“I assure you it’s for real, and quite common where we are heading.” Tarasov notes growing interest on the patron’s face. Satisfied over him being about to get hooked, Tarasov continues. “No shot will stop it from ninety yards. Its hide and skull are too thick. I mean, if you have an automatic shotgun like a SPAS 12 or an Armsel Protecta, your chances are a bit better but…”
“Jesus Christ! The way you’re going you might as well use a Kalashnikov? Who the hell are you to use such gear on animals? Fascists?”
The Top intervenes gently pushes Tarasov away. “Ninety yards is a good range if you use a good old Triple Deuce and score a headshot.”
The outlandish patron turns his attention to Hartman. “Yeah, but what about close brush hunting? It’s almost impossible to get a clear shot. You need a cartridge taking a real big punch like the 44-40 Winchester. With that, it doesn’t matter where you hit’em, be it head or arse!”
“Agree to disagree. It all depends on where you place the round. When hunting in Tennessee back in my days, I’ve used simple .308 rounds on hogs. All six went down within fifty yards with just one shot. If broadside, lower shoulder. If quartering at you, vitals. Anyway, first and last thing a hunter needs is good luck.”
Tarasov suppresses a smile, seeing that the Top has by now got the hunter’s full attention. At last their drinks arrive. The hunter—if he is what he seems—raises his beer glass.
“To good luck, mates!” They toast. “I see you blokes know a thing or two about hunting.”
“Contrary to your hunt organizers, it seems,” Tarasov cautiously says. Just like any other soldier serving in the Zone, he had never handled anything else but assault rifles. To him, hunting boars means mowing them down with assault rifles or machine guns. Even worse, all he knows about hunting weapons is that an enemy with a hunting rifle is no match for anyone armed with an assault rifle — at least if fighting on equal ground. He decides to let the Top do the hunter’s talk, who has just proven himself surprisingly knowledgeable on such matters. “Myself, I am just a tour guide but my friend here is a real hunter.”
“What’s his choice?”
“Uhm… really big, nasty beasts.”
“Like what?”
“I mean, like desert boars.”
“There are no boars in the desert, mate. At least not in the Tanami where I come from. Then there’s the Simpson, the Gibson and of course the Great Victoria but I’ve never met any boar there either.”
“I meant as a manner of speaking…”
Seeing that Tarasov is about to make a fool out of himself, the Top once more intervenes. “You’re an Aussie, ain’t you? I heard that a good kangaroo steak is even better than a Kobe!”
“Not sure about that—”
An announcement calling passengers of British Airways flight 0882 to Kiev interrupts the conversation.
“Sorry fellas, that’s my flight. The drinks are on me,” the hunter says. “Have a good hunt! Oh, and how rude of me, name’s Sawyer. Don’t be strangers, should you ever come down under.”
“My name is Jack, and my friend’s Joe. Easy to remember, thanks goodness,” the Top says and winks an eye to Tarasov. “Actually, we’re on the same flight. I’d love to carry our conversation on.”
“Really, mate? That’s great news, I hate ’em boring flights!”
They exchange a quick glance behind the Australian’s back.
“He’s in for the hunting trip of his life,” Tarasov whispers with a grin. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
24
Ghorband, New Zone
“Javelins kick ass,” First Lieutenant Driscoll says eyeing the carnage in the courtyard of the Asylum. “I can hardly wait to see more of this at Bagram.”
Lieutenant Collins nods agreement. “Yup. Though I suppose their main base will be a harder nut to crack, should it really come to that.”
“Of course it will.”
Driscoll looks at their dead enemies who the fighters have lined up in the courtyard like hunters would with their prey.
“Thirty-three scavengers and there might be more under the rubble. No casualties on our side. The big man will be pleased.”
“Agree, sir. With all the tasks we have, losing even one man would be—”
Driscoll interrupts him. “That’s not what I mean.”
He kneels to inspect the bodies.
The Lieutenant bites his lip, forgetting that Driscoll can’t see the concern on his face covered by the exoskeleton’s full helmet.
“You were right,” Driscoll says and waves Collins to look closer. “Appears that a band of scavengers, let’s call them trench coat gang, fought it off with the regular gang and won. Look… those we have killed all have an arm patch I’ve never seen before. Have you?”
He lifts a dead enemy’s arm to show the badge sewn to the sleeve of the jacket. It shows a black skull on white background.
“No, sir” Collins observes. “Scavengers usually have patches with the radiation sign, a red shield or something like that… a green wolf’s head, occasionally. This is something new.”
Driscoll touches his exoskeleton’s built-in intercom to call the other Lieutenant. “Schmidt!”
“Sir.”
“Any surviving hostiles?”
“Positive. We fished him from a hole in the latrine.”
“Is he a Ruskie?”
“Affirmative. Staff Sergeant Novikoff is already squeezing him for intel inside the main building, over.”
“Continue securing the perimeter. Out.” Driscoll waves Collins to follow him. “Let’s have a chat with that scavenger.”
They move to Shrink’s abandoned bar where half an hour ago Bruiser was skyping with Sultan. On the same spot, a tough-looking Bandit lies on the ground with a fighter manhandling him from behind. His abdomen is bloody where the light, Kevlar-padded armor beneath his leather trench coat failed to protect him from shrapnel. A balaclava with a white skull printed on it lays next to him on the ground. The crude features of his face make him appear like a textbook criminal.
“Ask him why the scavengers were fighting each other,” Driscoll tells the Staff Sergeant towering over the prisoner.
“He says it was just between them and free Stalkers… they are bandits but don’t seek trouble with anyone else.”
“Bandits?”
“That’s what he said, sir. Seems to be another faction or something.”
“Is he from Bagram?”
The Bandit doesn’t need translation to understand this one and shakes his head.
“Ask him where they have their base.”
The Bandit replies with a curse. “Vot khui te v rot, pindos!”
A grimace appears on Staff Sergeant Novikoff’s dust-clad face. “You don’t want to have that translated, sir.”
“Guess I don’t,” Driscoll replies. “Ask him once more about their base.”
The Bandit replies with another cuss and spits towards the First Lieutenant to prove his resolve. “Tak chto davai na khui, tvoia ochered!”
After a heartbeat of menacing silence, Driscoll takes the Bandit’s balaclava from the ground and wipes the saliva from his leggings.
“It makes me very angry when this happens,” he slowly says and looks at the balaclava with the white skull. “Is this supposed to frighten people?”
Novikoff translates. The Bandit shakes his head and says something in Russian.
“He says, it is just a joke.”
“Yeah, I thought so. A complete joke like scavengers are.” Still speaking calmly, Driscoll waves for Lieutenant Collins. “Get a devil pup over here.”
Collins barks a call into his intercom. While waiting, the First Lieutenant studies the Bandit’s face. Though Driscoll’s face is covered by his helmet’s face mask, there is something foreboding about his calmness that makes the Bandit turn his eyes away in fear.
“Sir!”
A Hazara boy wearing light armor appears and salutes. He might be about seventeen, t
hough the look in his eyes is hardened.
“Novikoff, translate,” Driscoll says and draws his jagged combat knife. The artifact-alloyed blade emits a red glow. “You scum are just children playing men. I feel tempted to cut your nose and ears and send you to those ‘bandits’ to tell them: do not fuck with my Tribe. Too bad children like you wouldn’t survive for a day here alone. It would spoil my honor to kill you myself. You will be killed by a child like yourself.” He hands his knife to the young fighter. “Pup, finish this lowlife.”
The Bandit starts screaming in Russian.
“Please don’t hurt me and so on,” Novikoff translates dispassionately. “I have a little girl back home, she’s so sweet and needs me, look at her photograph, it’s in my pocket.”
“Let me see that.”
Novikoff opens the breast pocket of the Bandit’s jacket and fishes out the photograph taken from the dead Stalker.
“You must’ve been cheated on,” the First Lieutenant says after glancing at the picture. “This girl looks way too intelligent to be your daughter. Now what smells worse — your fear or your lies?”
The Bandit tries to crawl backwards but the brawny arms of the fighter behind him hold him down. He bursts out in Russian.
“They have a forward base five klicks east of the Charikhar ruins,” Novikoff translates. “He begs for mercy, he will never come back if we let him go and so on, it’s all the fault of someone called Bruiser and whatever.”
Driscoll stays and nods to the young fighter. The Bandit’s eyes open wide in terror — few things can be more dreadful than a killer’s dispassionate gaze before he slashes one’s throat without fluttering an eye.
“Stop,” Driscoll commands. A relieved grin appears on the Bandit’s face.
“Sir?” asks the Hazara fighter.
“Not like that,” Driscoll coldly replies. “Use the jagged edge.”
25
Tribe outpost, New Zone
Two hours of driving have left the ten Humvees of Lieutenant Ramirez’ss column covered with a thick layer of dust. When they at last come to a halt in a valley running almost exactly from the north to the south and climb off the vehicles, he and his men are all wearing face masks and shemaghs wrapped around their face. The swirling dust would just be annoying but here, on the southernmost edge of the Tribe’s territory, the Geiger counters begin to crackle.
I hate this bloody outpost, Ramirez thinks in the column’s second Humvee. It is not his first time here and the caves in the steep hillside to their left bring back bad memories. A long time ago, he was reckless enough to recon one of them on his own. The jackal pack inside almost killed him, and if it hadn’t been for Nooria’s treatment he would have soon succumbed to his infested wounds.
The men manning the outpost appear to have similar feelings about this godforsaken canyon. They greet the arriving fighters happily, knowing that they can return to the Alamo now. Their leader trots to the Lieutenant and salutes. Even through the eyepieces of the M40 gas mask, Ramirez can see the relief in his eyes.
“Second Lieutenant Jackson reporting, sir!”
“Give me a sit-rep,” Ramirez responds.
“No movement, no events. Would have called in, sir. Not as much as a single jackal.”
Ramirez snorts. “Guess this place is too boring even for jackals.”
“Did you come to relieve us, sir?”
“Yeah. Help my guys unload the supply trucks. Saddle up and RTB once done.”
“Aye, sir!”
Jackson sounds happy. Ramirez climbs out and surveys the area. The dirt track follows the left bank of a creek that runs in the canyon. Where the rocky slopes narrow down to a few dozen meters, a rusty iron bridge spans over it; probably it was built by the Russians decades ago. The road continuing southward on the right side of the creek is heavily mined. A strong roadblock is situated where the bridge reaches the other side, built from rocks and reinforced with sand bags. It’s a perfect position to greet any approaching enemy with effective fire from the .50 caliber fixed behind it.
Behind a few huge boulders that have fallen from the mountainside ages ago, three stone huts serve as shelter, first-aid station and command post. Only sniper fire from the jagged hills above could pose a serious danger to this well-defended position. To deter any such threats, the defenders have two 81mm mortars at their disposal, safely located in a ruined house next to the bridge, that was once a police checkpost or toll collecting point for the local warlord. Parts of the iron plates covering it have been removed to provide space for the mortars to shoot through, otherwise the roof offers the mortar team adequate protection from sniper fire.
Sets of camouflage net are spanned over the fortifications. They offer both shade and protection from hostile rifle scopes. All in all, the outpost is perfect for its purpose: scaring enemy patrols away and delaying a stronger assault force until reinforcements arrive.
Yet when he has finished surveying the outpost where he will spend the next few days, if not weeks, Lieutenant Ramirez has a strange feeling in his gut.
Must be those damned caves, he thinks, trying to rationalize the premonition that has suddenly come over him. They are like eyes… eyes in the hills, watching us.
Dusk is approaching and there’s still a lot to do. Ramirez unslings his M27 automatic rifle and turns to his men who patiently wait for his command.
“All hands, listen up!” he shouts. “Let’s get this show on the run! Unload supplies, take up positions!”
26
Borispil Airport, Kiev, Ukraine
“Welcome home,” Tarasov says, sniffing into the chilly evening wind outside the featureless glass façade of Kiev’s Borispil airport.
“Where to now, Mikhailo?”
Tarasov would prefer to stand there for a few more minutes, smelling the air and listening to the familiar language spoken around them. After his long trip took him all the way through the New Zone’s perils, and then not only Los Angeles but a missile silo turned secret base too, it is hard for him to realize that he is home—to the extent Kiev is still his home.
“Too bad you couldn’t talk our Australian friend into leaving for the Zone immediately,” he tells the Top. “To be honest, I don’t know where to go… it’s my first time in my home town without a place I could call my own!”
“It is beautiful here,” Nooria says curiously looking around. Seeing the bitter smile on her man’s face, she caresses Tarasov’s hand. “Like America… just smaller.”
“Cars especially,” the Top says watching the mostly German-made cars in the huge parking lot, separated from the terminal by a cabs-only lane where newly arrived people wait for a lift between steel pikes and red plastic blocks that are supposed to make the cab drivers drive slower.
“You got no friends? No nothing?” Pete asks. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Why should you be, indeed?” Tarasov asks back in a low voice, ignoring the sarcasm. “I am a deserter, kid. Our forged passports have worked fine so far but I don’t want to run into anyone shouting ‘Mikhailo, privet!’ This country is still… anyway, how much money do we still have on that credit card?”
“Not enough to buy an airplane, but more than we need for a cozy place with mini bar and jacuzzi if there’s any.”
“Let’s go where probably no one expects me.”
“Where?”
“The hotel where Sawyer is staying will do.”
“We take a cab?”
Regardless of his mixed feelings about Kiev, being back to his home land fills Tarasov with self-confidence. “Negative. Taxis here are worse than jackals. Let’s rent a car that we can dump later.”
“I want a Russian car,” Hartman says. “Do they have Alamo here?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve seen their logo somewhere in the arrival hall.”
“Can we pay by credit card?”
“You’ll be amazed, Top, but we even have running water.”
“No offense… it’s just a little strange her
e. Evensmells different. Smokier, somehow.”
“It’s all right. Okay, let’s get a car—and now I will drive.”
“Your turf, huh?” Hartman asks with a smile of understanding. “Fine with me.”
Ninety minutes later in downtown Kiev, driving a Skoda Fabia chosen for being inconspicuous enough and as much Eastern-made as possible for the Top’s sake who wished for a Russian-made car that no car rental agency had in its fleet, Tarasov slows the car down. They have just crossed the short Rusanovka Bridge over the Dnepr river. For a moment, he seems to hesitate. Then he turns left on Davidovka Street.
“Where are we going?”
“Home, Nooria… or what had once been home.” He halts the car in front of a grey apartment building. “Wait for a moment. Top, give me your baseball cap.”
Tarasov walks up to the gate of the building where his mother lives. He looks around cautiously. Being sure that he is wanted for desertion and that the only place in Kiev for him to go is therefore under surveillance, he tries to act as inconspicuous as possible. At daytime he wouldn’t risk this visit, but evening has fallen and the street seems dark enough to prevent anyone from recognizing him. Just in case, he pulls the cap with the flaming T of the Tennessee Titans into his eyes to cover his face even in the dimly lit gate of the building.
The gate is locked, unlike when he was here for the last time, and the intercom’s panel is rusty and gutted like it always was. He is thinking about turning back to the car when a woman appears, carrying a bulging shopping bag. The little boy with her is proudly holding a new soccer ball.
“Vybachte, I am with Titan Parcel Service and have a delivery for Mariya Valeryevna Tarasov.”
“Mariya Valeryevna…” The woman gives the name a moment of thinking while fishing for her keys in her coat pocket. “Oh yes, the old lady from the sixth floor. She is not home.”
“Any idea where she went?”
“Yes. She is in Europe.”
“Shto?”
“You heard me well! She won the lottery or whatever a few weeks ago and went travelling.”
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