d find relaxing.”
“Then let’s just stay quiet.”
“Good idea,” Nooria observes.
A mile after the featureless town of Red Mountain, the Top takes a turn to the right, following a road going straight on a dull plain. Reddish brown hills loom in the distance beyond the mirage, making Tarasov wonder if the Tribe had chosen this wilderness for its similarity to the Afghan landscape.
Expecting some kind of military base, he is surprised when the Top steers off the road and halts at a one-story building with three gas pumps in front of it. The place must have been abandoned for quite some time, because shrubs have grown around the pumps and the windows of the building are boarded. Nonetheless, he notices tracks left by dusty wheels on the broken tarmac, telling of recent visitors.
“You have seen America’s worst yesterday,” the Top says releasing his safety belt. “Today, you’ll see her best.”
“You got to be kidding,” Pete says. “This is a bikers’ bar! But where are the bikes?”
“Look at them,” says Tarasov noticing the door swing open and two stoutly built men step out. They wear desert fatigue but no armor or weapons. “I’ll be damned if I haven’t met those guys before.”
“Any hard feelings towards the Brothers, Mikhailo?”
“Strange. I’m actually kind of happy to see them again.”
The Top switches off the engine. Before opening his door, he gives Tarasov a serious glance.
“You have no idea how much trust we place in you by letting you come here. You are our friend, but should the Ukrainian soldier inside you suddenly wake up and do some funny Spetsnaz stuff, or should you ever, wherever and for whatsoever reason get lose-lipped on what you’re about to see—I will kill you myself.”
“That’s fair enough, Top.”
“I’m deadly serious. Do we have an understanding about this, Major Tarasov? Because bringing you here means I vouch for you, and by trusting you I risk my honor.”
“You have my word as an officer that I won’t disclose anything about this to anyone, Sergeant Major Hartman.”
“If that was enough for the Colonel, it’ll suffice for me as well. Let’s go.”
The Top marches to the abandoned bar with huge steps that are difficult for even Tarasov to keep up with. The two men — one with a red beard, the other with sky-blue eyes — stiffen their stance as he approaches.
“Good to see you again, sir!” the blue-eyed man greets the Top.
“I hate it when my sergeants grin at me as if I were Miss November,” the Top replies. “Both of you no-good pranksters, follow me.”
The guards open the door and let the Top enter the bar.
“Hello, Spetsnaz,” the blue-eyed guard whispers to Tarasov with a wink of his eye.
“Sergeant Polak! How do you and Brother Hillbilly like this view?”
“Dust and sand, sand and dust. Feels like home.”
“I’m lovin’ it,” Hillbilly ads.
“Zip it, Sergeant,” the Top snaps. “You make me feel hungry.”
With the two sergeants in tow, the Top moves directly to the bar where a young man wearing civilian clothes is waiting. His stubbed hair and USMC tattoo on his strapping arms tells enough of his real background. He nods his head in respect to the Top and opens a lid on the counter. A palm-reading device appears. The Top places his hand onto it. A green beam runs down the screen. After a minute, the noise of several heavy locks being disengaged comes from a door with a RESTROOM sign. It slowly opens and what appeared an ordinary door reveals itself as a metal gate fit for guarding the vaults of a bank.
“Close down the place and follow me.”
The fighter acknowledges the command with a nod and presses a button under the counter. Heavy, bullet-proof shutters descend and bar the light beams falling in through the wooden planks covering the windows. With the bar darkened, a blue glow emanating from behind the steel door becomes visible.
They all follow the Top who marches down a staircase. It takes several turns and leads deep below ground level, ending eventually in a narrow corridor. Another massive door is at its far end.
The Top presses a button on a metal plate fastened to the concrete wall. A pleasant but resolute female voice sounds from the speakerphone above.
“Voice check. Say the password.”
“Tarawa,” Hartman replies.
“Voice check successful. Welcome, Sergeant Major. Now identify the three elements you have with you.”
“I vouch for Major Mikhailo Tarasov on the Colonel’s orders. The other one is Corporal Peter E. Leighley, USMC. Last but not least, it’s the witch.”
“Please repeat.”
“Yes, you heard it well enough, Second Lieutenant Stone. It’s the big man’s son and Nooria. Let us in at last, unless you want to remain an usher for the rest of your life!”
The metal door slowly slides open. No matter what Tarasov and Pete might have expected, what they see is just a large room with yet another door at the far side. It is guarded by three warriors armed with M-4 carbines and wearing the Tribe’s sand-colored combat armor. A brunette female officer steps forward and performs a perfect salute.
“Sir! Second Lieutenant Stone reporting, Sergeant Major, sir!” “Stop screaming into my ear, Stone, I ain’t deaf,” Hartman replies. “I want to see the list of recruits.”
“Sir!”
Tarasov frowns. The respect the apparent
ly senior officer shows to the sergeant major, who is after all below her rank, again reminds him of the unorthodox pattern of life in the Tribe. If the old saying of one saluting the rank and not the man is true, it certainly goes the other way round in the Tribe.
They are led into a cavernous, round room that buzzes with life. A round computer terminal is located in the middle, manned by a man in civilian outfit. Soldiers in fatigue appear busy everywhere — two fixing one of the many neon lights illuminating the hall, another driving a trolley loaded with open crates holding strange machine parts, while others tend to the devices that cover almost every inch of the concrete walls. With all the gauges and pipes running along the walls and under the ceiling, the place appears like a submarine being prepared for leaving port. This impression is even strengthened by a massive metal door at the far end of the hall. It appears as if it could withstand even a nuclear blast.
When Tarasov gives one of the machines a closer look, he realizes that what looks like an old-fashioned computer actually is one—built probably decades ago but still in perfect condition, even though they appear to be no longer in use. In contrary, the computers on the central terminal appear as state of the art as it gets with their large flatscreens displaying maps and muted news channels. He is surprised to see that the screen closest to the technician manning the terminal has a chat channel open.
“What the hell is that guy doing on AK47.com?” Pete asks. “And what’s this place, anyway? An old stage set for Starship Enterprise?”
Taking a sheet of paper from the Second Lieutenant, the Top goes through the long list of names printed on it. “Outstanding… outstanding.”
“Sir… permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Speak your mind, Stone.”
“Sir, during the last recruitment you promised me an assignment to the Alamo. I want to fight our enemies at last!”
“Forget it. Are the recruits ready?”
“Sir, the first dozen recruits are already lined up.”
The Top ignores the disappointment in the female officer’s voice.
“Let me see them. Sergeant Polak, Sergeant Hillbilly, you know the drill.”
“Sir!”
“I’m going to see the recruits. You guys can join me if you wish,” Hartman tells his companions.
Following the ’brothers’, Hartman enters a smaller room where a dozen of young men are lined up in the middle. Judging by the fitness machines pushed into the corners to make space, the room serves as a gym and the faint smell of sweat tells that it is intensely used on other days.
The recruits are lined up in the middle of the room, with their backs to two closed doors where Polak and Hillbilly stand.
“Ten-hut!”
All men stand stiff when Hillbilly barks the command to stand still and the Top enters the room. It becomes instantly obvious who among them had ever served in any armed force.
Hartman looks over the men. “At ease. In the Tribe, they call me Sergeant Major Elliott Hartman. For you dewy-eyed manchildren my name is Sir Yes Sir. I don’t care about knowing your name, because for me you are nothing but raw meat and raw meat has no name. The Tribe, my Tribe will be the meat grinder that will break your bones, squeeze your flesh and turn you miserable manchildren into warriors. And then, maybe, I say: maybe one day you’ll have the unequaled honor of calling our Colonel your leader.”
The Top looks around at the men.
“You look like a bunch of parasomniacs who in their sleepwalk got to the wrong place. Let me make one thing clear — you are about joining my Tribe. You can still change your mind. If you’re getting cold feet over it, now’s the time to leave.”
Seeing that nobody moves, the Top carries on.
“Looking at your bunch of baby-faced manchildren, I’m sure only very few of you will actually make it. Those who do will leave everything behind. You will forfeit everything about your pathetic life outside — social security numbers, passports, nationality, family ties. You will disappear from this world. Once you join us, there will be only the Tribe and we want men who want nothing but the Tribe. Your umbilical cord will be cut for a second time and I will be the Ka-bar slashing it. By the time you will make a Tribe warrior, you will forget about alcohol — you will get drunk on our enemies’ blood. You will forget about hamburgers because you will eat the meat of mutants you kill…”
“Such a liar,” Pete whispers to Tarasov. “As if he wouldn’t be burger addicted.”
“Can’t blame him,” Tarasov breathes. ”They do eat mutant meat over there.”
“The thought makes my stomach turn.”
“It’s not so bad. Nooria knows some good recipes.”
“…and you will forget about TV because the glorious shine of swags will make you forget about your hopeless little screen. Do you think you are up to it?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Even a litter of starving desert mice sounds more convincing!”
“Sir yes sir!”
“I don’t want to waste more of my Tribe’s precious time on you manchildren, so let’s get this over as soon as possible. You! First in the line from the right! Step forward!”
“Sir!”
The first recruit to be mustered is a brawny, young Caucasian male with a shaved head, wearing fatigue leggings and a white t-shirt.
“Why do you want to become a Tribe warrior?”
“I want to kill sandniggers, sir!”
“That’s good for a start, but exactly why do you want to kill sandniggers?”
“I hate’em, sir!”
“Why do you hate sandniggers?”
“For everything, sir!”
“In particular?”
“Nine-Eleven, sir!”
“And what about the cholos?”
“I hate’em too, sir!”
“All of them?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“And what would you do if you are given an order by a Lieutenant called Ramirez?”
“Follow it, sir!”
“What would you say if a black gunny called Anderson asked for your helmet to puke in it?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“I’ll give you a chance to prove that. Left door!”
The recruit turns around. He is about to walk to the door guarded by Brother Polak when the Top sees a tiny double-8 tattooed on the recruit’s nap.
“Back to me, double time!” he shouts.
When the bald recruit stands still in front of him once more, Hartman grabs his tee shirt and tears it off him. The recruit’s bare skin reveals a huge swastika tattooed over his heart.
“What the fuck do you think that is, manchild?”
“The sign of the brotherhood of all white men, sir!”
“Wrong! It’s a sign saying ‘watch out, asshole approaching’! It’s stinking skin disease! A disgusting birth defect! I’ve no need of mouth-breathing, basement-dwelling, white supremacist scumbags in my Tribe! Get outta my sight and take the right door!”
Brother Hillbilly opens the door and follows the failed recruit out of the recruiting hall. The door shuts behind him. After a few seconds, the sergeant is back and resumes guarding the door, standing at ease but with a face as hard as cast iron. Meanwhile the Top steps to the next recruit, a thin youth with a pale face, and gives him a stern look.
”Give me twenty push-ups, manchild!”
The recruit eagerly assumes a prone position on the floor and starts doing push-ups. His breathing becomes heavier with each push. At the eighth his arms begin to tremble. When it comes to the twelfth he gives up and stays prone.
“Get up,” Hartman sneers. “Who the hell has let you into my recruiting hall? Or did you got lost on the interstate on your way to Disneyland?”
“No, sir!” the recruits replies. He has sweat all over his blushing face.
“Where do they breed such a miserable stock of fish-eyed half-human beings like you?”
“Sir, I am from Iowa, sir!”
“You l
ie! The Hawkeye State would never produce such a walking inventory of failed genetic experiments! You better come up with a super-convincing reason about why you want to join my Tribe!”
“I hate Iowa, sir!”
“And what’s your problem with the great and noble state of Iowa?”
“It is boring, sir! The whole US of A is boring, sir!”
Hartman glances at the list of recruits in his hand. “Your file says you’re a nerd. Can you hack computer networks?”
“No, sir!”
“Can you repair equipment like an RQ-11 Raven small unmanned air vehicle?”
“No, sir!”
“Then how the hell did you get into my recruiting hall?”
“I… it was a mistake, sir! I want to go home!”
“Let me see your hand!”
The Top pulls a bank note from his pocket and puts it into the recruit’s palm.
“Here’s ten bucks, go and get yourself a discount video game. We are going to war and war is not about entertaining bored adolescents! Right door!”
The Top steps to the next recruit, a young black man with a thousand yards stare. He apparently makes a better impression on Hartman because he doesn’t start addressing him with an abuse.
“I loved the way you stood at attention. Tell me you practiced it in your mother’s dress room mirror and I’ll cry in disappointment! Do you want to make me cry?”
“Sir! No, sir!”
“What’s your story?”
“I was with 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Infantry Regiment, sir! Honorably discharged after Operation Whiskey Hotel, sir!”
“Never heard of it. What was it about? Bringing democracy to Belgium or what?”
“Sir! Not at liberty to say, sir!”
“Are you at liberty to tell me the ranger motto?”
“Sir! Rangers lead the way, sir!”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“I… We all have lost the way, sir!”
“Outstanding! You have a good take on how things are going in this country. Name?”
“Foley, sir!”
“Rank held?”
“Sergeant, sir!”
“What do you think of becoming a meaningless green private in boot camp once more?”
“Sir! In the Tribe — yes, sir! Proudly, sir!”
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2 Page 12