“Cordon Base, this is Osprey One. We are inbound.”
“We have a visual on you, Osprey One. Welcome home.”
Needle in a Haystack
Cordon Area — military base, 11:15:27 EEST
Tarasov is surprised to see a fragile AK1-3 helicopter on the helipad. It has SBU written all over it despite its civilian color scheme. When Tarasov climbs out of the gunship’s hatch, Degtyarev and a lieutenant in Spetsnaz field camouflage rush to greet him. The lieutenant holds his beret against the wind swirled up by the Mi-24’s rotor blades. Degtyarev is bareheaded, as usual.
“Major Tarasov, this is Lieutenant Priboi,” Degtyarev shouts over the engine noise after exchanging salutes. “He will debrief your men. You and me, let’s go to the command room. We need to talk.”
“Good to see you too, Alex,” Tarasov shouts back.
Inside the dingy command room overlooking the gate, they give each other a hug.
“You still have blood on your face,” Degtyarev says as they sit down at Tarasov’s desk, facing each other.
“We met a controller,” replies Tarasov. He moves to wipe his face with the back of his gloves, but seeing they are bloody too he accepts the paper tissue offered by Degtyarev. Compared to Tarasov, who is still wearing his blood-stained, bullet-riddled armored suit, the operator’s impeccably clean and neatly ironed uniform makes him look like a visitor from another planet.
“Things got a little messy… I hope I didn’t spoil your uniform.”
“Come on, Misha. It’s damn good to see you’re still in one piece.”
“I wish you could say as much to Lieutenant Ivanchuk.”
“Yes, I heard the dispatch on my way here… pity. He was a good man.”
“He could have grown into an even better one.” Tarasov looks up to the wall with its faded green paint. Next to the large drawing board with patrol orders and watch rosters, a bloodsucker’s file photograph is fastened to the wall with scotch tape. Someone has skillfully covered the mutant’s head with the portrait of a female politician from Kiev. He didn’t ask but knows that it’s Ivanchuk’s artwork. Once Degtyarev is gone, he’d better remove it. “I suppose you’re not here to write the letter to his next of kin for me?”
“No.” Degtyarev leans back in the chair and pulls out a hip flask from his pocket with two little shot cups. “But before we talk — davay vipyem!”
“To Ivanchuk,” Tarasov says raising his cup, “he was a good soldier.”
The vodka, still cold from the chilly weather outside, slowly creeps down Tarasov’s stomach and turns into comforting warmth. It does not dissolve his concerns about Degtyarev’s visit, however.
“If the SBU sent you to investigate this incident today,” he says, “they were either very quick or knew beforehand that it was going to be messy.”
“Those were not Stalkers at Agroprom, were they?” Degtyarev asks as he puts his heavy suitcase onto the desk.
“They were mercenaries,” Tarasov replies, “I’ve never met mercenaries so far south of Rostok. I hope it was a one-time incursion, otherwise things will get really shitty for us here. We have barely enough men to keep the southern approach to the Dark Valley secure.”
“If it’s of any comfort to you, Duty is having troubles around Yanov too. A few months ago, their quartermaster sold a whole shipment of weapons to the mercenaries.”
“Morgan again?”
“Yes, Morgan. They tried to track him down but he disappeared into thin air. Probably he has left the Zone altogether.”
“Duty’s problems don’t make my life easier. On the contrary, we’d be screwed for good long ago without them.” Tarasov looks out of the window to the dilapidated buildings. “Last week I had to literally beg Kiev to provide us with fuel for the chopper. We got none. One more flight and we’ll run dry.”
“I know.” Degtyarev sounds concerned. “I have asked for more resources on your behalf but still get stonewalled by your brass. It’s as if they don’t care about you grunts here at all.”
“Tell me something I don’t know yet.”
“This is exactly why I came here,” Degtyarev says, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t have to worry about those mercs anymore… or about the Zone itself, for that matter. It’s Priboi’s job now.”
Tarasov swallows hard, thinking: Could it be that the army wants to get rid of me?
“Are we so low on resources that the brass sends a lieutenant to replace me?” he asks. Tarasov’s innocent enough question can’t hide his concern. His friend seems to read his thoughts because a smile appears on Degtyarev’s face, even if it’s not a very reassuring one.
“Priboi is a capable officer. And as for you — I have good news and bad news. First of all, you are relieved of your duties as base commander. I don’t know if this is good or bad news for you, actually.”
“It depends on why my command is terminated.” Tarasov turns his face away and looks out through the window. “Am I to leave the Zone?”
“Well… we have a problem, and you will be the solution.” Degtyarev takes a deep breath before continuing. “I suppose you’ve already heard about the developments in Afghanistan.”
“What? Afghanistan?” shouts Tarasov in surprise, so loud that a guard by the gate glances up with a concerned look on his face. Tarasov points his fingers to his eyes and then towards the Zone, reminding the soldier of the direction he is supposed to watch. Then, still perplexed, he turns back to his friend. “I mean, yes, I heard about strange things happening there after the nukes went up… Stalkers talk about a Klondike of artifacts.”
“To cut a long story short: looks like a new Zone has happened there.”
“Is it true then? A new Zone? Anomalies, artifacts, mutants and all?”
“Kind of.”
For a long minute, Tarasov looks his friend in the eye. “I think I need more vodka.”
Degtyarev fills his cup. “We believed we’d done a good job here, with all the Stalker activity in decline. Then we realized that the central regions in Afghanistan, which were not directly hit by the blasts, have become the new attraction for Stalkers. The Americans can’t keep anything secret… You know what? I’m glad we have no Freedom of Information Act.”
“I still don’t get it,” says Tarasov looking at his cup. “The Zone wasn’t created by radiation. It needed the egg-heads tampering with the Noosphere. Now please don’t tell me the USSR had secret laboratories there during the Afghan war.” He finishes his second shot.
“You want to leave some vodka for the end, brother… We have been studying things there for a while, having exactly the same question in mind. How could a new Zone happen there? An expedition was sent, similar to those in Yantar and Jupiter. The name of Professor Sakharov should ring a bell.”
“He is a psi-emissions expert,” Tarasov nods.
“Yes. His team was digging up something in a place called Shahr-i-Gholghola until we lost communications.” Degtyarev takes a thick envelope from his suitcase and gives it to Tarasov. “Here’s the detail. In short: you will go there, find them and get them out. But most importantly, you will secure any research results. That’s your first priority. Misha, are you still with me?”
“The City of Screams…” Tarasov murmurs, lost in his thoughts.
“Exactly. That’s what that Gholghola thing means. You’ve heard of it?”
“My father mentioned it in one of his letters to my mother, yes.”
Tarasov regrets his words as soon as they are spoken. Degtyarev’s smirk remains on his lips but it is not jovial anymore — it more resembles the grin of a predator, ready to jump at its prey.
“I understand,” Degtyarev says leaning closer.
“I don’t want to talk about this. For me, one of the few good things about the Zone is that it made me forget certain things.”
“He died there without seeing his boy grow up, is that correct?” asks Degtyarev, looking at the major with narrowed eyes.
“Yes. He died
in Afghanistan, when I was two years old. So what? You know my file!”
“I do. I also know that you were born in the year Chernobyl happened,” Degtyarev pushes on. “Looks like you have a score to settle with both shadows of our past.”
“My father’s memory is none of your damned business!”
For a long moment, the seasoned soldier and the shrewd operator lock their eyes. In the end it is Degtyarev who looks away.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
“No. I’m trying to quit. And for God’s sake, Alex, stop being a secret agent for a minute. Go and try your mind-games on a controller, not me. Kruto?”
“Yes, okay, okay… sorry again. Curiosity is my occupational disease.”
“And that’s what killed the cat, remember that… Anyway, what about the good news?”
“Indeed,” Degtyarev says with a sigh of relief. “First, that envelope contains a pretty amount in US dollars. Would you sign this proof of receipt, please? Stalkers love money, so use this to bribe them for any information if necessary. Or, in worst case, to buy any resources if it comes down to that.”
“At least I won’t have to play their ‘I’ll tell you what you need if you get me what I need’ game.”
“Exactly. Second, this will be no lone wolf mission. You will have two squads of the 13th Airmobile Battalion at your command.”
“Strength, courage, honor. I love their motto,” Tarasov nods approvingly. “But that won’t help them much if they run into mutants and anomalies.”
“Agreed. That’s why you will be their command element.” Degtyarev grins as he continues. “Maybe your knowledge of English weighed in your favor, because it certainly wasn’t your Stalker skills.”
“Do I sense envy in your sarcastic tone?”
“You’ll be surprised but to some extent, I do envy you.”
Degtyarev looks out of the window to the concrete barrier, where the road to the inner part of the Zone starts. Flanked by tall poplars, the road looks like any ordinary road in the vast Ukrainian countryside: decaying but appearing innocent enough. Yet it leads through areas soaked with blood, right up to the far heart of the Zone — the ghost town of Pripyat and beyond, to the ill-fated Chernobyl NPP.
“You remember the old days, Misha? We have turned every stone and been everywhere. Pripyat, Limansk, the Swamp, Zaton, even the CNPP — you name it. I wish there were new places to discover. I wouldn’t even mind if the Zone got bigger.”
Tarasov nods. “I know what you mean. But keeping it from spreading is part of our job… at least on paper.”
Degtyarev turns away from the window and sighs. “We failed. Whatever power had created the Zone has outsmarted us and it has… happened again. You will look at the new Zone with fresh eyes… like Strelok did here at the beginning.”
“Alex, Alex,” Tarasov replies and slowly shakes his head with a bitter smile. “You know how you sound? Like a pimp, tempting a married man to cheat on his wife with a whore.”
“That’s exactly how I wanted to sound,” Degtyarev laughs.
“The Zone is my turf. I don’t really want to be a rookie elsewhere, znayesh?”
“You don’t have to go there with just a Kevlar jacket and a sawn-off shotgun like a rookie. I managed to get you some gadgets to keep you alive a little longer.” Degtyarev’s face shines with self-satisfaction. “First, you will be equipped with our new Vepr assault rifle. Full kit, scope and grenade launcher included.”
“I laid my hands on it once before, but wasn’t very impressed,” Tarasov says with a skeptical gesture. “It’s not much better than the AKM.”
“You are hard to please.” Degtyarev rolls his eyes in staged despair. “At least give the Vepr a try.”
“Thanks but no thanks. If it comes to weapons, I could use a new Val instead of that bullpup.”
“That can be arranged. But you’ll definitely like my other surprise.” Degtyarev switches on his shockproof, heavy-duty laptop. “Damn, I left the charger in Kiev… hope there’s still a little juice left in the battery. Come on, boot up, boot up…”
“See? That’s why I stick to my PDA.”
“But you don’t have minesweeper on that! At last… now look at this. It’s the latest DARPA exoskeleton. The Americans treat it as a secret weapon, but some generals must have good connections overseas. Unfortunately, we only have three. One for you and the others for the platoon leaders.”
Leaning over the desk, Tarasov curiously watches the armored suit appearing on the screen. “Impressive. Can I at last scratch my butt in this one?”
“Come on, Misha. Don’t be so unimaginative. It has Neovision with infrared scanning, an integrated tourniquet — you only have to pull it here, you see? –, a wound healing system using hemostats and tissue-repairing collagens, carrying capacity more than eighty kilograms, Dragon Skin plates capable of stopping an armor-piercing bullet, full NBC protection… I tell you, it’s the Armani of all protective suits. We have added a built-in anomaly detector and a few artifact containers too. And yes, you can even scratch your butt in this.”
“What about the troopers?”
“They have upgraded Berill armor and their standard kit.” Degtyarev switches his computer to map mode. “Now… let me recap Operation Haystack. First of all, this mission is classified — if…”
With a bitter smile, Tarasov cuts into the operator’s words.
“If I succeed, I’ll get a pat on my back. If I screw it up, you guys in Kiev will deny to have ever heard of me. I know the drill.”
“That’s the way it goes, bratan. None the less, you will keep your Zone call sign − Condor. Your gadgets are waiting for you at Termez air base, which will be referred to as Whiskey. There you will catch up with the paratroopers. Your teams will be known as Sparrow One and Two.” Degtyarev winks cheerily. “You probably know what the ‘s’ stands for.”
“Perhaps for suckers?”
“Well guessed, although in my mind it means ‘Stalkers’… Anyway, from there you will be flown to Bagram, or what’s left of it. Here. Your flight team will consist of two helicopters: a Mi-24VP, designated as Dragonfly One, which should be able to blast away anything that blocks your path. A Mi-8 will transport your gear and supplies, call sign Dragonfly Two.”
“What about radiation levels?”
“The mountain ranges north of Kabul have protected your area of operations from the worst. Radiation should be no stronger than here at Cordon, but keep your eyes on the Geiger counter — just in case. Once your forward base is established, preferably in this grid north-east of Bagram, you will proceed westwards to the last known position of the scientists, referred to as Needle. You will move along the old Bamyan road using low-profile recon tactics. Dragonfly One will stand by to provide close air support. Dragonfly Two will keep you supplied. Once you locate and secure Needle, Dragonfly team will bring you home. That’s all.”
“Can’t we fly to Gholghola directly?” Tarasov carefully studies the digital map. “The forward base seems to be pretty far from the target zone.”
“I’m only passing on the orders to you… but I have a feeling they don’t want to make the same mistake like with Operation Fairway.”
Tarasov frowns. “Uh-hum… I knew there would be a catch.”
“What catch?”
“Close air support, two full squads, state of the art kit, clearly defined mission objectives… all this sounds too good to be true. Is there anything more I need to know?”
Degtyarev pauses for a moment. As Tarasov studies his face, his friend seems to be concerned regarding how much information he can disclose.
“Damn it, Misha, you’re not supposed to know but probably you need to. We already lost a team. And it wasn’t due to anomalies.”
“What then? Monolith fighters with Gauss rifles again?” Tarasov’s sense of irony prevails over his bad memories. He recalls the day two years ago when he, then still a captain, and his small strike force was lured into a trap in the ghost to
wn of Pripyat. A Monolith marksman killed his own sniper with a rifle of dreadful accuracy and power. Outgunned and outnumbered, Tarasov’s strike force had only one man for reinforcement — Degtyarev.
“Apart from the fact that Gauss rifles officially do not exist and the Monolithians are all but eliminated, it takes more than a coil gun to shoot down a gunship. It wasn’t AA-missiles either.”
“Who would still linger around there with heavy weaponry?”
“We don’t know,” Degtyarev shrugs. “We know of Stalkers, of course, and maybe what’s left of the dushmans… you know, the Taliban. In one of their last dispatches the scientists did mention something about mercenaries too, probably hunting for artifacts. They were few and lightly armed, though, and they left the egg-heads alone. However…” The agent leans closer and lowers his voice. “The strangest intel we have is about rogue pindosi.”
Tarasov’s eyes open wide in disbelief. “Rogue Americans?”
“A weird bunch, calling themselves the ‘Tribe’. Probably ISAF deserters or black-ops who have gone off the radar. Our partners across the sea are pretty tight-lipped about it. Anyway, the bottom line is, we have no idea who brought down our birds or how. If you find any clues — all the better, but that’s not your priority. We have no plans to get involved there… and as to the mission: there is no hook.”
“Sounds like an interesting place down south.” Tarasov looks out at the hills, wishing he would be out there in the wilderness. “What about mutants and anomalies?”
“Some animals have mutated in similar ways to the Zone. Look at these pictures… We have reports saying that they have not only outstanding motoric capabilities like those in the Zone, but surprising intelligence too. Unfortunately it’s still impossible to reason with them, so you won’t have the chance to return with a pet boar.”
“These beasts look like big dogs to me,” Tarasov says jerking his finger to the computer screen.
“It’s jackals. The reports also say that unlike mutants in the Zone, who more or less follow normal animal patterns, hunting for food and so on, the species down there seem to kill for the joy of it.”
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort s-1 Page 4
