S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort

by John Mason

  Tarasov swings the binoculars towards the Stalkers who are fighting a pitched battle against the dushmans, several of whom are climbing up the wall. A Stalker in a heavy suit kicks one in the head, only to be shot in the back by a dark-clad figure crawling up the wall. Two rounds from a defender’s shotgun blow the dushman’s head off. Tarasov sees the enemy starting to falter, but at the gate, blasted and half ruined by RPG hits and hand grenades, a group of heavily armored Chinese commandos hold their ground among the terrified, routing dushmans and pushes on towards the gate.

  “They do have guts,” he hears the Sergeant Major commenting. “Not bad - keeping their cohesion under fire like that. The scavengers throw everything at them but the kitchen sink.”

  Something must happen or it was all for nothing, Tarasov reflects, barely able to keep himself from charging into battle. He switches to his sniper rifle’s scope to have a closer look and sees a group of Stalkers pouring out of the gate led by two figures in military armor, one of them raking the enemy ranks with his machine gun and the other relentlessly firing an assault rifle. To his incredible relief, he recognizes Ilchenko and Zlenko.

  Thank God they’re still alive. But where are the others?

  He watches the Stalkers surge forward, screaming, killing and dying until they run into the steel wall of Tribe warriors with only dead and dying enemies left between them. For a moment, Stalkers and warriors face each other.

  “Assault team, regroup. Commence pursuit,” the Colonel commands laconically.

  The Tribe’s warriors turn and jump on the Humvees, some of which now carry fewer men than before the battle. Tarasov spots a few daring defenders join the warriors, with the Shrink and his die-hard Stalkers from the Asylum among them. The vehicles speedily pursue the routed enemy, crushing those who get under their massive wheels, the warriors firing their weapons at those too far away to be squashed as they drive the few surviving enemies towards First Lieutenant Driscoll’s position, where they will be trapped in a final crossfire.

  “All right, Top,” the Colonel says. “Order them to cease fire before we go blue on blue. We’re done for today.”

  “Cease fire, cease fire,” the Sergeant Major orders into his radio. “Show’s over!”

  “Let Bauer and Ramirez mop up the area. I want the rest of our warriors to gather at the gate of that pathetic shithole. Let the corpsmen move in, and have a Humvee take our friend to his men.”

  At once, the vehicles turn around and, with the warriors finishing off the few enemies still alive, return to the shattered Stalker fortress, where they line up like a cavalry unit – dusty, smoky, flecked with blood, their riders jumping off and joining the Stalkers in celebrating victory. At the sign of the Sergeant Major, the music fades to a less ear-splitting volume, then tapers off.

  “Security team. A few rag-heads have surrendered. Awaiting instructions. Over.”

  The Colonel calmly lights up a cigarette. “I’m not in the mood to take prisoners today, Driscoll,” he replies through his radio.

  “Affirmative.”

  After a few seconds, the chilly wind brings the noise of short machine gun bursts from the First Lieutenant’s position.

  The old warrior takes off his helmet and slings his carbine over his shoulder. “Damn this shit,” he tells Tarasov as he shows him to the nearest Humvee. “For men like us, watching such a battle and only smelling the cordite from far away – it’s like torture, ain’t it?”

  “I could hardly agree more, Sergeant Major,” Tarasov replies, climbing inside. “But it was hell of a battle either way.”

  “Of course it was. It was my Tribe fighting, the best men in the world. Semper Fi!”

  “What was that music? Once I heard something like that in a movie, with choppers and all, but didn’t believe that you Americans really played music when going into battle.”

  The Sergeant Major gives him a smile. “Wagner is for pussies. We prefer Metallica.”

  Body Count

  Bagram, 16:34:56 AFT

  “Yar! You have a minute?”

  “What? I can’t hear you Ashot. My ear drums are blown.”

  “That’s nothing, me dear! I have bullets in me ass.”

  “Actually, I got stabbed in my neck too.”

  “C’mon, man, that’s nothing compared to me amputated toe!”

  “Sorry, I can’t admire it. I’m wearing a patch on my better eye.”

  “So you have no seen me boots? I can’t find them since Bonesetter patched up me feet!”

  “You removed your boots? Now I understand why they ran away!”

  “YOU TWO! THE INTERCOM WAS NOT REPAIRED TO FACILITATE YOUR SMALL TALK! AND YOU, MAJOR… COME OVER. WE NEED TO TALK.”

  Fuck you, Bone, Tarasov thinks as he gets out of the Humvee and looks around.

  The siege has taken a heavy toll on the Stalkers’ base. Incoming RPGs have pounded the walls of Bone’s command center. The old Antonov is in even worse shape than she was before, with one of the wings broken away from the fuselage, probably due to mortar fire, and now lying on the ground riddled with bullets indicating how the Stalkers had converted it into a makeshift firing position to compensate for the steel container that had been blasted away at the gate. Close to a relatively intact part of the container wall, Tarasov sees a dozen freshly dug graves. The watchtower still stands, with one Stalker on top of it behind the sandbags that have been darkened by the smoke of explosions. The only comforting sight is that of his two battle-worn soldiers hurrying up to greet him.

  “Major Tarasov!” the sergeant greats him cheerily. “It’s good to have you back!”

  “Viktor! Ilch! Glad to see you in one piece!”

  “What happened to you? You look… different.”

  “It’s a long story…”

  “In one sentence, Major,” Ilchenko says, “please. You left with Squirrel and returned with a whole army!”

  “In one sentence? All right… we destroyed the AA battery that shot down our choppers and ran into the Tribe who killed Squirrel and wanted to stone me to death, but a woman preferred that I get her witch daughter with child and sent me to a mutant-infested village to find some old intel that was very important for the Tribe’s leader, who I eventually made save Bagram. That’s that.”

  “Damn… stone you to death?” Ilchenko asks shaking his head. “What on earth are those people? Savages?”

  “Far from it.”

  “The only thing that counts is that you are finally back with us!”

  Tarasov doesn’t know how to counter Zlenko’s enthusiasm.

  If I wanted to be honest with him, I would admit that I no longer know where ‘back’ and ‘away’ is and who ‘us’ might be. This place has got me good.

  “Be happy it didn’t happen to Ilchenko. If it were him telling this story, we’d still be listening to him till Christmas!”

  “Don’t worry, Sarge, I’m looking forward to make nice story out of this once I get home!”

  “All right, rebjati… Whatever happened, I am still your commander and we still have a mission to accomplish. Zlenko, what’s the status of the squad?”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “With all due respect – I’ve missed that bossy tone of yours.”

  “I must admit that I met my match.”

  “He must have been a very tough guy.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s a she. So, what’s our body count?”

  “Only the two of us are left from Sparrow Two. Ignatov died during the first night. Obukov and Stepashin fell the next day. Bondarchuk was killed by a sniper. We received heavy mortar fire during the first night and the bastards hit the infirmary with Saitov and Lobov inside.

  “They got our medic? Damned baystrukhi!”

  “Then Kravchuk and Nakhimov fell during a raid to take the mortars out.”

  “Who was leading the raid?”

  “It was the initiative of a Stalker called Crow�
��”

  “Best sniper I ever saw, Major,” Ilchenko cuts in. Tarasov gives him a disapproving look but the soldier refuses to allow being interrupted. “He showed up with a band of real badass Stalkers just before the siege began.”

  Zlenko clears his throat. “In fact, it was me executing the operation. All went well until we took out the mortars – we could sneak up to their positions without being detected. But we ran out of luck making our retreat. I ordered Kravchuk to take a mortar with him to bolster our defenses and Nakhimov grabbed two boxes of mortar shells.” The sergeant’s face contorts when he continues. “Those bastards fired RPGs at us. One hit Nakhimov as he was carrying the ammo. Both of them died immediately, together with a Stalker who was covering our rear.”

  Tarasov is sad to hear how the remains of his squad have disintegrated but cannot blame the sergeant. It might have happened the same way had he been in charge, and there was nothing to prevent bad luck from happening.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Viktor. Things like that happen. Good job. What about resources?”

  “We are very low on ammo. I have three magazines left, Ilchenko only one. We shared everything we had with the Stalkers. Honestly, sir, now I’m glad that Captain Bone took half our ammo when we first arrived. Had we wasted more at the Outpost, we would have run out of bullets after two days here.”

  “Yes, Bone and his actions,” Tarasov grumbles, keeping his dark thoughts to himself. “Always more reasonable than one would expect.”

  “I need to replace the barrel on the PKM as well. It could crack now any moment, and the breech jams all the time. It would be more lethal to throw the bullets.”

  “What about Yar, the technician?”

  “He only works for money and we don’t have that much.”

  “Damn! Ilchenko, you and I went through hell to make him work for us for free!”

  “I mean, he doesn’t ask us for money. He only wants to finish the paying jobs first.”

  “Bloody anarchists from Freedom… I should have known. Mac and Snorkbait?”

  “They left for the Panjir Valley before the siege.”

  “Lucky baystrukhi… Anyway, don’t worry about weapons. I brought some.”

  “Really? From the Tribe?”

  “Yes. A shotgun for the sergeant and a heavy automatic rifle for you. They’re stashed on one of the Tribe’s trucks. I’ll get more ammo once we get to their stronghold.” Seeing that Ilchenko doesn’t look too happy, Tarasov adds, “Don’t give me such a sour face. I know you’d like to stick to our weapons, but at least theirs are in mint condition… or even better than that.”

  “We could have used those during the siege,” Zlenko retorts. “It was a close shave, even though the Stalkers fought like hell. But no matter what, we were thinking it was game over for us until we heard that riff –”

  “What?”

  “I mean, those guitars… playing from the loudspeakers on the hill. The dushmans totally panicked when that bell sounded and even more so when the guitars started up. And when the mortars and machine guns started hammering them… Gospodi, what a sweet sight it was! The dushmans were cannon fodder, but the mercs gave us a pretty hard time until I saw the moment right to turn the tables around. So, I took the bravest Stalkers and Ilch, and…”

  Zlenko stops in the middle of his sentence and looks to the base gate, as if seeing the devil himself. “Holy Mother of God, who are they?”

  Tarasov looks back to the gate. “My in-laws,” he replies, leaving the two soldiers staring at the Colonel, the Sergeant Major and two Lieutenants in admiration. So do the few Stalkers at the gate, even if they also keep a respectful distance from them as they enter the compound.

  “Many good warriors have sealed our pact with their blood, Major,” the Colonel says by way of greeting. “I hope you will not forget about your end of the bargain.”

  “You have my word as an officer,” Tarasov replies.

  “That shall suffice.” The Colonel looks around. His face resembles that of someone who hates dogs and realizes that he is in a kennel. “Such a miserable excuse of a base… but I have to admit that I am impressed, to some extent. Your Stalkers seem to have guts after all.”

  “The Stalkers are not mine. These are my men.” Tarasov waves towards Zlenko and Ilchenko who approach with a mixture of awe and distrust sketched upon their faces. “Desantniki, this is… the Colonel. The leader of the Tribe. Smirno!”

  For a long moment, the Colonel studies the two soldiers, who stand in attention and appear as if there is nothing in the world that could make them look into his eyes.

  “Good men are all that an officer needs,” he says, turning back to Tarasov, “and good men are made by good officers. Maybe one day I will give you a chance to join us.”

  “First I have to come up with my end of the bargain,” Tarasov cautiously replies.

  “Fair enough. And now?”

  “I ask your permission to cross Tribe territory. We have a mission to accomplish there. I had hoped you would let me pass with a few dozen Stalkers.”

  “Let me give you some advice: forget the City of Screams.”

  “I am needed there,” Tarasov replies. “We have a rescue mission to finish.”

  “It’s you who will need rescuing in the end, and no help will come.”

  “Honestly – I would prefer another place to go, one I don’t even need to tell you. But my orders still stand.”

  His hands crossed behind his back, the big man looks down to the ground, contemplating.

  “Those who gave your orders do not know what lies there. Under normal circumstances, I would not let you approach the place. When you hear the call, you will understand…” The Colonel seems to fight against his own better judgment. “On the other hand, you being involved with Nooria now places you in a unique position. There are more things connecting her and the City of Screams than you would ever imagine.”

  The Sergeant Major clears his throat. “Sir, may I add something?”

  “Speak your mind, Top.”

  “Maybe he can finish the job, sir. Remember, I told you right at the beginning that those diggers might pose a threat. Let him clean up the mess. Once he’s there, he’ll know what to do.”

  The old warrior’s words seem to aid the Colonel in making up his mind.

  “You may pass, Major. I’ll provide you with a few trucks to carry your men. Not because I want to help you get there, but because it’s you whom I want to deliver to your woman as soon as possible. She will have something to tell you and you better listen to her. Is that clear?”

  “I could hardly ask for more.”

  The big man nods. “Till we meet again, Major Tarasov. Remember my order.” He turns to the Sergeant Major and the Lieutenants without saluting or offering his hand to Tarasov. “Let’s shove off, warriors.”

  Tarasov watches him and his men leaving the base in a Humvee amidst a cloud of dust. It seems to him as if the Colonel had taken his good mood with him to far away, to a mud house overlooking the Tribe’s hidden valley. He knew that one day he would have to conclude his mission, but now that it is only a matter of days or perhaps hours, he wishes there was more time left. As he turns back, slightly downcast, he realizes that the two soldiers are still standing there at attention.

  “As you were,” he says, wondering if his own face had looked as awestruck as those of his soldiers when he met the Colonel for the first time. “Come, we could all use a shot of vodka now. I hope most of the Antonov is still in one piece.”

  But as they walk towards the bar and pass by the watchtower, Tarasov hears someone calling down from above.

  “Hey Condor! Come up here and enjoy the view!”

  He looks up and recognizes Crow, standing atop the lookout.

  “Crow? I thought I’d never hear from you again!”

  “Why? Did a grenade blow your eardrum like Yar’s?”

  “I need to talk to this man. We’ll meet in the Antonov,” he tells his soldiers, leaving
them to walk away while he clambers up to Crow’s position.

  “You were the last one I expected to run into here. But where’s your exoskeleton?” Tarasov asks after climbing up the ladder, looking up and down the battered Stalker suit Crow is wearing.

  “In my stash, safely hidden far away. I didn’t feel like answering to some nasty people’s nasty questions about where I got it from.”

  “I see. How did you end up back here?”

  “Kind of a long story… Bone accused me of killing one of his bodyguards, but offered me amnesty when he called in all Stalkers to protect the base. Hell of a joke, eh? The man was so scared I could smell the shit in his pants even through all the armor… so I got together some of my buddies and we had lots of hot fun around here. Especially me when your machine gunner recognized me. At first, he was very keen to kill me but… but hey, what are you carrying there?” Crow points at the heavy sniper rifle on Tarasov’s shoulder. “Bozhe moi! That’s a Gepard, and a Mark-6 above all! I have been looking for one of those for ages. Where did you get it?”

  “First things first, brother. Who the hell are you, really?”

  Tarasov can only see Crow’s eyes in his balaclava, and now they narrow in a squint.

  “Listen to me, Condor. All you need to know is that I am on your side. Let’s not make life more complicated than it already is.”

  Tarasov looks into Crow’s cold eyes, admitting to himself that the sniper has a point – he’d saved his life twice already. What difference would a name make?

  “All right. But what was that mess with Bone’s guard?”

  “He came to kill you. You’ve become a nuisance for Bone.”

  “I could have guessed…” Tarasov sighs. “I’d had a feeling that he’d do anything to get rid of me, one way or another. That bastard son of a bitch…Maybe I better go and just finish him!”

  “I wouldn’t do that, brother. First, you and your two remaining men are no match for his guards. Second, without him, this place would fall into chaos and it would be only a matter of time until the Stalkers started killing each other over artifacts. He might be a bastard, but he keeps order here, one has to give him that.”