by John Mason
“Everyone’s in one piece here, Major. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, Ilchenko. The kid will make it too.”
“Damn. One can’t have it all… You need assistance?”
“No! It’s not time to relax yet. Wait a little longer!”
Tarasov takes a deep breath and pulls up the balaclava still covering Mac’s face. The young Stalker opens her eyes, which twinkle in the harsh light falling through the gate, now untamed by the helmet’s dark visor.
Normally, Tarasov would have taken the face for that of a handsome young man. Now that he knows Mac’s secret, he is not misguided by the short hair and grimy face. He recognizes the soft features characteristic of a female face, even if Mac had obviously done everything she could to hide her beauty – because even with her face dusty and grimy, she does look beautiful. Not breathtakingly gorgeous or irresistibly desirable, but in the way of natural beauty that only young women have, in the way of natural sex appeal assigned to the trappings of youth.
“What are you staring at?” Mac tries to get up to her feet, but immediately emits a moan of pain, reaching for her bruised side. “Shit… hurts like hell... am I hit?”
“Just a bruise, thanks to your exo,” Tarasov replies and, to cover up his knowledge of Mac’s secret, he adds, “you’re a lucky son of a bitch, you little bastard. We had to finish the dushmans while you were groaning and moaning. Next time try not to get shot so easily, is that clear?”
“Clear. Ouch… hey, what’s that?” She asks patting the armor above the place where Tarasov has adjusted the bandage.
“First time you get patched up by someone else?” Tarasov turns his face away and tries to suppress an ear to ear grin. “Stupid little kid! You should have stayed home and played video games until you became man enough to enter the Zone.”
“Andate a la mierda, forro...!”
By the sound of the curse that Mac whispers, Tarasov can tell that she understood his message and is not very happy about what Tarasov has found out.
“Ilchenko,” he shouts over to the machine gunner. “All clear?”
“All clear!”
“They ran like dogs!” the guide shouts. “Hope they’ll tell the other freaks that Squirrel was here!”
The major supports Mac as she gets to her feet. To his relief, he sees that everyone outside is unharmed.
“Wouldn’t be the New Zone if getting back to daylight was easy,” Tarasov tells Mac. “But hey… at least the view is not so bad.”
Through a torn-down section of the factory wall, a view opens to the plains below. Followed by his companions, Tarasov walks to the edge of the plateau.
Strong winds throw up dust from the ground and drive dark clouds across the sky, covering the sun. Long rays of sunlight pierce through the clouds, as if combing the hills and forest stretching out below their feet. Not far from their position, Hellgate is looming where the orange flames of the anomalies burst up into the sky and cast a purple haze over the stone arch. From up here, it looked like the claws of a giant predator reaching out from the earth, and to Tarasov, they seemed to be the claws of the new Zone itself, threatening the sky with all its menacing power. The dark clouds finally chase away the last ray of light, making the Shamali plains appear in pale shades of gray and blue.
“Getting down should be easier,” Squirrel says. “With just a little caution, we can simply climb down.”
“Yes. No need to go back the same way we came. You don’t need me any longer.”
All faces turn to the Captain.
His shoulder bag lies on the ground. Exhaustion is written throughout his fragile figure, but it’s not from the rigors of the past twenty-four hours. Leaning on his staff, his worn out duster and long beard blown by the wind, he looks just like what he is – an emaciated, weary old man with a million wrinkles on his bearded face.
“Major Tarasov… I see that you have found what you were looking for,” he says, jerking his head at Mac. “And now, will you carry out a task for me?”
The major frowns, knowing that it is high time for him to continue with his mission.
“Don’t worry,” the Captain says, seeing Tarasov’s hesitation. “It will not take much of your precious time. What is your answer?”
“First, tell me what you need.”
“No. First, you need to hear me out.”
The Captain takes a few steps toward the precipice and turns towards the vast plains, standing still with the wind slowly playing with his ragged coat. He stretches out his arms, as if he wanted to bless, or at least embrace, the hopeless wilderness. Then he turns back and looks into Tarasov’s eyes.
“It’s about the column… The column that was lost.”
And I was hoping he’d have got his wits together by now, the major thinks.
“The column left Kunduz in early January 1988. Twenty Ural trucks, three T-62 tanks, five BMP troop carriers, three fuel tankers full of petrol and gasoline. It had to get through.”
“Yes, I guess it had to,” Tarasov replies impatiently.
“The column was going to Khost. It never arrived. It was betrayed.”
“I heard you couldn’t trust the Afghans about anything.”
“The Afghans… first, they killed the armor driving up front. With RPGs like that.” The Captain points at Squirrel and gestures firing a rocket propelled grenade with his hands. “Kaboom! Kaboom! Then those in the rear. Bang! Kaboom! No vehicle could move. It was snowing heavily, and no helicopters came to help. When the trucks were burning, they stormed down on us. They slit the throats of those who were not shot. They captured our komandir and beheaded him, praising their god. Some were left to die in the snow, to freeze to death or be eaten by jackals and wolves.”
Mac suddenly stops stroking the mutant pup. Tarasov is surprised about his own lack of emotions over this story – instead of sadness or anger, all he feels is exhaustion.
“What was left of our load, weapons, ammunition, fuel, went into the dushmans’ hands. It never reached the desantniki fighting in the Panjir Valley. It is safe to suppose that they also died. All this happened because of a traitor.”
“How did you get away, Captain?”
“It was not the Afghans who betrayed us.”
Tarasov frowns. He already suspects where the story will go, but he wants to hear out what the old man still has to say. “Carry on, Captain.”
“I see you have already guessed it, Major. I was the traitor. I sold out the column to the dushmans in exchange for passage to Pakistan and then to America. They let me down. I deserved it.”
Tarasov looks at his comrades. Ilchenko is staring at his boots. Squirrel is toying with his anomaly detector, watching Tarasov’s reaction from the corner of his eyes. Mac is standing with her face mask open, her hand resting on Billy’s head. A cloud of sadness hangs over all three of them. He clears his throat and turns back to the Captain.
“You certainly deserved twenty-eight years in prison for that, and I cannot imagine a worse prison than this place.”
“You really think so?”
“What do you want from us now?” he asks back, shunning the Captain’s eyes.
“I want you, Major, to court-martial me and execute me for treason.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Captain… what you did was horrendous, but you have paid the price. The country that should have court-martialed you doesn’t exist any longer. Let’s forget what you’ve just said. Come with us.”
“I can’t. How could I look into the faces of people? I could meet the mother of one of the men who died because of me. Or a son who had grown up without a father. How would that be – the dear one dead, the traitor alive?”
Tarasov bows his head. “That’s just an imagined situation.”
“I don’t think so. Even if I was wrong, a Soviet… a Russian officer’s lost honor is not just imagination.”
Mac gives him a startled look, but Tarasov ignores her.
“For a long time, I longed for this,” the Captain continues. “I prayed day and night to survive here and to be spared being shot by dushmans or torn apart by mutants when I grew too old to defend myself. I prayed to live until the day came when I could die a proper death. A traitor’s well-deserved death, but at least delivered in an officer’s manner. This is what I ask of you in exchange for guiding you, Major Tarasov.”
Tarasov draws his pistol. Seeing this, Squirrel and Mac start shouting at him.
“Hey man, you can’t be serious about listening to this lunatic?”
“Put that gun away! We must take him to safety!”
Only Ilchenko stands silently. He buttons up his body armor and stiffens his stance. Tarasov turns towards the two Stalkers.
“You two, step back. Now. And you, Captain, excuse me for a moment.”
With the others out of hearing range, Tarasov turns to the machine gunner. “What do you think of this?”
“I am just a private, not supposed to judge officers.”
“Cut the crap. You grunts do nothing else behind our back.”
Ilchenko gives a scornful glance towards the Captain. “Honestly, sir? To a dog – a dog’s death!”
“But we don’t have capital punishment anymore.”
“We? He is not one of us. I mean, he is, but he belongs to the Soviet army, and in the USSR, such treason was punished with death.”
“But the USSR doesn’t exist anymore, neither does her law, and capital punishment is no longer applied in Russia either.”
“Sir… permission to speak freely? It is not a legal argument that’s expected of us now.”
“Then what, Private?”
“I’m sure you’ll do what’s right, sir.”
Now I know what it means to stand in front of a man whose betrayal killed my father, Tarasov thinks. But I also know what he has been through. He survived twenty-five years in Afghanistan and three years in a new Zone. As much time as I have spent in the old Zone. Fate was the only thing that kept me alive. It is not up to me to judge him. I can’t judge fate.
“Taking him home would be of no help to him, and you are right – maybe he wouldn’t deserve it at all. All we can do is to restore his honor and dignity.”
“Sir – deserters have no honor and dignity, and traitors even less so.”
“Honor is not born with us. Neither is dignity – I don’t believe in all that bullshit about human rights. One has to earn honor and dignity the hard way and can lose it the easy way. At least that’s what life has taught me.”
“Sir, if I may ask, were you brought up on the streets of Kiev?”
“No. I had a very happy childhood, apart from the absence of my father who died when I was very young. He was as a BMP driver with the other soldiers of the very same column that the Captain has betrayed.”
Ilchenko takes a step back in surprise. “Gospodi… I was a bit confused when you showed him that photograph, but now I understand. May he and the others rest in peace… I was just asking because I grew up on the streets and I agree with you two hundred percent!”
“If so, then you probably also agree if I say that this man has by now regained his honor and dignity?”
“And if he did, does this change the past?”
“Not at all. But only those with honor and dignity can pass a fair judgment upon themselves.”
Turning away from the puzzled soldier, Tarasov clears his throat and addresses the Captain.
“Captain Igor Vasilyevich Ivanov – stand to attention! You have committed the most despicable crimes an officer can commit: treason, resulting in the deaths of your comrades, and cowardice in the face of the enemy. Your infamy is all the worse for your base reasons. Such crimes are punishable by death.”
The Captain stands stiffly to attention and eagerly listens to Tarasov’s words, but now he also has to say something. He points to the shoulder bag that lies on the ground. “You forgot to add the forfeiture of all assets.”
“And the forfeiture of all assets, yes.” Tarasov takes a deep breath before continuing. “Nonetheless – your ability to survive for so many years in the direst of environments and your readiness to assist your fellow soldiers to complete a dangerous mission in times of war, has proven that you are once more worthy to be called an officer of… any army, living up to and even surpassing the highest standards set for honor and dignity. Therefore I… this court-martial concludes that your honor and dignity as an officer is restored.”
With a bow of his head, Tarasov hands his Fort to the Captain.
A smile appears on the old soldier’s face. He takes the pistol and salutes. Tarasov and Ilchenko return the salute.
“Thank you, Major, and God bless you. All of you.”
The Captain looks up to the gray sky. Then he closes his eyes, puts the weapon to his head, and pulls the trigger.
The shot is still echoing among the hills when Captain Ivanov’s body falls backwards from plateau and disappears below, his fingers still clutching at the weapon, the evil land itself having finally claimed his tormented soul.
Squirrel and Mac step up. For a minute, the four companions stand there as if turned to stone. Then Ilchenko speaks up.
“Major… that was awesome.”
“I need a new sidearm,” Tarasov replies with a shrug, and turns away from his companions.
Tough Love
Stalker camp at Hellgate, 22:38:04 AFT
The fire slowly burns itself out. Mac rakes the fire with the Captain’s staff while Billy sleeps in her lap, digesting a huge portion of ‘tourist breakfast’.
“So, that was the story of our raid,” Squirrel says, watching as the last sparks fly high from the fire into the starry sky. He takes a long draw at his joint and slowly exhales the smoke. “I can’t complain. I didn’t find a Heartstone, but the Captain’s glowing artifact is a nice one. Probably I won’t sell it. Nah, I’ll keep it for sure.”
“What is it called?” Mishka Beekeeper asks.
“No idea. That’s what I love about this place. New Zone – new artifacts and all.”
“Then you should give it a name.”
“What about… I don’t know. Hey, Ilch, give me that bottle!”
“Lich would be a good choice,” Mac says gazing into the fire. Her helmet is placed at her side, and through the balaclava’s holes that leaves her eyes and mouth visible, the trace of a sad smile appears.
“Cool, man. Lich it will be then. But what’s a lich, anyway?”
“All kids know that. A lich is a magician who stays alive through many centuries. Usually, they are evil. Do you agree, Major?”
Tarasov, who lies there resting his aching feet and watching the stars, just shrugs the question off.
“I don’t know… maybe not all of them.”
“Anyway, maybe one day I’ll come back to find a Heartstone,” Squirrel dreamily says. “I could sell that for a million dollars, rubles, euros – whatever. Or maybe if the Stalker legend is true, I’ll just hold on to that artifact and it will keep me healthy for the rest of my life.”
“Then I beg you not to find it.”
“Oh come on, Sashka! Don’t spoil a poor man’s dreams, man!”
“A million dollars, you said?” Tarasov says.
“Yes, Major. Okay, maybe just a half million, but still… Why?”
“Just asking.” Tarasov hides his smile and puts his hand over the artifact container on his armored suit, where he has put the artifact he found in the Captain’s bag.
Forfeiture of assets… If he hadn’t mentioned that, I would have completely forgotten about his bag.
“That was a very nice story, fellows, but we still don’t have the answer to Question Number One,” Mishka Beekeeper says and finishes the sentence in a chorus with Sashka SWAT Officer: “Where are the women?”
Tarasov sits up and looks at Mac from the corner of his eye, trying to suppress a smile. She sits quietly, not looking at any of the Stalkers.
“And wha
t about you, kid?” he asks. “Where do you want to go now?”
“Panjir. Anywhere but Bagram.”
“Yar will be disappointed.”
“That’s not my problem.”
A shout comes from the darkness. “Stalkers coming through! Try not to shoot us, will you?”
Snorkbait and Ilchenko appear from the darkness.
“All clear, sir. Everything is quiet around the perimeter.”
“That’s a camp, not a perimeter,” Mishka Beekeeper says, feigning embarrassment. “Relax, soldier! You’re among Stalkers now!”
“Welcome back, patsanni,” Squirrel greets them. “I was just in the middle of telling a joke to these bores here. So: what does a whore give her best client for Christmas? AIDS.”
“Not bad, but I know a better one, “ Ilchenko says. “How do you make a little girl cry twice? Wipe your bloody dick on her teddy bear!”
“Cool!” Sashka SWAT Officer hands Ilchenko a vodka bottle. “I’ll need to remember that, haha!”
The Stalkers laugh, only Mac scowls. “Screw that. I heard it a thousand times.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Ilchenko asks, still laughing at his own joke.
“You better ask what’s wrong with your jokes. They are disgusting. And even worse, they’re boring too.”
“Apologies, Prince Myshkin,” Ilchenko says, faking a polite bow. “I didn’t mean to offend your sensitivity!”
“If there’s an idiot amongst the two of us, Ilch, it’s certainly not me.”
“I guess you have met your match,” Tarasov says smirking at the machine gunner.
“You’re all pricks. I can’t wait to leave with Snorkbait for the Panjir Valley in the morning.”
“Two notorious tree-huggers teaming up… a match made in heaven!”
“Beekeeper, stop teasing the kid or I’ll kick your teeth in,” Snorkbait grumbles while taking notes on a writing block.
“At last something that could distract you from your scribbling.”
“I need to remind myself that I still can write, Sashka, not just push buttons on a PDA. I’m writing a book, you see – ‘Zone and the Art of Weapon Maintenance’.”
