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

by Balazs Pataki

  Climbing into the long room spanning over the cavernous abyss, he feels as if he has arrived in the safest place on earth… until the sight of the two corpses brings him back to reality.

  Both of them deserved a better grave than this.

  Tarasov takes one pack of explosives from his backpack and positions it in the middle of the room.

  No one will go beyond.

  He has climbed only a few steps on the ladder leading into the laboratory level when the detonation occurs, followed by the deafening shriek of metal bending as the bridge implodes into the abyss. The choking dust vomited up by the shock waves still covers him when he gouges out a rock from the wall with his knife and replaces it with another pack of explosives.

  The timer is broken. Can’t adjust it to more than ten seconds.

  He attempts to climb again, as fast as his exhausted muscles will permit, but the detonation almost throws him out of the shaft. Heat scorches him once more. The shaft collapses, sealing the way to the lower levels.

  Where should I place the last charge?

  The entry level comes to mind, where the ceiling was close to collapsing under its own weight.

  Tarasov runs. He passes by the ruined computer room and climbs the stairs leading to the bunker, driven by a compulsive urge to see the sunlight again. He stumbles. Lying on the ground with his face in the dust, a tempting desire seduces him to remain there and deny his willpower the right to torture his worn-out muscles any longer. For a moment, he wants to allow himself to succumb to his pain and spend his last minute trying to recall the best moments of his life, before the tunnel collapses and buries him forever.

  I must stay alive. It’s the big man’s order.

  Digging his fingers into the dust, he heaves himself forward and gets to his feet. Out of breath and holding a hand over his bleeding wound, he keeps running.

  When he reaches the long shaft leading outside and the passage with the insecure ceiling, he plants his last explosive charge. His movements freeze when he hears an unexpected but familiar noise from above.

  Could it be helicopters? Could it be a rescue squad? Could it be that everything gets straight in the end?

  By now he is positive that the noise is that of helicopters hovering above. All he has to do is to set the last charge, make the catacombs inaccessible, and depart.

  With fingers twitching from exhaustion and impatience, he adjusts the timer and makes a last dash for the exit. When the charge goes off and the tunnel disappears behind him in massive plumes of smoke, he falls to the ground, once more crawling towards the light shining ahead, his fingernails breaking on rocks and stones, until suddenly daylight greets his sore, blinking eyes.

  He remains on the ground, enjoying the sound of Mi-24 Hinds hovering over the City of Screams, their guns and missiles blasting away at an unseen enemy.

  The major wallows in the dust exhausted, bruised and panting for breath.

  12 October 2014, 17:21:45 AFT

  A pair of heavy boots appears in front of his face. As he wearily raises his head, looking up at a man in a now-familiar Duty exoskeleton but this time without the helmet, Tarasov’s heart sinks. A pale, hard face looks down on him with a cynical grin in the corners of the thin lips.

  “You’re a real die-hard assface, I give you that.”

  “General Khaletskiy?”

  “Yes, it’s bad to see you too, Major Tarasov. Now give me that artifact we’re all here for.”

  He laughs triumphantly as he stands over Tarasov with his helmet in his hand and surrounded by his guards from Bagram. None of them offer any help while Tarasov gets up, slowly and painfully.

  “I don’t have it, General.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “It was not an artifact, you greedy, ignorant bastard! It is something beyond your understanding!”

  “Now you’re really pissing me off, Major, and my mood was already bad.” His face reddening from sudden anger, Khaletskiy waves to his guards. “Captain, handcuff this piece of shit.”

  Tarasov looks at the dozen assault rifles that are trained at him. He gets to his knees, bows his head and pulls the gloves from his hands, throwing them to the ground as a sign of surrender. “How could you betray your own men like this, General?”

  “I was paid a hundred times more for those damned suits than I had earned in a century, even after giving Kuznetsov his share. And I don’t have a century left to live. Do you think I want to die poor in a cockroach-infested apartment block in Kiev? But that money would have been nothing compared to the artifact you have left down there!”

  “You have no idea what lies below… and I made sure that nobody enters its chamber again.”

  “You are such an idiot, Tarasov… but at least you have been a useful idiot. You helped me a lot, you know? You made those exos walk directly to me, self-propelled! Including this one that you somehow managed to steal back from me… damn, it’s all ruined. Then you took care of the air defenses of the Chinese so that my choppers could fly in. You saved my skin when they bribed the dushmans into attacking my base. You opened the way to the undergrounds. All this, and now you crawl out half-dead and say you don’t have the mother of all artifacts! Did you at least find the research results?”

  “It was not an artifact, and no one will ever get the research results either.”

  “Damn you! Do you have any idea how much… You were ordered to secure them, that’s all your bloody mission was about! You disobeyed direct orders!”

  A horrible thought visits Tarasov’s mind. “How do you know about my orders?”

  Khaletskiy grins widely. “This is not your lucky day, Tarasov!”

  The major looks at Khaletskiy while the guard handcuffs him. Collecting all the saliva remaining in his dry mouth, he spits into Khaletskiy’s face. “You are a traitor and a disgrace to your country, General!”

  “You’re naivety explains why you are just a major,” Khaletskiy replies, wiping his face in disgust. “But yes, let’s not forget that you were an officer before you turned into an animal… at least you’ll get your court-martial for disobeying your orders, and I will have the honor to be presiding over it.”

  At last, now I know I’m dead. So this is how it comes to me. Well, at least I made death work hard.

  A voice comes from the radio receiver fixed to Khaletskiy’s armor.

  “Falcon One reporting… the Stalkers are clustered. We are running low on ammunition and are at half fuel. Requesting permission to return to base. Over.”

  “I hope you gave those bastards hell. Permission granted.” Khaletskiy turns to his gunmen. “Let’s get out of here. Off to my chopper with this walking corpse!”

  Someone kicks him in the back and he falls directly at Khaletskiy’s feet, who kicks Tarasov in the face.

  “Your soldiers dead, the Stalkers routed… call it a day, Major!”

  The guards grab him and manhandle him towards the transport helicopter that is waiting nearby.

  Encrypted transmission between Kiev, the New Zone and the Old Zone, 12 October 2014, 17:35:08 AFT

  #Eagle Eye, this is Renegade, do you copy?#

  #Eagle Eye to Renegade. Copy you loud and clear. #

  #Did you receive the voice transmission?#

  #Good job, Renegade. We have it on tape. Do you have a visual on the target?#

  # Positive. He is entering a helicopter.#

  #Eagle Eye to Renegade. You are cleared to execute. #

  #Eagle Eye, the friendly element is on board. Call sign Condor. Advise. Repeat: advise on the friendly.#

  #[static noise]#

  #Renegade to Kilo One. I know you’re listening in. Make up your damned mind, for old times’ sake.#

  #Renegade, this is Kilo One. Act at your discretion.#

  #This is Eagle Eye. Affirmative to Kilo One.#

  #It was about time to make up your mind. Team is moving in. Glory to the--- oh fuck that. Over and out.#

  Epilogue

  12 Octobe
r 2014, 17:40:58 AFT

  Tarasov feels nothing but fatigue and pain in his limbs. With his hands shackled behind his back, he looks up at Khaletskiy who returns his gaze with pure disdain. As the rotor blades turn quicker and the helicopter prepares for take-off, Khaletskiy draws his pistol.

  “Don’t worry, assface. This will be a very short flight for you.”

  “Why don’t you finish me off right now?”

  “To cherish the moment, I guess,” the general replies, lighting up a cigarette.

  The helicopter takes off. The moment of parting from the land where he fought, suffered and loved during the last days of his life fills Tarasov’s soul with sadness. He looks at the jagged hills through the open hatch.

  I would have happily died in battle… but to live would have been better.

  “Disappointed to leave, eh?” Fumbling with his pistol, Khaletskiy chuckles above him. “Imagine how many times I was disappointed to see you live! But now…”

  Suddenly, Tarasov’s ears detect a muted bang-bang, coming from the ground. Almost immediately, the helicopter shakes as if hit by several blows from a giant’s sledgehammer. The engine loses power and thick, oily smoke fills the compartment.

  “What the—” Khaletskiy shouts, but another heavy blow sends him to the floor, where he desperately grabs for something to hold. He drops his pistol and, as the helicopter tilts, it slides through the open hatch.

  “We are under fire!” The pilot’s voice turns into a scream amidst the shattering noise of breaking cabin glass. More bullets riddle the cockpit and the helicopter crashes to the ground with a huge deafening, grinding thud, tossing Khaletskiy and his men around in the compartment, screaming in despair. Something hard hits Tarasov, sending a sharp pain into his already spinning head. The engine dies out.

  Groans of wounded men mix with the black smoke. The major coughs up when the fumes bite into his respiratory tract.

  “Take up defensive positions!” he hears the general snap, commanding his guards. “Davay!”

  One of the guards gets up, but is hit by several bullets from an automatic rifle as soon as he reaches the hatch. He sinks to the floor with a curse having turned into a moan.

  “To the windows, men! Move, move you idiots!”

  Khaletskiy’s voice is full of pain, but his orders still have an effect on his men. The few guards who have not been incapacitated from the crash jerk themselves to the compartment windows and try to return the fire that is now directed at the wreck from all sides, while Tarasov takes advantage of the confusion to move closer to the hatch, from where he can see who is responsible for the assault. Peering between the guards’ feet as they frantically try to assume firing positions, he has clear view to the rocky ground outside.

  From behind the cover of the boulders and rocks dotting the shallow defile where the helicopter had fallen, fighters in black armor are engaging Khaletskiy’s remaining men.

  Duty has arrived, Tarasov notices with both surprise and relief. The real Dutiers.

  But Khaletskiy’s men are not easily beaten. One of them stumbles over Tarasov’s body, curses, and even takes the time to kick the major before kneeling to open fire through one of the shattered windows. The same bang sounds outside that Tarasov had heard before the engine was hit, and a split second later the head of the general’s man is blown off by a heavy bullet, drenching the agonized defenders next to him with blood and brain matter. The guard’s body remains in a kneeling position and his fingers pull the trigger for a last time, executing the last order of a mind that had ceased to exist a second ago.

  Tarasov embraces the floor, keeping his head as low as he can while the bullets keep raining on the wreck like hailstones, tearing more and more holes into the thin metal of the fuselage and allowing the light to fall in and pierce the smoke and blood vapor inside, right until the last firing weapon of the defenders falls silent.

  With his ears still ringing, Tarasov barely hears the commands coming from outside, but he sees a shadow approaching.

  The red beam of a laser aiming device pierces through the darkness, then a Stalker’s silhouette appears. He aims a pistol as he enters the compartment. The red dot of the aiming device moves from body to body. Tarasov cannot see the face but the hood and the heavy rifle on the Stalker’s shoulder look familiar, just like the exoskeleton he is wearing.

  “Pomogi… help me.” Khaletskiy’s voice is barely more than a whisper. He lifts his left hand. The other is broken, with a bloody chunk of bone poking out from his forearm.

  “That must be painful, Captain Bone,” the Stalker says, “but at least it gives meaning to your call sign.”

  “Help me,” Khaletskiy begs. “I can make you rich!”

  “Last time I wanted to be rich, my wish turned out very, very bad.”

  “But you can’t leave me here… you must help me. I’m an army general!”

  “No longer.”

  Dread is the last expression on General Khaletskiy’s face before two bullets hit his head.

  Tarasov is too weak to warn the Stalker of the wounded guard who is reaching for his weapon, and before he can gather enough strength to shout out, a rifle fires. Hit, the guard slowly sinks down to the compartment floor and moves no more.

  Another silhouette appears in the hatch, pointing his assault rifle inside. Tarasov’s eyes had not failed him: the fighter is wearing the Duty faction’s heavy combat gear.

  And I thought there could be no more surprises.

  The Stalker who shot Khaletskiy turns to Tarasov. “I told you I could take down a chopper with that rifle. Now we’re quits for good!”

  “Crow?”

  “At last it’s time for that proper introduction, Major Tarasov.” The Stalker pulls his hood back and takes off his balaclava. A round face under blond hair appears, the expression almost jovial, though the gray eyes remain cold.

  “The name is Strider. You don’t recognize me? Pripyat, me crawling out from the tunnel with Degtyarev and you almost shooting us?” The Stalker notices Tarasov’s bewilderment with a satisfied grin. “Sorry if you expected Oksana Fedorova.”

  He kneels down and cuts the plastic handcuffs from Tarasov’s wrists with a combat knife.

  “Pripyat… the Old Zone… it’s all so far away now,” the major faintly replies. Even if he had met the sniper back in the Old Zone, he would have been just another Stalker to him with a face unrecognizable behind a gas mask or a helmet’s visor. “Who are you again? Why are you here?”

  “A few months ago, Duty learned that a rogue officer popped up at Bagram. They weren’t sure whether it was Morgan who escaped them, or someone posing as one of their officers, but Duty could not let either happen. General Voronin wanted to find out, but you know how Duty is — boom, bang, kill the anarchists! They have no talent for clandestine jobs. So, they asked me to help them out, even if I’m not affiliated with them any more. These days, I work alone.”

  Strider grins, and puts the tube of his camelback to Tarasov’s lips. While the major greedily drinks from the water inside, the sniper continues with his story.

  “I and my squad owe Duty big time for taking us in after we defected from the Monolith, and when things got too hot for me to handle them on my own, General Voronin agreed to dispatch my old buddies to join me here. We know a thing or two about keeping a low profile from our time as Monolith outcasts.”

  “You do indeed. You even had me fooled… to a point.”

  “Then I found out about the arms smuggling. All this was bad enough, but when it became clear that Khaletskiy was not only an impostor and an arms dealer, but was also killing soldiers to get at their precious gear, he was declared fair game. I only needed proof.”

  “Was the SBU involved in this?” Tarasov asks, sitting up and rubbing his raw wrists.

  Strider does not reply, but his smirk speaks volumes.

  “I could have guessed it…” Tarasov sighs. “And what now? Will Duty move in to destroy the new Zone?”

  “
I don’t give a rat’s ass about what Duty or the SBU will do now. My mission is complete.” Strider turns to the fighter who shot the guard. “Sickle, check the bodies. If they’re still breathing, you know the drill.”

  “Understood,” the fighter replies.

  “Let’s get out of this wreck, Major. Outside the sun is shining!”

  Tarasov groans as he grasps the Stalker’s hand and gets to his feet. Leaning on Strider’s shoulder, he has barely stepped out from the compartment when a shot is fired inside.

  Half dozen heavily armed fighters wait for them outside, one of them running up to give his commander a helping hand. Together, they move Tarasov and carefully place him to the ground, letting him lean with his back against a boulder.

  “With or without that exo, you’re heavy,” Strider tells him wiping sweat from his forehead. “What are you on? Steroids?”

  “What about the Stalkers?” Tarasov asks back, ignoring the question.

  “Khaletskiy’s choppers beat them into flight but I saw the Shrink and a few others making it away. Don’t look at me like that… getting to that bastard was our priority and taking on two gunships would have been too dicey anyway. You’re lucky that Khaletskiy was flying in this tin can.”

  Two more shots are fired inside the helicopter, followed by a faint scream. Strider doesn’t bother to look there. “Hey, Armor!” he shouts, waving at one of his fighters. “Are you praying there or what? Bring us a medikit and bandages!”

  The fighter scowls when he arrives and sees Tarasov’s condition. He starts tending to Tarasov's many bruises and wounds, first of all putting a bandage on the major’s chest. More bandages and painkillers follow.

  “You are in a dreadful shape,” Strider anxiously says, holding the camelback once more to the major’s lips. “Drink. It’s just water, but tonight we’ll toast with cold beer in Termez!”