“I love you, dude!” Pete shouts happily. “I don’t want to go there!”
The Top frowns. “Zip it, Pete. You want to stay here in California where the whole Florencia gang is hunting you now? I know you can’t turn to the police either. Don’t give me such a look! I know you’re wanted for one case of aggravated assault, two cases of attempted robbery and about a dozen times of petty theft. I wouldn’t want to have the choices you’d have if you stayed, son.”
“Do you have any idea how much I needed the money?”
“You will go back to your father. Period.”
“He is not yet ready to face him, Top,” Tarasov interjects.
“The hell he ain’t.”
“Listen, Top. Something has come up and we’ll make a little detour. I will take him to my kind of boot camp.”
“What? To the Ukrainian army? You gotta be kidding me.”
“An old friend of mine is in trouble in the Exclusion Zone. I must go back there, just for a short time, and will take Pete with me. Once we’re done there, he’ll be more than ready to meet his father.”
Surprised and terrified at the same time, Pete looks at Nooria. “Hope at least you’ve got your wits together! What do you think of this craziness?”
“I’ll follow my man wherever he goes, Pete,” Nooria smiles. “And to be honest, I’m excited about seeing his homeland.”
“Your enthusiasm is duly noted, Nooria, but I might have a problem with that plan,” Hartman says.
“Nothing to be worried about, Top. I will bring Pete and Nooria safely back to your Alamo but we’ll take a little detour on our way.”
“I don’t doubt you’re more than capable of keeping them safe, but I have my own orders from the big man.”
“About bringing him back?”
“About protecting him and Nooria, with my life and even against you if need be.”
“You’ll need to shoot me if you want to stop me.”
“Why is this guy so important to you, anyway?” the Top says wrinkling his forehead.
“I got two messages from him. The first was about something important he wanted to discuss with me. My friend, Strelok is his name, is one of the greatest Stalkers who have ever walked the Exclusion Zone. Suffice to say, the Zone has a dark history with all kinds of experiments conducted there first by the Soviets, then by the Ukrainian government.” Tarasov stops for a heartbeat before he continues. “Strelok knows all the secrets, or at least most of them and if he says something is important, I better believe him.”
“But why you?” Hartman asks. “He couldn’t possibly know if you’re alive at all.”
Tarasov nods. “Yes, this crossed my mind already. Sounds like he’s desperate. Because a few days later he sent me another message, telling he’s in danger with Ukrainian KGB looking for him.”
“Could be a trap to lure you back,” Hartman says.
“Maybe, but there’s another possibility,” Tarasov replies stirring the coffee in his cup. “There’s more connections between the two Zones than one could imagine.”
“Like what?”
“Well… without going too far into esoteric stuff, one thing comes to my mind. Secret experiments conducted in the Exclusion Zone were partly responsible for what it became. We know they began in the mid-Nineties but such science doesn’t come from nowhere. Maybe Strelok thinks I’ve found an early X-lab in the New Zone, or even knows about one. Don’t know… just speculating.”
“Maybe there actually is such a secret lab in the New Zone,” Pete says. “That would explain how such weird species like the Top and the Tribe were created.”
He obviously intended this as another sarcastic remark but unknown to him, his guess is almost spot on.
“Finding a lab preceding the Zone’s creation would be like… finding a needle in a haystack,” Tarasov says with a bitter reference to the code name of his mission that had originally led him to the New Zone. “Anyway, no matter what — I must help Strelok.”
The Top thinks for a moment, then shouts for the base commander.
“Second Lieutenant Stone! Come over here for a second.”
“Sir!”
“Whenever I come here, you start pestering me about a combat assignment. Are you prepared?”
Stone gives him a beaming smile. “Sir, yes, sir! Very much so, sir!”
“Outstanding. You will take the fresh meat to boot camp. If I’ll like how they turn out, you’ll get your combat assignment. To give you a little motivation — you might be assigned to First Lieutenant Driscoll’s squad. They’ve lost a few warriors recently and need replacements anyway. Do we have a deal, Stone?”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! I will give them hell in boot camp!”
“No doubt about that. Keep your eye on that black guy, though. He might have got what it takes to be a good warrior. Besides, Lieutenant Collins could use another ex-Ranger in his squad. That would be all. No-Go!”
“I’m listening.”
“Put the satellite maps up on that display.” The Top turns back to Tarasov. “Now tell me, where exactly is your Zone?”
Tarasov recites the coordinates that every true Stalker knows by heart.
“Its center lies at 51 degrees 23 minutes 18 seconds north longitude, 30 degrees 06 minutes 12 seconds east latitude… and our infiltration point will be on the western edge of the Swamps, below the railroad emplacement with the wrecked freight train, opposite to the spot where the path to Agroprom begins and where a three meter stretch of the barbed wire fence is missing. No satellite map will show you that.”
Pete protests. “Hey! Wait a minute! Why did nobody ask me about what I want to do? To hell with this, I don’t want to go there! I heard about that place — it’s irradiated and infested with mutants, anomalies and all that! Not even decent people there but crazy Russian shooters who jerk off on their Kalashnikovs!”
“I will be there too,” Nooria tells Pete with a reassuring smile. “At least we will get to better know each other.”
“We’re going to the Exclusion Zone,” Hartman concludes. “Outstanding! Let’s go to the property shed. We’ll need weapons, ammo, armored suits!”
“Sure, Top. Let’s see if there’s something we can use in the Zone.”
Hartman gives him a proud smile for a reply.
The room where the Top leads him has a stronger door than the others. When Tarasov steps inside, he feels a tenfold of the awe that came over him when he saw the Tribe’s armory at the Alamo. Walking down an aisle between two racks full of first-class weaponry, the Top points to the racks.
“Assault rifles, sniper rifles, silenced rifles, anti-material rifles, machine guns, chain guns, Gatling guns, bunker-busters, tank-busters, frag grenades, smoke grenades, stun grenades, incendiary rounds, armor-piercing rounds, tracer rounds, regular rounds, sniper rounds, light gear, assault gear, exoskeletons,” he raps as quickly as a machine gun fires. “Welcome to warrior paradise!”
They halt in front of a workshop that seems to have all the gear of a weapon factory massed up on a few square meters. A merry-looking man wearing a technician’s khaki overall is standing behind a work bench and aims a futuristic assault rifle at them.
“Bang! You’re blown away!”
“I am, actually” Tarasov replies looking at the rifle in the technician’s hands. The behavior of the grinning technician is disrespectful at best but Hartman doesn’t seem to mind. They even exchange a handshake.
“Major Tarasov, this is Jimmy the Nut. Best gunsmith in the world, although Boxkicker makes for a strong second.”
Tarasov looks at the weapon in Jimmy’s hands. Overall, it looks like a slightly bigger version of the M27 carbine that he has seen back in the Alamo’s armory. The no-nonsense design tells of German origin.
“That’s a Heckler & Koch, isn’t it?”
“Not just a HK but the HK. 417, latest version. Mimics the AR-15 with a few gimmicks. Ergonomics über alles. This one’s got a 20 inch barrel, telescope and d
etachable bipod. Fires 7,62x51mm NATO, emptying a 20 rounds magazine in two seconds. Yes, this one makes Kevlar a part of yesterday!”
“That probably means two seconds of fun and two minutes to let the barrel cool down,” Tarasov observes.
“The barrel is cold hammer-forged. Can be replaced in a few seconds, even with simple tools in the field. By the way, our version has an accuratized barrel. Just make sure you use the proper ammo.”
“Selectable fire?”
“Are you kidding? Single shots and full automatic mode.”
“Short burst option?”
“You’re hard to please, you know that?”
“I’ve heard that before,” smiles Tarasov.
“Jimmy, when will these arrive to the Alamo?” the Top asks eyeing the weapon.
“The first few hundred or so in a matter of weeks, maybe a month.”
“Jesus, Jimmy! What takes so long? Anyway, is that one over there what I think it is?”
“The fishgun?”
“No, that piece looking like an XM25.”
“It also feels like an XM25 because it is one.”
“I’ll be damned. Let me try it — I mean, just holding it for a sec.”
Tarasov studies the black weapon that the Top cautiously takes from its rack. It looks like streamlined, with its designers having eliminated almost every chance for dust and dirt getting inside. It has a bulky, non-demountable scope, apparently usable under any light condition.
“It’s heavy,” the Top says, assuming an aiming position.
“Twelve pounds. Won’t be an issue if you wear your exo.”
“How much does a single one set us back, Jimmy?”
“Thirty-five thousand bucks plus the ammo. Sorry Top, don’t reach for your credit card. This one’s not for sale yet!”
“Too bad. When and how many?”
“Depends on if the big man lets Allied Techsystems know the witch’s recipe. You know, her strange-smelling stuff that repels dust on gun metal. We might be in for a huge discount then.”
“What’s so special about this one?” Tarasov curiously asks.
The technician gives the Top a questioning look. He replies with a reassuring nod and Jimmy the Nut bursts out an enthusiastic presentation.
“This, my friend, is the modern version of the English longbow. We call it the XM25 Counter Defilade Target Engagement System. It has a range of eight football fields, meaning that you can stay out of the effective range of hostile assault rifles. You could do that with an RPG or scoped rifle too but this is far more accurate than a grenade launcher and takes a heavier punch than a long rifle, of course. That’s the long part. Once the trigger is pulled and the 25 mike-mike leaves the barrel, a computer chip inside the projectile communicates exactly how far it has traveled, allowing for precise detonation behind or ahead of any target. In practice, it will go through a wall before it explodes. That’s the bow part.”
“The longbow was a Welsh weapon, not English,” Tarasov wryly replies. “But I get your point.”
“Outstanding,” the Top says, handing the weapon back to the technician. “Truly outstanding. At last we have something useful that wasn’t designed by krauts or made by Belgians.”
“I knew you’d be impressed, Top,” Jimmy says, carefully putting the high-tech weapon back to its rack. He gives Tarasov a self-confident smile. “What about you?”
“Very impressive stock,” Tarasov replies.
“So, what would you like to have here? Now that the Top mentioned Belgium — care to try a SCAR? One of their new H-PR precision rifles? Perhaps something else?”
“Let me think… Do you have a Vintorez?”
The enthusiasm disappears from Jimmy’s face.
“Fuck. You.” Sinking in himself in front of their eyes, Jimmy the Nut looks rebuffed like a salesman who tried hard impressing someone with his stock and now realizes that he can’t deliver what his customer really wants. “A Vintorez… that’s sick, man!”
Tarasov doesn’t get Jimmy’s remark. “Sick?”
“He means, it’s outstanding, fabulous, great,” the Top explains. “Now he feels bad for not having any. You’ve stepped on a sensitive nerve there, Mikhailo.”
“No offense, Jimmy,” Tarasov says.
“All right,” the Top says clasping his hands. “Let’s decide which goodies we take with us. I would personally have a…”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Tarasov interrupts him. “We travel light.”
“Come again?”
“No weapons, Top. No grenade launchers, flame throwers, machine guns or sniper rifles. Neither exos nor armored suits.”
“You must be joking. If only half of what you told me about that place is true, then…”
“Everything is true, but probably you’ve no logistics in Ukraine to get such gear in and there’s no way to carry an arsenal in our checked-in luggage.”
“The man’s got a point about that, Top,” Jimmy the Nut says. “Sorry.”
“Damn,” the Top cusses. “Now that’s kinda anticlimactic.”
“Then, once there in Ukraine it isn’t exactly like here. You can’t just drive around with a trunk full of weapons. Most people can’t even own them legally.”
“Sounds like a dull place. Listen, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about this trip. What can we take with us?”
“Many things. Jimmy, we’ll need a dozen medikits or so for each of us. Lots of bandages and haemostatic drugs because bleeding can be a real pain in the neck… there’s something in the Zone’s air that hinders coagulation. Anti-radiation drugs, water purifiers, daily food rations…”
“Yikes,” the Top says with a grimace.
“Just about the same survival kit you use in the New Zone. I mean, in the sandbox, or whatever you call Afghanistan now. Then, some light but tough wear with a woodland pattern. Normal foliage green, not digital.”
“Now what’s wrong with that?”
“First, it’s ugly and second, it would cry ’the Americans are here!’ We’ll need light rucksacks, sleeping bags, overboots, protective gloves for picking up artifacts, I mean swags and a gas mask for each of us.”
“Yeah, gas mask… but which type?” Jimmy asks. “We’ve got MR40s and 95s stocked.”
“M95,” the Top cuts in. “Smells better, fits better. Don’t forget spare filters and extra cartridges.”
“The M95 comes with full NBC proof filter already. No need to swap them as the wind changes, Top.”
“I don’t know shit about gas masks, Jimmy. I’m more into things I can shoot with.”
“Let me see one of them,” Tarasov says.
The armourer disappears in a storage room behind his workbench and returns with a brand new, black gas mask. Inspecting it, Tarasov slowly shakes his head. Compared to the obsolete GP5 masks commonly seen on Zone Stalkers which makes their wearer appear like an elephant, or even the military’s more sophisticated PMK-2 type, their NATO counterpart was obviously designed with not only utility but at least a modicum of comfort as well. The M95’s silicone-covered material feels much smoother, yet fits tighter and the mask even has a hydration port where a canteen can be connected. Nonetheless, the most useful feature to him is the close-fitting overall design and the wide angle of view through the two large eyepieces. Aiming a shoulder-fired weapon while wearing a gas mask is any rifleman’s nightmare but at least this one would make it a little easier.
“They come with standard 40mm screw-in NATO cartridges, don’t they?” Tarasov asks. The two Americans nod. “Good, let’s take a few extra cartridges then. Could be useful should we ever need to trade with Freedomers.”
“Freedomers?”
“Zone faction using NATO gear. Will explain later. Last but not least — we need bolts. A few dozen at least.”
“Bolts? Do you think this is a DIY store?” Jimmy asks. “We’re drowning in guns here and you ask me for bolts?”
“Bolts can do lots of things your guns can’t. Like
detecting anomalies. Can your XM25 detect anomalies? No. We need throwing bolts, not grenades.”
“But what kind of bolts?”
Tarasov heaves a frustrated sigh. “Any.”
“Listen, Major. I’m a precise man and take this kind of things seriously,” Jimmy explains. “There’s many kinds of bolts. Do you mean 1/4-20, 1/2-20, 1/8-20 or which caliber? Huh… size, I mean. What about screw-nuts, anyway? Those ain’t good enough?”
Tarasov sighs and exchanges an impatient glance with the Top.
“Something like this, ” he says showing the size with his thumb and index finger.
“5/8-18, then. Okay. That would be 16mm x 1,5 for you in the metric world. Give me a few minutes to arrange all that.”
Among the long weapon racks holding all kinds of rifles in several rows, they are already walking back to the lobby when something comes to Tarasov’s mind.
“Ten thousand pounds of education fall to a ten rupee jezail,” he recites the Kipling quote he had heard from the Colonel when he met him first.
“Spot on,” the old warrior replies. “You know, I never told Jimmy but should I ever find myself in a really bad clusterfuck, I’d rather have my trusty M1911 pistol on me than any of his high-tech gadgets… but I still have a bad feelings about going there without weapons. Any weapons.”
They make their way to the lobby where Nooria and Pete are waiting at No-Go’s computers.
“We’re into a challenging trip,” the Top says. “Mikhailo insists on not taking guns.”
“We’ll need to keep a low profile,” Tarasov adds. “I’d hate to shoot at the same grunts I was commanding until just a few months ago.”
“But they are your enemies now,” Nooria says, surprised.
“My only real enemies are certain high-ranking officers and you won’t see any of them lurking in the Zone. That’s for sure!”
“And all the mutants you told me about?” she asks. “Those… snorks, pseudodogs, controllers and all?”
“We’ll need to avoid them, at least in the first days. Rest assured — when a Stalker has a destination in the Zone, he is usually pretty well equipped by the time he gets there. You can’t approach the Zone with heavy gear, but you’ll need heavy gear to survive there.”
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