S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort s-1

by Balazs Pataki

  “Well… I’m afraid, that’s not the case.” The helmet might hide Bone’s face but his gestures reveal his embarrassment. “Your suits were stolen from our armory.”

  Hearing this, all his suppressed anger is released into Tarasov’s face. “Stolen? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Yes, it’s… shameful. I have already initiated an investigation but… In any case, if Ashot is involved in this, I’ll shoot him myself. That’s a promise.”

  “Why on earth would he steal them?”

  “Do you know how much such a suit costs, Major?”

  “Actually, I don’t but…”

  “It’s about eighty years of your salary. Yes! People turned into scoundrels for a fraction of that… Anyway, go talk to that no-good anarchist. And we are clear about those mercs, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Tarasov reluctantly replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  18:25:14 AFT

  Leaving Bone’s compound, Tarasov runs into Ilchenko and the sergeant. The machine gunner’s nose is bandaged and his face blue from multiple bruises, but that does not prevent him from giving Tarasov a bearish hug. Zlenko acts more reserved, though equally glad to see his officer on his feet again, and it’s Tarasov’s turn to hug the young sergeant.

  “What happened to your nose, Ilchenko?”

  “That damned Stalker who wanted to kill you knocked me out.”

  “You? You are one meter ninety and more than a hundred kilos. One would need a sledgehammer to knock you out.”

  “Shame on me, Major. That piece of shit was a damned quick little son of a bitch,” Ilchenko replies, embarrassed. “But if I ever see him again I’ll break his neck. I swear it!”

  “If you get close enough to him, that is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind… What about the squad, Sergeant Zlenko?”

  “Privates Nakhimov and Obukov are still in the infirmary. Bondarchuk too — he got a nasty stab in the stomach during our charge. We had two KIAs.”

  “Damn!” A curse escapes Tarasov’s lips. “I hope no one was left behind.”

  “No, sir. They’re both here — Kamensky and Vasilyev.”

  Zlenko points toward two crosses close to the container wall, each made up of a rifle stuck into the sandy ground with a helmet on top. The boots of the fallen soldiers stand at attention beside them.

  Tarasov bows his head. “Did Skinner make it?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t stay. He went on to a place called… what was it, Ilch?”

  “Ghorband, Sarge. Actually, as soon as he got off the truck he wanted to kill the Captain but the guards kicked him out.”

  “Pity he didn’t succeed,” Tarasov grumbles, looking at the graves. “Two men. What a goddamned waste. And I suppose there’s no priest among the Stalkers.”

  “We said a prayer and let off a rifle salvo for an amen.”

  “Proper funeral for our paratroopers.” Tarasov sighs. “Well, then… let’s have a toast on their memory. How’s that famous Stalker bar?”

  “We haven’t checked it out yet.”

  “How so?” Tarasov is surprised.

  “We held off on the toast until you were on your feet again.”

  “Well, I am… and your patience is appreciated, Viktor. It must have been a sacrifice second only to dying.”

  “Honestly? It was hard.”

  “Let’s go. Where’s Stepashin?”

  “Last time I saw him he was taking a shower. I’ll go and get him.”

  “On second thoughts — I’m dying for a shower myself.”

  A few minutes later, refreshed and cleaned up, the soldiers make their way to the wrecked Antonov. Ripped off its landing gear long ago, two rusty tank hulls balance out the fuselage. It is covered with graffiti but the ghost of a single red star is still visible on the tail. The ramp below the tail gunner’s compartment is lowered. Warm orange light permeates from inside, making the interior look cozy and inviting in the approaching dusk.

  “I hope that Ashot character wasn’t lying about the chilled vodka,” Ilchenko mutters.

  “There’s only one way to find out. Inside, everyone!”

  The order is eagerly obeyed: walking up the ramp, the narrow confines of the airplane reveal a den covered by carpets, cushions and pallets used for tables, some on the metal floor, others placed on wooden crates still bearing the word USAID on their age-worn sides. Under the humming ventilators, the jingle of vodka glasses blends in with a Stalker’s attempt at an old song on his guitar, the tune not quite matching the muted beats of reggae from the music player, but not jarring too bad either. Stalkers sit or lie around, some of them smoking on hookah pipes. Thick clouds of smoke float in the dim light of candles and petroleum lamps, and Tarasov detects the heady smell of marijuana too. At the other end of the fuselage, behind a bar made from crude battens, the barkeeper waves his hand. He is wearing a battered Freedom suit and smokes on a thick, hand-rolled cigarette.

  “Welcome to the Antonov! She’s gonna take you real high!” He protracts the word real, suggesting means for uplifting spirits the major has never been fond of.

  “Ashot, you old anarchist,” he says, “don’t even think about offering bhango to my men. But if you have a chilled pollitra — spill it!”

  “Yo, dude!” Ashot shouts cheerfully. “If no soft smoke, then a hard drink! Here you go — at me place, every hour is happy hour!”

  Tarasov raises his dewy vodka glass. “To our fallen comrades!”

  His soldiers repeat the toast and clink their glasses.

  “Oops…,” Ashot retorts in embarrassment and lowers his tone. “Ooo-kay, maybe this one is not a happy hour… sorry, brothers! This round is on the house.”

  The major, always fond of good vodka, raises his eyebrows: the spirit tastes as if it had been watered down. His soldiers don’t seem to care, however. Tarasov is about to announce another toast when his PDA signals a new message.

  Condor, I had to leave the base in a hurry. Sorry for your trooper’s broken nose. There’s a Stalker den at Ghorband. Get some sniper gear and visit me there ASAP. And watch your back in Bagram! Crow.

  Tarasov raises his eyebrows.

  I wish that elusive son of a bitch had told me what this is about. Could this be a trap? I still don’t get why Crow would be after me.

  He listens to his soldiers’ chatter, at first heavy-hearted as they remember their squad mates but soon growing cheerful with the drink washing away their somber mood. Ilchenko is already regaling them with anecdotes about a Bosnian prostitute and the ‘special treatment’ he’d ended up receiving from Lobov, but Tarasov is too lost in his own thoughts to follow the story.

  “Hey Ashot,” he says bending over the bar and continuing in a whisper. “Do you have any exoskeletons for sale? Or anyone else in Bagram?”

  The barkeep recoils and almost lets the joint fall from his lips.

  “What? Exos? Hell, no!”

  “Why so jumpy? You look as if I asked you to kiss a bloodsucker.”

  “Bro, ask me for a crow bar, a 10 millimeter pulse rifle, a golden Kalashnikov, a Gatling laser — any weapon made or not and I’ll get it for you. I also guarantee you the best Duty-free prices… when Bone’s dick-heads aren’t around. But exoskeletons… I no have them. I no deal in that stuff here, nor does anyone else.”

  Tarasov carefully studies his face. “All right, never mind… It’s actually something long and silent I need.”

  “Oh yeah, now we talk business!” Ashot says with huge relief, unlocking a huge metal cabinet. Inside, a dozen assault rifles and pistols are arranged in a weapon rack. “There’s no way to unload any crap on you!”

  “What happened to all the nice NATO stuff that you’d been dealing in?” Tarasov asks looking down the rather motley stash of weapons.

  “They are a little hard to come by nowadays. But don’t worry — I have the whole Kalashnikov family here. Look at this AK47 in pristine condition. Want something more up to
date? Here’s an AKMS. Okay, you already have one, but what about this AMD-65? Very practical and with low recoil! I also have a Khyber Pass-copy Lee-Enfield. Not interested?”

  “I need something like an AS Val with adjustable scope. A Vintorez would also do.”

  “Mercanteleezem, shmerkanteleezem! It’s so good to have at last one customer who knows what he wants! The only better thing than that is a seller who actually has that stuff… imagine, last week a Stalker comes to me shop and says, ‘I want a Desert Eagle.’ I show him me collection and he says…”

  “I haven’t got all day, you know?”

  “You’re late for a date? Come on, me dear, she’ll have to wait. It’s men talking guns now! But the problem is, I no have the Val. You know, last time you could get such weapons here was back in the Eighties, and even then only from the hands of a dead Spetsnaz — I mean no offense. Now it’s from the hands of a dead Stalker expert… which means that even if I had such a weapon, let’s say a Vintorez, it would be very, very expensive.”

  Tarasov smiles. He already knows where the trader’s story is going. “Do I smell a dead Stalker expert in your den?”

  “His name was Charon,” Ashot replies with an ear to ear grin. “He comes in one day and everyone freezes. He says, never mind me armor, I no longer with the Monolith. He had that ‘been there, done that’ look all over his scarred face. Then he went to a place he’d never been before and did something stupid — got too close to a Geyser. You know, the anomaly that can boil you. Must have been painful…”

  “I guess so, and I also guess that he had a Vintorez on him that miraculously found its way into your stock.”

  “Something like that. But first things first: do you have enough money? I accept dollars, euros, British pounds, rubles and of course artifacts. Why, what did you expect, me dear? Paying in bullets or bottle caps? I no have use for that, you see…”

  “I do have money. Rubles and dollars.”

  “Excellent!” Ashot takes a long bundle from under the bar. “Ain’t this a beautiful little baby? You pay the ridiculously low price of 75000 rubles or 2500 dollars for a 2-to-10 pancreatic scope with a 52 millimeters objective—”

  “What?!”

  “…with poor old Charon’s Vintorez attached to it. And if you buy it in package with an AMD-65, I’ll give you a set of scope cleaning tissues for free!”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Of course! But the tungsten-cored SP-6 ammo that I have on sale is no joke, and one full magazine is already included in the price! Make up your mind — this Vintorez is the first and last thing a Spetsnaz like you needs!”

  “I’m not convinced,” the major says, studying the weapon. It’s in dreadful condition and even if he made the trader lower his price, it would still take the better part of the money given to him to buy information. “It looks as if a herd of mutants has trampled on it. In this condition, even dog food is more valuable than this!”

  “Chill out, brother! What do you think we have Mr. Fix-It for? Yar will only need to replace the trigger and the loading mechanism and maybe straighten the barrel but you’ll get yourself a discount, don’t worry.”

  I could throw my Emerald into the deal, but it’s not just any artifact… it’s a useful artifact.

  Seeing the rare, silenced automatic rifle that performs equally well as a sniper weapon and at close quarters, Tarasov tries to fight the temptation — but fails.

  “Keep that long scope. What about 45000 rubles for the Vintorez with three magazines and three more boxes of ammo?”

  “You wanna ruin me? Even an airsoft version costs 700 dollars or 21000 rubles, and we’re talking about the real stuff here! Sixty thousand rubles.”

  “What if I don’t make a big fuss about you watering down your vodka, and you give it to me for forty thousand? Come on, don’t make such a face. I’ll throw my scoped AKM into the deal.”

  “You’re really a pushy one, you know that? Now take it before me heart breaks!”

  Tarasov puts the money and his assault rifle on the table and happily takes the Vintorez, hoping that he won’t regret the deal.

  “Anyway — how did you end up here, Ashot? The last time I heard about you, you and Yar were with Freedom back in the Dark Valley.”

  “Oh yes, the Zone… the good old days, as Yar would say.” Ashot leans closer and gives Tarasov a shrewd wink. “The Dark Valley got a little too dark for me. You know, being on the competition’s black list is not good for business. So when the news came of this comfortable place in the south, I moved me business. And so did Mr. Fix-It. The old Zone was too wet and cold for his old joints. Talking about joints…”

  “No, thanks. What happened to Ganja? Did you take over his barkeeping business?”

  Ashot’s face darkens. “He was killed by Duty in a skirmish, when everyone and their aunt were rushing to the CNPP… But how do you know so much about Freedom, anyway?”

  “I’ve been to your base several times, disguised as a Loner Stalker.”

  “Have you? You’re worse than that SBU badass who stirred up trouble at the Jupiter plant. Commander Loki never forgave him, recruiting those rogue Monolithians for Duty. Phew!” The trader spits onto the ground, obviously in lower spirits now after failing to rip Tarasov off by as much as he’d wanted.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment”, Tarasov smiles. “Now, where is Uncle Yar’s workshop?”

  “In an old Chinook chopper close to Bone’s headquarters. You know, he always wants to compete but his place is much smaller and shorter than mine.”

  “I’ll go and check him out. This rifle badly needs an overhaul.”

  “There’s an itsy-witsy little problem,” Ashot replies scratching his head. “Yar is… out of mood nowadays. His pet is missing.”

  “His — pet?”

  “A young Stalker named Mac, actually. He used to run errands for Yar. Since he left, Yar is more useless than ever.”

  “I’ll ask him about that. Don’t let my boys get too wasted, all right?”

  “Ne bespokoysa, me dear! But maybe you want another drink?”

  “Not now. And Ashot… you forgot to give me the ammunition.”

  20:14:53 AFT

  Ashot was right… Yar’s hovel looks barely more than an ordinary wreck.

  Tarasov bangs on the wooden plate covering the wreck’s hatch with his fist but no one answers. He walks around the chopper and knocks again. Still no reply. Eventually, he starts kicking the wreck with his boots. At last a drunk voice comes from inside.

  “Da?”

  “Uncle Yar! A customer is here!”

  “Leave me alone! Life is bad enough.”

  “I just need you for a minute!”

  “I don’t care what you broke this time. Go away.”

  “I didn’t break anything. But I need to talk to you.”

  “Damned rookies. You can’t leave an old man alone…”

  The wooden plate covering the helicopter’s hatch swings open and a graying head appears. The wrinkled eyes look tired.

  “Oh, it’s you… sorry. I thought it’s just another lad wanting an upgrade for his shotgun… come inside.”

  “Good to see you, Mr. Fix-It,” Tarasov says, stepping inside.

  Empty vodka bottles litter the chopper’s interior where a single petroleum lamp provides the only light. All kinds of tools and weapon parts lie around the floor. A work bench occupies the place where the cockpit once was although, judging by the dust on it, the technician hasn’t done any work at it for a long time. “How’s life, Uncle Yar?”

  “Don’t even ask. How should it be in this fly-infested bydlostan? Now tell me what you want.”

  “I have a Vintorez to upgrade.”

  Yar rolls his eyes in frustration. “I knew it… sorry, but I’m not doing any weapon upgrades right now.”

  “How come? I heard you’re missing your apprentice but a Vintorez is not something you couldn’t deal with on your own.”

  Yar sits down
on his mattress and picks up a vodka bottle from the metal floor. Seeing it empty, he angrily throws it down again. “It all started back in the Dark Valley… I always worked alone. Then, one day, a young Stalker comes. Says he wants to learn the trade. I tell him, business is slow and I have no money to pay him. No problem, he says, pay me by upgrading my FN-2000.”

  “That’s a pretty hardcore weapon for a rookie.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t ask him where he got it from. It’s none of my business. But you know how it goes… I had a look at it and first changed the scope. Then I disassembled the trigger mechanism just to admire its precision. It was such a pleasure after all the busted AKs that the Stalkers keep bringing to me. I installed a titanium trigger, a synthetic bolt seal and another return spring to reduce the recoil. Then I adjusted the spring trajectory to lower the sway and duplicated the guiding rods… anyway, one thing led to the other and in the morning I had an already great weapon turned into something awesome.”

  “Let me guess… then the Stalker got hold of your masterpiece and disappeared.”

  “Well, not exactly… we arrived here together. Mac was a good kid, helping me out with things like test firing the weapons… my eyes are not as good as they used to be, you know? All went fine until one morning he said he’d grown bored of Bagram and wanted adventure. Then he disappeared into the wilderness to hunt artifacts and didn’t return.”

  “That’s tragic and all, but what about this Vintorez?”

  Yar doesn’t even look at the weapon. “That outdated scope could use thermal imaging and adding a roll back moderator with a stop drive could make it even more precise… but you know what? I’m done with weapons and all that shit. I even sold my own Dragunov to a Stalker. You know what? I have a little money saved up and will use it to go home.”

  “But…”

  “No ‘but’ and no pneumatic compensator on your rifle’s butt. Even if I was willing, it would cost you a fortune.”

  “You’d let your business be ruined just because your apprentice ran away?”

  Uncle Yar buries his face in his hands.

  “You don’t get it, do you? For a decade I repaired and upgraded weapons here and in the old Zone. And as soon as all the rookies got improved rifles in their hands they thought themselves capable of storming your base, Major — the damned CNPP too, come to that — and usually died in the attempt. It was like selling drugs. This time, here was this kid and I told myself, ‘I’ll teach him the trade to keep him away from all that faction war, artifact hunting, mutant-shooting nonsense’. I failed. Damn it, he was so young, he couldn’t have purchased vodka at Ashot’s if he got asked for his ID card!”