Bagram Blues
25 September 2014, 16:45:27 AFT
“It was a flesh wound, but try not to exert your left arm too much… As your doctor, I forbid you from firing any pump-action shotgun for at least two weeks. Otherwise, you’re in surprisingly good condition.”
The Stalker doctor, nicknamed Bonesetter, motions for him to stand up. Tarasov does so, stretching his arms and back.
“Two days in bed with a flesh wound and a little radiation…” he says getting to his feet. “Am I feeling my age, Bonesetter?”
“That’s the best thing one can feel because it means one is still alive. You’ve had a close shave. Now, take care and stay healthy...”
The doctor shuffles to the next bed where another wounded Stalker lies and the major freshens himself up from the bucket of water standing in the corner of the infirmary, enjoying the sensation of splashing cold water to his sweaty face. He can barely wait to get out of the metal container.
The sun hurts Tarasov’s eyes as he steps out of the infirmary. A paratrooper guards the entrance. Seeing Tarasov appear, he stands to attention and salutes. It is one of the wounded they left behind to recover, which he obviously did well enough despite the bandage on his arm.
“As you were, Stepashin,” Tarasov says after a brief glance at the soldier’s name tag. “What’s all this security about?”
The paratrooper gives him a baffled look. “Sir, you were probably unconscious. A Stalker tried to kill you. One of Bone’s guards interrupted him. The Stalker shot him and disappeared in the fray.”
“A Stalker?”
“Yes, sir. That bastard who was sitting at your bed. Probably he was waiting for the right moment.”
That’s odd. Why would Crow want to kill me?
“Where are the others? I’ll need to talk to the sergeant.”
“Three are still in the infirmary. Sergeant Zlenko was here earlier. He and the others have set up camp in that shack, just behind you.”
“All right… I suppose you were guarding me?”
“Yes, sir. On Sergeant Zlenko’s orders.”
“Your watch is over.”
“As ordered, sir,” the paratrooper replies, shouldering his rifle with a relieved grin.
Still weak and light-headed from two days of lying around, Tarasov is on his way toward the paratrooper camp when Uncle Yar’s voice sounds from the loudspeaker.
“Ashot! Drag your sorry ass over here.”
“Sorry me dear, I can’t! I’m trying to find out why me new hash pipe ain’t working!”
“Maybe before lighting it up you should remove your gas mask first?”
“You don’t get it, do you? Me gas mask is me new pipe!”
“ASHOT! LET ME REMIND YOU THAT ANY MODIFICATION OF EQUIPMENT TO FACILITATE DRUG CONSUMPTION WILL BE PUNISHED!” Captain Bone’s voice booms.
“I hear you, Captain, I hear you! What’s wrong about me finding a new meaning for ‘integrated breathing system’?”
Bone’s voice returns on the intercom, but this time it is not directed at the misbehaving trader.
“Major! I am delighted to hear you’re on your feet again. Come over here. Let’s have a little chat.”
What the hell could Bone want from me?
Tarasov feels uneasy as he enters the Captain’s fortified compound. Judged by the tower overshadowing the half-ruined building, it might have been the control center of the airport once upon a time. The guards salute and let him in, and he is about to open the door when one of them bars his way.
“You can’t go there.”
“I’m on my way to see Bone.”
“The Captain’s room is in the tower. Take the stairs.”
Tarasov shrugs him off and climbs up the stairs to the former air traffic control room, from where the whole base can be seen. Encircled by the wall of containers, Bone’s headquarters are at the center of the perimeter. Not far from here, a dilapidated transport airplane is collecting dust and rust. Wires run from its tail to the central building where the generators should be. Makeshift shacks and tents litter the cracked concrete, sitting among all kinds of war debris, from gutted military vehicles to helicopter wrecks. Stalkers with an affection for personal hygiene have set up a field shower by attaching a plastic water tank to the trunks of a metal structure that might have been a radio relay tower once upon a time. All looks peaceful, like a boy scouts’ camp – except for the armed Stalkers keeping watch in the fortified positions, the look-out posts along the container wall and a watchtower where a sniper scans the horizon through his binoculars.
The commander is standing in front of a huge, detailed map of the area. He is wearing his armored suit with the helmet on.
Does he ever wash himself? comes to the major’s mind. The sight of the field shower made him realize how much he desires a long, refreshing bath himself.
“You are feeling better, Major? Congratulations on a battle well fought. Now that you have proven yourself, I’ll let you stay for a few days. A deal is a deal. But that’s enough idle talk. I want you to do something for me.”
Tarasov stares at him curiously, hoping that his anxiety is not too visible.
“Here,” Bone says, pointing at a position on the map that lies to the north-west of Bagram, “is the location of a mercenary base. They constantly harass the Stalkers moving between Bagram and the small Stalker base at Ghorband, here. I want you to find and eliminate the mercs.”
“I’ll need to check on my men first.”
“No need for that. I want you to do it alone, because your men are needed here.”
“They are still under my command, Captain, not yours.”
“Listen! Those cocksucker mercenaries have become very active recently. I need your men to help us defending the base, should we be attacked. You do this mission for me and leave your men here, or I’ll have you all kicked out of Bagram. Period.”
Tarasov has to admit that no matter how arrogantly presented, Bone’s idea is not entirely unreasonable. “I suppose that only leaves me with two choices… to do it or to do it, right?”
“Exactly, Major,” Bone nods. “At least your wounded men can recuperate while you are gone.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. By the way… now that we defended the Outpost we can have our exoskeletons back, I suppose?”
“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.”
“Somethin
g 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 wit
h 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!”
“As you said just now, life is bad enough,” Tarasov says. “Anyway, I need that upgrade and repairs on my soldiers’ gear too. I still have a few men left despite burying two of them who died to protect this place, you know? Their graves could also use an upgrade.”
“All right, all right, here’s the deal: you help me out and I help you out. Get that foolish kid back to me and safety. In exchange, you’ll get the upgrades and repairs. I might even give my unique Gluck to you – just find him.”
“Upgrades and repairs for free, if I get him back alive.”
“I can’t believe I’m haggling over this.”
“No need for belief when it comes to facts. Any idea where Mac went?”
“If he was chasing those artifacts he was after, try the old textile factory to the north-west. Let me see your PDA… here. Squirrel can lead you there. He knows all the shortcuts through the Shamali Plains.”
“We have a deal then.”
Tarasov is about to climb out though the hatch when he remembers something else. He pulls out the mobile phone he had found in the ambushed patrol car and hands it to Yar.
“Look, Uncle… while I’m gone, could you check if there’s any data left in this?”
The mechanic frowns as he studies the device. “Where did you find this piece of crap?”
“In a wreck to the north. I’m just curious about it.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Yar replies with a shrug.
“Thanks. But by the way… what about adding the thermal imaging enhancement as advance payment?”
“Poidi proch, Stalker!”
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving… see you soon, Uncle Yar!”
21:10:39 AFT
The sun sets slowly over the mountains. To get rid of the stiffness that two days of idleness has left in his limbs, Tarasov strolls down to the base and watches the Stalkers lighting up the campfires for the night. He spots Zlenko at one of the lookout posts on the container wall.
Climbing up the ladder, he joins the sergeant who is busily discussing something with two Stalkers. Seeing him approaching, Zlenko salutes.
“Sir!”
“As you were,” Tarasov casually replies and sits down on the sandbags. “What are you doing here? Did Ashot run out of vodka?”
The sergeant shrugs. “I’ve heard the troopers’ jokes more than once before. And all that marijuana smell… it’s nauseating.”
“You’re not into that stuff? That’s good.”
“I’ve played in a rock band. Enough is enough,” Zlenko says, smiling. “Anyway, these Stalkers were debating whether the M-16 or the AK-47 was the better weapon. I argued for the Kalashnikov. What’s your opinion, Major?”
“Well… my opinion is that the brothers will be discussing this for a long while. Come along Viktor, I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.”
Walking away from the lookout, Zlenko takes a pack of cigarettes from his vest and offers one to Tarasov who, looking over to the dark mountains and the glowing red anomaly in the far forest beyond the sandy plain where the wind swirls up small clouds of dust, and listening to a Stalker tuning his guitar, he feels in the mood to smoke.
“Thanks… and now, tell me about this mess with the dead guard and that Loner.”
Zlenko exhales the smoke before starting. “That’s a strange story –” he begins, then breaks off as the Stalker finishes tuning up and begins to sing.
“I happened to be walking around
And I hurt two people by chance,
They took me to militia grounds
Where I saw her and broke down at once.”
“Oh no, please no,” Zlenko moans, burying his face into his hands. “It’s Ilchenko’s favorite song.”
“I knew not what on earth she was doing there,
She was probably getting a pass.
She was beautiful, lovely and fair...
I decided to search out the lass.
I just followed her, walking behind her,
She wouldn’t talk to a bully, I thought.
Then I made up my mind to invite her
To the nearest restaurant. Why not?”
Tarasov grins at the sergeant. “Hey Viktor! If a Vysotsky song makes you cry, I’ll get you demoted!”
“As we walked people smiled at my pretty one,
I was furious, my mind on the blink!
I just smote the face of a weird man
‘Cause he dared to give her a wink.
She found the caviar delicious,
And I didn’t grudge the expense,
I ordered smash hits to musicians,
And the last tune they played was ‘The Cranes’.
I made promises, showing my feeling,
I repeated one thing the whole night:
‘For five days I haven’t been stealing,
Believe me, my love at first sight.’”
“It’s not the song, Major, it’s how badly the Stalker’s playing it. Permission to shoot him?”
“Denied.”
“I said that my life had been ruined,
Blew my nose and wiped tears from my eyes,
And she said: ‘I believe you, yours truly,
You can take me at a reasonable price.’
I slapped her on the face in despair,
I was boiling like crazy inside.
Now I knew what she really was doing there,
At the militia, my love at first sight.”
“Klass,” a Stalker shouts as the song finishes. “Hey soldier boys, want some vodka? We can trade you some! One bottle for a medal!” The Stalkers laugh.
“Do you mind if I teach them some manners?” Zlenko asks Tarasov. “I mean, with a guitar.”
“Permission absolutely granted.”
The sergeant joins the Stalkers at the campfire. “Hey, big mouth! Give me that sad excuse of a guitar,” Zlenko demands, sitting down at the campfire. The Stalker hands the instrument over and Zlenko plucks the strings experimentally before starting to play. His fingers, chafed and dirty from gun grease, move on the strings with astonishing grace. Then he starts singing:
“She’s got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Now and then when I see her face
She takes me away to that special place
And if I stare too long, I’d probably break down and cry
Whoa, oh, oh, sweet child o’ mine
Whoa, oh, oh, oh, sweet love of mine
She’s got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I’d hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain
Her hair reminds me of a warm, safe place
Where as a child I’d hide
And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by…where do we go now?”
“Konchay uzhe,” the guitarist Stalker says. “Her
e, take this vodka, just shut up. You played it well but that song makes me sad.”
“Yeah, me too,” another replies, chewing on a dried sausage. “It reminds me of a girl I used to bang in high school. How blonde she was, oh God! Like a fairy queen!”
“You lie, Tolik. How would a blonde get into high school?” the third Stalker asks grinning.
“Forget the school,” says the failed guitar player. “What the hell was she doing out of bed?” They burst into drunken laughter as the two soldiers walk away.
“I have to admit, that was the best song I heard in a long time,” Tarasov says.
“Did you like it? I screwed a chord or two, but… damn, how I wish I could have a real guitar to play on for a change!”
“It was fine. But enough pleasure for today. There’s something I need you to do for me.”
“Whatever you ask, komandir.”
“Don’t be too eager because you will not like it, son. I want you to stay put here in Bagram while I recon something. It’s pretty far away, so I might be away for a few days.”
“Indeed I don’t like it.”
“Your objection is duly noted. The truth is, I don’t trust this place. I don’t want to take the few remaining men with me and leave the wounded at Bone’s mercy. You will stay here, watch over the men and be my eyes and ears while I’m gone.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll take Ilchenko along. He’ll come in handy with the PKM.”
“Sure. Where are you going?”
“There’s something to be done for old times’ – and repaired weapons’ – sake. When I’m done with that, there’s one more obstacle that’ll need removing from our path to… the scientists. Don’t worry, when I find them, we get them together.”
Frowning, Zlenko lights up another cigarette. “With all due respect, sir, Needle might be in danger and we can’t just sit around here.”
“I get your point, Viktor, but our destination is in the middle of hostile territory. The mercs, commandos or whatever they are – aren’t even our worst enemy. If only half of what I’ve heard about the Tribe is true, there’s big trouble ahead.”
“Yeah, I heard some weird rumors from the Stalkers.” Zlenko bows his head. “It seems that even mentioning the Tribe scares the shit out of them, and not just the rookies.”
“You see? How are we supposed to fight our way through with me, you and only two other soldiers left capable of fighting? I hope I can at least remove the lesser obstacle from our path.”
“I guess we have no good options here. As ordered, then. I’ll watch the backs of the troopers.”
“That’s the spirit. Talking about spirits, didn’t that Stalker give you a bottle of vodka?”
“He did. Here you go.”
“Cheers. Here’s to a good raid!”
Encrypted VOP transmission between the Exclusion Zone and Central Afghanistan, 26 September 2014, 06:41:08 AFT
#Eagle Eye, this is Renegade, do you copy?#
#This is Eagle Eye on Sierra Bravo. Report.#
# I have acquired the transport coordinates. Need reinforcements to intercept the transport – unable to do this alone.#
#Positive on reinforcements. A detachment will be assembled and dispatched ASAP.#
#Eagle Eye, I don’t need just any men. I need my old squad.#
#We will see what we can do about that. Renegade, be advised that we picked up several messages between the central and eastern areas. Watch your back.#
#Affirmative. A friendly element might be involved in further developments. I suggest to contact Kilo and keep them on stand-by.#
#Are you sure about sharing this intel with Kilo, Renegade?#
#Positive. It is us who adapt to the situation here, not the other way around.#
#Affirmative. Kilo One will be informed. Eagle Eye out.#
#Understood. Renegade out.#
STALKER Southern Comfort Page 10
