by John Mason
“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.”
Sparrow Two
North of the Shamali Plains, 2014, 16:11:35 AFT
After his mysterious companion disappears into the wilderness, Tarasov takes his binoculars and scans the horizon. He can’t see any trace of Dragonfly Two’s crash site – no fire, no smoke column, nothing. To the south, he can make out the cluster of buildings and grey landing strip that must be Bagram. Below his position, the road turns to the west and continues in an almost straight line to where the hills and forest meet, passing through ruined settlements along the way. The stream from the valley he and Crow had been following broadens and runs directly south.
The road appears easy going but it also offers many ambush opportunities, he thinks, the river bed seems safer but it’s probably crawling with mutants. His watch tells him he has four hours till nightfall. Still in doubt over which route provides the better option, Tarasov leaves the road and starts walking towards the forest.
Upon entering it, he is gripped by a feeling of familiarity. The dense undergrowth, the darkness beneath the thick foliage, the low, ruined walls here and there… all serve to remind him of the Zone’s Red Forest. So does t
he eerie silence.
But it is also different here. The trees grow taller, their intertwining foliage casting a suffocating darkness over the muddy ground that seems to suck at Tarasov’s feet as he makes his way through the mud and rotting undergrowth. The deeper he moves, the darker it gets, with tree trunks appearing like silent monsters in the beams of light falling through the foliage. Noxious vapors emanate from the muddy ground. The Geiger-counter’s crackle is the only noise, sounding in his ears like an echo of his quickening heartbeat whenever he sees a weirdly deformed tree reaching out with rotten branches as if to suffocate him, or dense bushes that might hide a mutant preparing for the killing leap before feasting on his remains.
The major stops and shakes his head, as if to rid himself of a headache. A glimpse at the Geiger counter tells him that radiation levels are slightly above normal, but still below the dangerous level.
Tarasov removes his gas mask to allow him to breath with more ease. The sickening odor of rotting earth immediately assails his nostrils, making him grimace with disgust.
Whenever he pauses the forest seems to want to suck him in, to make him part of it. Trees, bushes, stones, water – all around is dead.
As he sneaks from cover to cover, his weapon held ready, the brown mass of an abandoned armored vehicle looms ahead of him. Moving closer, Tarasov sees it is the first of three. It might have been a convoy, but he doesn’t recognize the type of vehicles. The only thing he is sure of is that they are not from the Soviet war. Looking at the holes in their hulls, it is also clear to him that they were ambushed.
Curious, he opens the hatch of the first one and peers inside. His heart almost stops beating when he hears a hiss and senses rather than sees the movement inside. He just manages to duck aside as a snake’s mouth darts towards his face. But now he has better options than in the cave. He throws a grenade inside before frantically slamming the hatch closed. Jumping off the vehicle, his feet have barely touched the ground before a muted explosion shakes the wreck. The smell of burnt flesh and putrid decay rises from inside when he opens the hatch again.
Inside, among bloody shreds of snake flesh and the rotting remains of a small mutant that looks like a jackal pup to Tarasov, he sees hundreds of cartridge casings.
Whoever was inside here must have put up a desperate fight, he thinks, unaware of the grimace on his face.
He picks up a pocketful of shells, thinking that they’ll come in handy if or when he encounters another anomaly, and has almost closed the hatch again when he notices something among the shells. Picking it up and wiping off the grime reveals it to be an old-fashioned mobile phone. Unsure of whether it can be of any use or if it might at least offer a clue about the convoy’s fate, the major puts it into his pocket.
Here and there the gloomy undergrowth is pierced by a ray of light, making the dust visible. But the shadows deepen as the sunlight fades. Tarasov anxiously sees that, judging by the distance to the mountains, he has barely covered one third of the distance to Bagram.
I hope I don’t get lost. Spending the night here would not be pleasant at all.
His thoughts are interrupted by a howl, followed by a deep, aggressive growling. More howls join in, forming a chorus. He takes a few steps in the direction of the sound. Cautiously peering through a bush, he sees a clearing in the woods and a pack of jackals running toward him. He raises his rifle but by the time he takes aim, the jackals have reached his position – and to his surprise run on, ignoring him. Tarasov has no time for relief because after a few moments, a huge, lumbering shadow emerges from the undergrowth. It is the biggest mutant he has ever seen – its furry head resembling that of a bear but the mouth open stretching down to its neck, showing a double row of bloodied teeth. Its side is covered with deep wounds, but the mutant seems to ignore them as it turns toward Tarasov with a blood-curdling growl. He is not sure if he can kill this beast with the ammo he has loaded, or if he had time at all to change the magazine once it is empty, so he does the only thing he can. He runs.
He would have no chance in the open, but here among the dense woods he moves with more agility than his lumbering adversary and jumps over a low mud wall into what might have been an orchard in the past. After a few meters, he looks back, thinking that the bear-like mutant had been unable to follow him. Then a brick crumbles, then more, and Tarasov sees with horror that the mutant simply broke through the wall. He runs on, out of breath, with a stinging pain in his kidneys. The growling behind him draws closer with every step. Suddenly he sees a large pool of mud, with stains of reddish water oozing a fiery vapor. He can’t dodge it and besides, even with the meager protection his suit offers, he has more chance of surviving an anomaly than the assault of the raging mutant.
Tarasov holds his breath and jumps. Rolling on the ground, burning pain bites into his sizzling skin. Moaning, he manages to raise himself into a kneeling position, ready to fire, knowing he’s no longer able to run.
The old Stalker trick of running towards an anomaly, evading it at the last moment and then watching the mutants running headlong into the trap had saved him many times back in the Zone. But now, to his horror Tarasov sees that the mutant stops and walks up and down in front of the anomalies, as if debating whether if it could jump over to finish the hunt. Then, to Tarasov’s even greater shock, it stretches its dreadful head forward and starts sniffing around the anomalies, until it finds a path through the sizzling, muddy substance.
Damn! This wretched beast is smart, Tarasov thinks as he desperately crawls backwards.
Halfway through the anomalies, the mutant rears up on its legs, unleashing a deafening roar. It is probably intended to paralyze its prey, leaving them wide-eyed and defenseless with horror, but Tarasov still has enough control over his body to raise his weapon and empty the magazine into the mutant’s torso. But as he fires his last cartridge, the shooting doesn’t stop. Perplexed, Tarasov sees heavy bullets still pouring into the mutant’s flesh until it emits a pain-filled yelp and falls right into the anomaly. Its fur catches fire immediately and Tarasov, gasping for air, watches it being consumed by acidic flames.
I’m getting tired of others saving me, he thinks. In the Zone, it was the other way around.
Still oblivious of where the shots came from, he looks around.
“Don’t move,” a voice commands. “Stay right where you are.”
“I couldn’t move even if I wanted to,” Tarasov shouts back.
Then, to his unspeakable relief, two soldiers emerge from the woods. One of them is wearing Berill body armor, though both also sport bandages. Wounded men, even if only lightly. The other one, a stout, blond soldier with blue eyes thick set in his round face, is holding a PKM machine gun. To Tarasov’s astonishment, he wears no armor, only the standard issue white and blue striped tee-shirt and a green bandana. This guy must be either a tough bastard or totally crazy, Tarasov thinks.
“Sparrow Two?” he cries out.
“Major?” one of the soldiers asks incredulously.
Tarasov nods and the two soldiers quickly pull him away from the anomaly. For a moment, Tarasov’s joy over finding the lost squad makes him forget about his badly burnt legs.
“Thanks to that damned mutant,” he groans, “it chased me right into your arms!”
“It’s great to see you alive, komandir,” the machine gunner says. “Where are the others?”
“It’s just me. Give me a medikit and bandages… my legs are burnt.”
With quick, well-trained hands, the other soldier cuts through the burnt rags of Tarasov’s leggings and pours water from his canteen over the wounds.
“Lucky for us, our medic made it through,” the soldier says as he applies antiseptics and fixes a silicone bandage. “He’ll take care of the rest. This should do till we get back to the chopper.”
“Tell me what happened to you, while I brace myself up.”
“Yes, Major,” the machine gunner says. “We were hit… or whatever, because it was no projectile… Sudd
enly all the electrical systems went dead, at least almost all, though the pilot managed to keep the chopper in the air for a few minutes. We were incredibly lucky not to smash into the mountains, but then the engine died and the chopper started to spin, and we crash-landed into this forest. Eight of us survived, with three others badly wounded.”
“Who is in command now?”
“Senior Sergeant Zlenko. It was probably him who saved our life, because as soon as we took off, he ordered us into our armored suits.”
“That was a wise choice. And where is your Berill suit, soldier?”
“Err… I got a serious case of armor chafe and removed it. It’s because of my size… even the biggest one is too small for me, sir!”
The major decides not to flak him for the moment, although he suspects that the machine gunner has used armor chafe as an excuse to flaunt the many tattoos on his robust arms.
I got it. He’s crazy, Tarasov thinks.
“What happened to the other squad, sir?”
Staring at the ground, Tarasov shakes his head.
“Not even Zotkin?” the soldier with the medikit asks.
“Not even him.”
“How did you survive?”
“I was wearing my exoskeleton, remember? It saved my life but was destroyed. I hope you have a spare armor suit.”
“We do, sir. Actually, we have too many spare suits.”
“Help me up and let’s get back to your chopper. I hope you established a defensive perimeter?”
“Certainly, sir,” the machine gunner says cutting down two boughs from a tree with a combat knife. “But there is this shit all around us. Nothing gets through, but in exchange, we can’t leave the perimeter either. Sit on this, sir. Kamensky, hold the branches from the other side, will you?”
Tarasov hates the idea of arriving at the crash site like an invalid, but when he tries standing on his feet he realizes that he actually is one. Swearing, he reluctantly lets the two soldiers carry him.
