Bullets on the Pass
Salang Pass, 21 September 2014, 07:23:45 AFT
Returning to the crash site at dawn, Tarasov had hoped that he would find a rescue helicopter and squad of soldiers there, but as he stands next to the smoldering wreck again, his hopes vanish for good.
Good-bye, comrades… it was my fault, but I’ll redeem this mistake. Forgive me.
Tarasov salutes the wreck that is now the grave of his soldiers. Then he heads towards the south. He had ample time on the long flight to Termez to study the map and now, even with his PDA broken, he knows that the nearby road leads to a tunnel traversing the Salang Range.
Although the barren, mountainous landscape looks very different to the Zone, Tarasov is unable to shake a feeling of déjà vu. Rusty, abandoned vehicles litter the road here and there, many of them the KAMAZ and ZIL trucks that sit rusting in the Zone. Occasionally, he finds the wreck of an age-old BTR-70 too, probably a relic of the Soviet war, maybe even from the same year as Chernobyl occurred. The potholes and cracks in the decaying tarmac, the barriers and abandoned guard posts are so much the same to him that if it wasn’t for the mountains he would believe himself to still be in the Zone. It’s all so familiar, right down to the routine of stopping and scanning the area ahead for anomalies, all accompanied by the Geiger counter’s unceasing clicking.
Sensing danger, Tarasov quickly kneels down next to an abandoned tank and goes into cover behind the T-62’s iron mass, ignoring the Geiger counter’s intensifying noise. Looking through the binoculars he sees a deer walking cautiously beside the road. Or rather, something like a deer, because this animal’s antlers are unlike anyone he has seen before – they bend and twine like a ball of thick, bony strings.
Another animal appears among the rocks, at first resembling something between a fox and a wolf. On closer inspection, however, Tarasov can see the two long, curved fangs in its snout and he realizes that it’s a mutant jackal. He’d seen a picture on Degtyarev’s computer screen, back on that day that was only three nights ago but now feels like a thousand years past.
Another jackal’s head appears, and another one, then the whole pack of a half dozen furry mutants. The deer senses their presence. It raises its head, smells the wind and runs. But the pack is already closing in for the kill. They outrun and accurately encircle the deer, as if following a master’s call or training, until the strongest performs an incredible leap and thrusts its fangs into the neck of the prey.
If he had a better rifle and ammo to waste, Tarasov would help the deer and pick off the jackals one by one. Now he can only watch as the beasts tear it apart. As sorry as he feels for the deer, he has to admit that these jackals are the best hunters he has ever seen among mutants. Watching the carnage through his binoculars, he whistles in awe - and immediately realizes that this was a big mistake.
The biggest mutant turns its head in his direction, emitting a sharp bark and leading the pack towards him at breathtaking speed. Tarasov’s blood curdles as he sees them leave the carcass of their prey almost untouched. Degtyarev’s words flash through his mind: they kill for the joy of it.
Seeing their speed and how far they can leap, he realizes in a split second that climbing up the tank wouldn’t help him like when facing the canine predators in the Zone. Gripping his weapon firmly, he kneels down with his back against the wreck to prevent any mutant jumping at him from behind and carefully aims at the nearest jackal. A short burst from the AKSU brings it down, then the second one. For a moment, the jackals seem to be confused, allowing him to take down another two. His aim gets more erratic and his bursts longer as they get closer and closer.
Still ten rounds inside. You are one with the rifle. Don’t think. Shoot.
Now there’s only the pack leader and one other left. A lucky shot hits the second animal in the head and the mutant whines, rolling over as it tumbles down the hillside. Tarasov turns the rifle’s ironsight towards the pack leader, its mouth drooling blood and saliva. He pulls the trigger. The weapon jams.
He has only moments left to watch the jackal covering the last meters. He sees the muscles of its back legs stretching as they project the heavy body in a long, deadly leap towards his face. He closes his eyes so as not to see it coming.
That was a really short raid, he thinks.
The smell of blood is strong as the jackal lands upon him, but there is no attack. Tarasov opens his eyes to see the air fill with a pale red haze as the jackal’s head is almost ripped off by a bullet. A split second later he hears a loud bang that is still echoing along the valley as he throws the carcass off him and frantically changes his magazine. But when he sees a rifleman emerge from behind a rocky outcrop, he lowers the rifle. Even if need should be, he could never hit him at the distance of several hundred meters.
A long, wide cloak flutters from the stranger’s shoulders as he approaches. It’s a sniper’s ghillie suit, except this one does not resemble thick foliage but has shreds of earth-colored fabric fastened to its net. The different shades of brown make the camouflage almost indistinguishable from the rocky slope. The sniper keeps his rifle upright to show he has no hostile intentions. In reply, Tarasov raises the hand holding the AKSU. Now he can even recognize the type of rifle that had just saved his life: a Dragunov SVD. But the Stalker’s face remains hidden by a black balaclava, save for his pair of ice cold, blue eyes and mouth that arches into a grin as he walks closer.
“Impressive fight you’ve put up,” the sniper greets him. “Have a good one. Name’s Crow.”
“It jammed,” Tarasov replies, showing his rifle, his heart still beating hard from the adrenaline rush. Before he introduces himself, he thinks for a second and decides that for now it will be better if he doesn’t out himself as an army officer. Most Stalkers use call signs or nicknames, not their real ones, and having no better idea on the spot, he decides to use his usual call sign.
“I am… call me Condor,” he finally says.
“That was a big one,” the Stalker says inspecting the pack leader’s carcass. “These beasts are smart enough to let the smaller ones take the lead. The alpha only moves in to finish the kill.”
Tarasov has seen enough Loner Stalkers to recognize one and addresses Crow in the familiar way of Stalkers.
“You really helped me out, bratan.”
“Don’t mention, it, brother. But let’s get out of here. This place might hide worse things than jackals.”
Tarasov is not sure if they are much safer behind the tipped-over trailer truck where they sit down, but at least it hides them from any spying eyes. Crow pats his pockets and emits a frustrated sigh.
“You happen to have any smokes? No? Dammit… anyway, where did you come from?”
Tarasov hesitates for a moment. “Rostov.”
“I’m from Ryazan, myself. Any news from the Big Land?”
Tarasov had always been too preoccupied with the Zone to pay attention to happenings in the outside world, politically or otherwise. Only one thing comes to his mind. “Nikolay Baskov is banging Oksana Fedorova.”
“Still, or again? I thought that’s news from yesterday.”
“Honestly? I couldn’t care less.”
“What are you up to here, anyway? And where did you get that suit from? You’re twice its size.”
“Actually, I arrived recently… I’m on my way to Bagram. And the suit… my own got a little worn and I found this at a crash site, not far from here.”
Crow studies him with a look full of doubt. Tarasov avoids his stare.
He doesn’t seem easy to fool.
“One more chopper? Looks like the army wants to stir up trouble. I saw another one yesterday while I was crossing the Salang Pass.”
Tarasov’s heart starts beating faster.
“You mean there’s another crash site? Was there any… loot?”
“The chopper was damaged for sure but as I watched it, it seemed to make it to the plains. By now it should be a treasure trove for the brothers down the
re…” Crow frowns. “But why do you care so much about it? Don’t tell me you were one of the pilots and bailed out accidentally.”
Tarasov sighs. The Stalker has saved his life and he doesn’t want to repay it by dumping a lie on him. He decides to partly reveal his identity. Although Crow has an Abakan rifle on his back and a silenced Glock-17 pistol loosely holstered on his armor webbing, with the AKSU ready he would hold the advantage if his rescuer turned aggressive.
“All right… I was with the army chopper that went down. I made it through. My own gear was busted, so I took the suit from the chopper’s dead gunner. I spent the night in a cave when the storm hit. Now I’m trying to get to Bagram, but I swear on my mother’s life it’s not about you Stalkers.”
“On your mother’s life? You sons of bitches from the army aren’t supposed to have mothers!”
Looking at Tarasov’s AKSU pointed at him, the friendly expression disappears from Crow’s face.
“Listen up, ‘brother’,” he says looking Tarasov in the eye, “I don’t care much about who you are and what you do, but you will not be welcomed in Bagram.”
“Let that be my problem.”
“And where was your crash site, anyway?”
“A few kilometers up north, but there’s not much left of it.”
“You lie. The wrecks around Bagram had been looted for years. You have no idea how much useful stuff a helicopter’s wreck can yield.”
“This one was blasted by a bunch of gunmen, well-trained and armed to the teeth. They came by a chopper.”
Crow scowls. “A black chopper? Heavy, two-engined?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, Condor, or whatever your name is… we better get out of here right now. Normally I wouldn’t even bother saving your ass but you seem to be cool at close quarters. And I could use a sidekick because the Tunnel is not exactly a sniper’s paradise.”
“Are you going to Bagram?”
“No. After the Tunnel, we part ways. You can try to get through alone and die, or you can join me and still die. But together we stand a better chance. Now make up your mind, I haven’t got all day.”
Tarasov reflects over his options for a moment. A rescue mission could still be coming. But then, this is no time for wishful thinking.
“All right,” he says slinging his AKSU over his shoulder, “I’ll follow you. Let’s go.”
“Let’s.”
Moving quickly, they head down the slope into the valley.
Tarasov soon admits to himself that the Stalker is a good guide. Instead of walking down the road, Crow leads him up the mountainside where the rocks and shallow chasms offer cover at every step, following tracks invisible to Tarasov even from a few meters’ distance. With the sun still shining from the east, Crow sticks close to the shadows cast by the massive rock walls towering above them, occasionally looking up to the sky as if expecting something foreboding from above.
Before leaving the cover of an overshadowed cliff, the Stalker stops and points forward.
“Look… that’s the northern entrance.”
Through his binoculars, Tarasov sees the road curving before disappearing under the mountain through a huge arch. Beyond the road, a field of anomalies gleams with silver sparks amid a cluster of ruined buildings.
“We rest here for a few minutes,” Crow says. “It’s time to eat something.”
While sharing a can of luncheon meat, Tarasov dismantles his weapon to clean its components. He also removes the cartridges from his remaining magazines and cleans them one by one before loading them back. Fingers moving in swift and skillful movements, he reassembles his AKSU.
“Do you have duct tape?” he asks the Stalker.
Crow nods and silently hands him a roll. Tarasov tapes the torchlight to the rifle. Handing the tape back to the sniper, Tarasov catches an appreciative look in the Stalker’s eyes.
“It’s good to have one who knows about weapons watching my back,” Crow remarks.
“And you’re one hell of a marksman. That jackal was dead before I even heard the shot, and all this from a distance of five hundred meters!”
“It’s a good rifle. Uncle Yar knows his trade, I give him that.”
“Hunting must be easy with such an upgraded SVD.”
“Not exactly… better cartridges like the 7N14 are hard to come by, so I don’t waste them. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair sport. If it’s game I’m after, the Abakan is good enough. But tell me, have you been to the Zone?”
Crow sounds curious. Tarasov hesitates before answering. He already knows that being a soldier is not the best pedigree here, especially coming from the Zone where Stalkers and military had hated each other’s guts for a long time.
“I’ve been there once in a while, delivering supplies.”
“Oh yes…” replies Crow grinning. “I thought so. But what’s it like? I’ve never been there, you know.”
“Similar to this place, except there are no mountains and it’s not so barren. And the mutants are a little dumber,” Tarasov explains. He almost added, ‘at home’.
“There’s a wide plain east of Bagram. It was all orchards and potato fields before the nukes, but it’s become a forest now. You’ll have your share of trees there. And of anomalies too.”
Tarasov nods, considering. “And what’s your story, Stalker?”
“I was a wildlife photographer and was sent by National Geographic to shoot photos of mutants. But I soon realized that shooting them with a sniper rifle is much more fun.”
Tarasov smiles as if he believed him. “That’s the most pathetic thing I ever heard,” he says sarcastically.
Crow bursts out in muted laughter. “Whatever, bro… maybe later we’ll have time for proper introduction. The only thing that matters now is getting through that damned tunnel. The question is how do we get through a tunnel full of anomalies and hostiles and stay alive in the process?”
“Bound and overwatch,” Tarasov says after a minute of quick thinking. He is eager to function again as an officer. “You take a protected position. I move forward, let’s say fifty meters. You watch over my advance with the Dragunov. Once I have reached the forward position, I’ll cover you until you join up. Then we play the same game until we get through the tunnel.”
Crow gives him a skeptical grin. “Is that a grunt from the supply train talking? Let’s go…. And put your gas mask on. It’s horribly dusty inside.”
They proceed along a narrow dirt track beneath the steep mountainside, keeping an eye on the tarmac road to their right and the ruins beyond. Before getting close to the entrance, the Stalker signals him to halt. He takes an army-issue box from his backpack. With careful hands, he removes a night scope from inside and fixes it to his rifle. “I hope the battery will last until we get through,” he says removing the scope’s lens cover. “What’s that unhappy look on your face, Condor?”
Tarasov almost says something about the state-of-the-art equipment that was at his disposal just twenty-four hours ago. The pilot suit, not designed for the rigors of combat, barely offers him any protection and his helmet has no night vision. He bites his tongue. “Hope this battered AKSU will not let me down,” he says cocking the rifle.
“We better be more concerned about the two pillboxes at the entrance. Check them out.”
Peering over the corner, Tarasov sees two small concrete shelters, more like guards posts than pillboxes. They seem empty. He gives a signal to the Stalker to move up and switches on the torch taped to the rifle barrel.
“Climb up there, Stalker, and keep your eyes peeled.” He waits until Crow assumes a firing position on the bed of a pick-up, resting his rifle on the cabin’s roof.
“You’re good to go, Condor.”
Cautiously, Tarasov moves forward. It is pitch dark inside and full of wrecked vehicles – trucks, jeeps, pick-ups, buses, as if a huge traffic jam had blocked the cavernous tunnel. He has barely covered a few dozen meters when he sees the first anomaly. A net of thin bl
ue lightning swipes the ground, emitting a buzz that can rapidly grow into a deafening discharge of electricity. Signaling Crow to follow up, he reaches into his pocket. Damn it – no bolts, no nuts, no nothing.
“Do you have bolts?” Tarasov ask as Crow arrives.
The Stalker gives him three rusty bolts. “That’s all I have.”
Tarasov aims cautiously before throwing the bolt into the anomaly. The blue lightning flashes into a burst of energy as the bolt falls into it, casting dire blue light into the tunnel for a second. Then it disappears from the ground for two seconds. Tarasov tosses the second bolt and dashes through. Hoping that the Stalker will not mess up his timing, he lets the anomaly discharge with the last bolt. Crow leaps through dexterously. As soon as he arrives at Tarasov’s side, the anomaly again starts its deadly dance over the ground.
“I hate anomalies,” Crow whispers, “but at least one can see these damned Electros.”
Upon seeing the Stalker take a detector out to search for any artifacts in the anomaly, Tarasov fails to hide his impatience.
“We don’t have time for that. Let’s move on.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming… wait! Did you hear that?” They freeze for a moment. Crow shrugs. “Must be hearing things.”
“Stick to the wall. Cover me.”
As he moves forward in the narrow space between the wrecks and the tunnel’s wall, blackened from the exhaust fumes that the concrete had absorbed for decades, an uneasy feeling passes over Tarasov. There’s something sinister about the Stalker that makes him concerned about being shot in his back. But the forbidding darkness that is absorbing the weak light of his torchlight gives him more concerns. The tunnel runs straight over a long distance and a truck occasionally blocks their way, making them climb over it. Their steps on the metal echo in the darkness and his Geiger counter’s signal speeds up every time they get close to a vehicle. Tarasov detects the nauseating taste of metal in his mouth.
“Crow, do you have an antirad to spare?” he says turning to the Stalker behind him. “These wrecks are a radiation trap.”
“Here,” Crow says and tosses him a packet with two red and blue pills. Tarasov gets clumsy for a moment and drops the medicine. Bending to pick it up saves his life as a bullet hits the wall where he was standing just a second ago. Crow’s Dragunov fires in response, its echo rolling through the caverns like thunder.
“Hostiles at twelve o’clock,” the Stalker shouts, “fifty meters!”
By now the muzzle flash of their rifles has betrayed the enemies’ position. Tarasov quickly skirts the old truck behind which Crow’s sniper fire keeps their opponents pinned down. The AKSU’s hard-hitting bullets get the black-clad gunmen in their flank. One falls, three more swiftly move back behind the nearest wreck with well-trained movements. Crow hits one more as they retreat.
“I can’t see them!”
Tarasov leaps to the truck, jumps up to the flat-bed and opens fire at the enemy ducking below. The echo of his last shot is still rolling up the tunnel when the last hostile falls, cursing in a language he can’t understand.
“Clear!”
He is not surprised when he sees the corpses wearing the same black body armor as the squad at the crash site. Eager to find any useful information about them, he goes through their pockets, but his search is in vain.
“They were good,” he tells Crow when the sniper catches up with him. “Any idea who they might be?”
The Stalker shakes his head and Tarasov checks the weapon lying beside one of the bodies. Back in the Zone, he was shot at by all kinds of weapons and with almost every caliber, from the hunting shotguns of rookie Stalkers to Freedom’s US-made LR-300’s, ultimately test-firing the weapon that had been used in an attempt on his life shortly before. But he never laid his hands on this mule of an assault rifle: the handle reminds him of an M-16, the barrel of a German G-36, the trigger mechanism of a Kastor grenade launcher and the overall design of something between a bullpup SVU or FN2000.
“I admit the Chinese know a thing or two about weapons,” he says shaking his head in disdain, “they managed to produce something that’s even uglier than a Groza rifle.”
“Frankly, I couldn’t care less about the design of the rifle that’s being fired at me.”
“That’s a good point… but anyway, here’s a joke. Do you know why the Chinese call this scrap Qing Buqiang Zidong?”
“Please do tell.”
“They can’t spell the ‘r’ in Groza.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Crow clasps his hands in mock amusement, “as if you wouldn’t give one arm to have one with you now. Why don’t you just take that Chinese rifle? It’s way better than that AKSU.”
“At least I know where this one fires the bullets.” Tarasov bitterly grins looking at his rifle. Seeing at what Crow is up to, he frowns. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see that bastard’s face.”
“I wouldn’t do that. It brings bad luck.”
Crow leaves the tactical helmet on the corpse. “It’s just because I rarely come that close to the baddies I shoot.”
“I know. That’s what I could never understand about snipers… I mean, you lay hidden, see a head close in the reticule from hundreds of meters and then blow it to pieces. Do you at least feel something when you see them dying?”
“Yes,” Crow says as he reloads his Dragunov, listening to the bolt clicking back to position as if it was a sophisticated musical instrument. “I do feel something.”
“And what would that be?”
“Recoil.”
Tarasov shrugs and turns back to the bodies. He’s never liked scavenging from dead enemies but, being low on resources, the hand grenades and bandages he finds will come in useful. After a moment of hesitation, he removes the bullet-proof tactical vest from the corpse and puts it over the light pilot suit.
It didn’t save its previous owner… but still could save me.
“I’ll move on. Stay here and wait for my sign to proceed.”
“Roger, Condor,” comes the Stalker’s reply.
Suspecting that the small party they have run into was only a vanguard, Tarasov remains cautious as he sneaks from cover to cover. After a few minutes, he is relieved to see light appearing in the distance. “Looks like we’re almost through!”
“That’s a stretch covered by a concrete roof, with openings to the side. It was an open road once but got covered after the traffic was regularly hit by avalanches.”
“Shit. And I was hoping it’s the other end.”
“Keep moving, Condor. Only two more kilometers to go.”
The light falling in from the opening in the concrete wall takes a toll on his eyes, already accustomed to the darkness. Tarasov closes his right eye to keep it accustomed to the darkness. He passes the stretch concerned about their flanks open to any danger coming from outside. His instincts prove right when the thud-thud of rotor blades sounds above them.
“Run!”
Tarasov doesn’t need Crow’s warning to dash forward as quickly as he can, hoping that no enemies lie in wait where the row of casements end and darkness continues. Arriving at the first wreck offering cover, he looks around for Crow but the Stalker has disappeared. Hiding behind the burnt-out frame of a bus, he can hear the helicopter hovering directly above.
He proceeds only a few meters further into the darkness to a car that might once have been a Humvee when a voice makes him freeze.
“Stoi! Lay down your weapon!” The words echoing in the tunnel ahead are Russian, but spoken with a strangely soft accent. “You are surrounded!”
His memories from last night’s encounter with the snake-like mutant still alive, Tarasov recoils as he sees a thick cable descend from one of the wall openings behind him. His distress gives way to fear as three commandos slide down the rope and take cover behind the wrecked bus, moving swiftly like cats without even giving him a chance to aim his rifle.
“Surrender!”
Tarasov takes
his chance and leaps into cover behind the wrecked Humvee. Automatic rifle fire starts ringing out from behind the bus. He throws himself to the ground. A hail of bullets hit the Humvee’s massive steel frame.
Where in the hell is that fucking sniper?
Even betrayal comes to his mind when a familiar rifle barks up. Crow runs up to him, panting but with a victorious grin on his face.
“At last! We’re sitting ducks here,” shouts Tarasov amid the rifle fire. “They’ve blocked the tunnel ahead!”
“Sorry bro! I had to switch the scope to the Abakan.”
“Give suppressing fire from the left!”
Crow stays in cover while firing a long burst, holding his rifle over his head and what was once the vehicle’s engine compartment. At the same time, Tarasov rolls to his right, jumps up and rushes forward, firing his AKSU into the enemies appearing in the beam of the torchlight.
“Forward,” he screams, “forward!”
His limb hits against something hard as he moves in to finish the ambushers. He can hear someone barking commands but the crossfire coming from left and right cuts them short. One enemy tries to drag himself away. Tarasov grabs and turns him onto his back.
“Who are you?” he asks him in a commanding voice. All he gets in reply is a scornful grin that doesn’t vanish even as he points his rifle at the enemy’s face. It turns into a grimace when Tarasov fires his weapon. Stepping closer, the Stalker looks down at the body.
“Damned mercenaries… I tried to loosen up their tongue more than once. But they wouldn’t talk.”
“Check him for loot if you want,” Tarasov curtly replies. There is something about their adversaries’ trained movements and uniform equipment that makes him feel uneasy. While the Stalker busies himself with checking the bodies, Tarasov keeps his weapon aiming towards the tunnel stretch where the mercenaries descended, though the helicopter’s noise has now receded into the distance.
“I found a pack of smokes,” Crow joyfully reports. “Do you want one?”
Thick dust swirls in the light of Tarasov’s headlight but the temptation to remove his gas mask is too strong. “Quadruples the dose of daily radiation,” he grumbles, “and fills your lungs with polonium…”
“Correct, but that was not my question.”
“All right... give me one.”
The Stalker removes his gas mask and sits down on the body of a dead mercenary as if it was a cushion. He lights up his cigarette, then offers the pack and his lighter to Tarasov. “I’m trying to quit, you know. But there are moments when I could kill for a smoke.”
“You just did,” Tarasov replies removing a cigarette from the box.
“Yeah… You know, bad habits die hard. Maybe if I stick to my bad habits, I’ll also die hard.”
Through the smoke of his cigarette, Tarasov carefully studies the Stalker. Crow’s combat skills seem too good for a Loner Stalker, for whom battle was more about satisfying trigger-happy fingers and surpassing each other with cocky battle cries than following coordinated tactics.
“You’ve got a good sense for teamwork, you know?”
“Heard that before. Take it, buddy… don’t let anyone say that Crow didn’t share his smokes.” The Stalker puts the still burning cigarette butt into the mouth of the corpse he was sitting on and gently pats its face. “Molodets. You no longer need to care about lung cancer, do you?”
As they move on with Tarasov taking the lead, he soon halts in his tracks when his torchlight illuminates a huge bulk of fangs and muscles, its fur scorched by fire. The air surrounding it still smells of burnt flesh.
“At least the mercs took care of this one,” Crow remarks as they pass by the dead mutant.
“What the hell was that?”
“I’d have thought you have bears in the Zone. Don’t you?”
“Bears? No. Especially not like this, with claws longer than a hand’s span and a row of spiky bones along its spine.”
“If I ever have kids, I’ll take them to the Zone one day. It must be like a petting zoo.”
After hours in the darkness and suffocating dust, Tarasov feels relief wash over him when, at last, daylight glimmers at the far end of the tunnel. He has to force patience and caution on himself as he moves from the wrecks to wall niches, still concerned about more gunmen waiting to ambush them. When they reach the exit, Tarasov exchanges a glance with the Stalker. Crow nods and they exit the tunnel at the same moment, Tarasov aiming his weapon and scanning the area for any hostiles, while Crow does the same to his left.
“Clear,” Tarasov says lowering his AKSU.
“Looks like we made it, bratan,” Crow replies with a sigh.
The Geiger counter clicks steadily at normal level, meaning that Tarasov can at last remove his gas mask and take a deep breath, enjoying the fresh and cool air streaming into his lungs. After the dark and narrow tunnel, his senses struggle to perceive the awe-inspiring scenery.
He raises his binoculars. Flanked by snow-capped peaks, the valley descends steeply towards the south where a wide plain opens up, covered by lush forest. Clouds of mist drift over the dark green foliage that stretches towards the horizon. Low clouds cover the view beyond the far hills that bite into the steel-blue sky like giant teeth. Deep in the forest, the hugest anomaly he has ever seen looms, having carved a gigantic archway leading into the hills beyond it. The glint of purple fire flashes in its middle. An exhilarating sense of freedom overcomes Tarasov.
“Welcome to the New Zone,” Crow says behind him.
Tarasov turns to share his excitement but freezes at the sight of the silenced Glock that Crow is holding in a steady aim, his eyes narrowed and not promising anything good.
“Ruki ver,” the Stalker coldly says, “drop that weapon, boyevoychik. “
Tarasov lets go off his rifle and raises his hands as commanded.
“Lock your fingers behind your head. Get down on your knees... molodets. And now, it’s time for you to properly introduce yourself. Who are you and what was in that chopper?”
“We didn’t come here to harass the Stalkers! Didn’t I tell you already?”
“I don’t care about the Stalkers. I want to know what was in that chopper. Especially in the Mi-8 that made it through.”
“We were escorting a scientific expedition –”
“That’s bullshit.”
Tarasov sighs, knowing there is no way he can bluff his way out. His only hope is to be convincing enough for Crow to let him live, yet also be skillful enough to omit what little he knows of the scientists’ mission.
“I am Major Mikhailo Tarasov, Armed Forces of the Ukraine. We are on a search and rescue operation…”
Crow listens carefully to his story, without showing any emotion. Only when Tarasov describes the commandos destroying the helicopter does he narrow his eyes.
“They took an exoskeleton? That actually explains a thing or two.” The Stalker holsters his weapon. “Okay. You’re not a hunter. You’re being hunted.”
“Does that make two of us?” Tarasov asks, still unsure whether Crow is an ally or not.
“Let’s move into that hut over there and have a little chat.” the Stalker replies.
Crow leads him into a half-ruined brick building that still has POLICE CHECK POINT painted on it in faded letters. A recent campfire is still smoldering inside, emanating pleasant warmth after the chilly wind outside.
“We’re in Stalker country now,” the sniper says, sitting down by the fire. “A few Brothers must have been here recently. Probably the mercs had interrupted their breakfast.”
“I don’t see any bodies around.”
“They obviously didn’t feel like taking on a whole squad of mercs and dusted off. Wise decision.” Crow takes a box of canned meat from his backpack. He opens it with his combat knife. “You want some havchik?”
“Gladly,” Tarasov says taking the chunk of greasy meat that Crow offers him on the tip of his knife. “To be honest, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I wasn’t out to scare you. I meant it. But we’re more or less in the same shoes… Condor. At least you have a fitting name for a Spetsnaz.”
“So… are we running from the same enemy?”
“I am not running, Condor. I am on the trail of a bizarre arm smuggling enterprise. It’s none of your business for whom I do this errand. Don’t even ask. At first I believed you might be involved,” Crow explains, “but I couldn’t understand why anyone would down your chopper if it was supposed to be carrying a precious load. I know of only one force here who might be the buyers, and it’s also the only force with anti-aircraft weapons. Besides… anyway, it doesn’t add up.”
“Those people from the crash site and the tunnel? Who are they?”
Crow shrugs and spits on the ground. “I don’t know. Gunmen, henchmen… Now they’re dead men.”
“And dead men don’t talk.”
“Too bad. If I knew who had sent them, I would have collected my reward already. Some people in Bagram might have great interest in state of the art equipment like your exoskeletons.”
“Tell me about Bagram.”
“It’s run by a weird character calling himself Captain Bone. He wears a heavy armored suit, all painted black, with red patterns on its chest. He would never remove his curtain helmet, even if it makes him look like a crazy astronaut. But he seems to care about looking important more than making money.”
Tarasov tries to hide his surprise. By the description he easily recognizes the armored suit worn by senior Duty commanders in the Zone.
“Are there more like him in Bagram?” he asks trying to withdraw his real interest from his face and voice.
“He does have bodyguards, but they wear lighter armor. Same color scheme, though. A Stalker doctor called Bonesetter tends to those who ran out of luck. Then there’s a junkie called Ashot. He runs a gun shop and bar and trades in everything. There’s his buddy, a gun nut called Yar, I mentioned him already. I hope he’s not involved in this, because I’d hate to liquidate such a wonderful expert on sniper gear.”
Tarasov frowns. The two big Freedom jokers in a base run by a captain from Duty? What the hell is going on there?
“I know them from the Zone. Ashot was dealing in smuggled NATO gear,” he says, “but I never took him for one of the bad guys. Even if he was always aligned with anarchists. Not to mention Yar, who only cared about weapon upgrades.”
“That might be so… in any case, for the time being I’m more interested in finding out who the client is. I believe they might be hiding somewhere to the west but haven’t been able to recon the area so far. To get there, one needs to cross Tribe territory. And that’s almost impossible without getting killed.”
It’s definitely impossible if you are killed, Tarasov thinks, but says, “Why?”
“Worst sons of bitches I’ve ever seen,” the Stalker scowls. “Take the skills of highly trained soldiers, add the cruelty of Genghis Khan’s warriors, top it up with excellent gear and you have the Tribe.”
“Maybe it was them who shot us down?”
“It’s a possibility, although the people we’ve run into were definitely not of Tribe.” Crow spits out a mouthful of canned meat. “Shit, what do they make this from?… Anyway, I’ve never seen them using choppers. Instead, they ride around in Humvees.”
Degtyarev’s words about rogue Americans come to Tarasov’s mind. “Maybe the pindosi are back?”
“Hard to tell… if their rules of engagement now include torturing prisoners, keeping tribal women as birth machines and decorating their vehicles with skulls and bones, then yes, one could say they are back.” Crow shakes his head. “But I doubt it. While I was in Bagram I heard that the Tribe was already here when the first Stalkers arrived. Usually they keep to themselves unless one gets too close to them.”
All this sounds too far-fetched to Tarasov’s ears to be true. Only one thing attracts his interest. “They have women?”
“Probably got to them before the nukes went off… You better not have any high hopes, brother. Most Afghans who were still alive after the nukes sought refuge in Iran, Uzbekistan, Pakistan… This sandbox is empty now.”
“Yes… I saw one of the refugee camps close to Termez.” Tarasov looks into the small fire which is about burning itself out. Seeing that the Stalker is preparing to leave, he asks him one more question. “You mentioned the Taliban. I never thought they would be still around.”
“Taliban are like cockroaches, almost impossible to exterminate. You’ll run into them soon enough.”
“Maybe we could contact each other from time to time. Share information. What do you think?” Tarasov suggests.
“Maybe,” Crow shrugs. “Now, I have to do some business of my own but let’s hook up in Bagram. I’ll be there in a few days. Until then, a word of advice: that place is messier than it seems. Do not trust anyone.”
STALKER Southern Comfort Page 6