“I miss our valley, Top.”
Hartman takes a bottle of mineral water from the holster and draws on it. “Where we’re going is as close to the Alamo as it gets.”
“Must be some secret boot camp where you brainwash perfectly normal kids,” Pete grumbles.
“You almost got that right, kid. Almost.”
“Guess we’ll meet a bunch of rednecks with a vocabulary limited to Semper Fi and gimme a mag, oorah.”
“Listen, kid—instead of making us aware every minute how miserably you feel about us, give me your MP3 player. I prefer listening to music than your moaning.”
“Don’t think you’ll like my tracks,” Pete says handing over his iPod to the Top. “You’ve been warned.”
“You have any Metallica?”
“Metallica was yesterday.”
“Say that again and I’ll throw you out of my car.”
“You ever heard about Slayer? Songs like Raining Blood or Have no Mercy?”
“Nope, though the titles sound promising. Mikhailo, plug it in, will you?”
“Pop up the volume,” Pete says. “I want to see the pain in your face, Sergeant Major.”
The Top begins to grin and pat the rhythm on the steering wheel. Pete sees Nooria and Tarasov sharing a tortured grimace in the rearview mirror.
“Slayer,” he says with a shrug. ”You’ve been warned.”
“That was enough,” the Top says. “Switch it off.”
Tarasov gladly complies.
“Told you wouldn’t like it,” Pete triumphantly says.
“Son, this stuff makes me want to drive with at least a hundred and fifty but speed limit is sixty-five,” the Top replies. “Pedal to the metal and a highway patrol will be on us in a second. We can’t risk that now. Let’s have something more relaxed.”
“I don’t have any music you’d find relaxing.”
“Then let’s just stay quiet.”
“Good idea,” Nooria observes.
A mile after the featureless town of Red Mountain, the Top takes a turn to the right, following a road going straight on a dull plain. Reddish brown hills loom in the distance beyond the mirage, making Tarasov wonder if the Tribe had chosen this wilderness for its similarity to the Afghan landscape.
Expecting some kind of military base, he is surprised when the Top steers off the road and halts at a one-story building with three gas pumps in front of it. The place must have been abandoned for quite some time, because shrubs have grown around the pumps and the windows of the building are boarded. Nonetheless, he notices tracks left by dusty wheels on the broken tarmac, telling of recent visitors.
“You have seen America’s worst yesterday,” the Top says releasing his safety belt. “Today, you’ll see her best.”
“You got to be kidding,” Pete says. “This is a bikers’ bar! But where are the bikes?”
“Look at them,” says Tarasov noticing the door swing open and two stoutly built men step out. They wear desert fatigue but no armor or weapons. “I’ll be damned if I haven’t met those guys before.”
“Any hard feelings towards the Brothers, Mikhailo?”
“Strange. I’m actually kind of happy to see them again.”
The Top switches off the engine. Before opening his door, he gives Tarasov a serious glance.
“You have no idea how much trust we place in you by letting you come here. You are our friend, but should the Ukrainian soldier inside you suddenly wake up and do some funny Spetsnaz stuff, or should you ever, wherever and for whatsoever reason get lose-lipped on what you’re about to see—I will kill you myself.”
“That’s fair enough, Top.”
“I’m deadly serious. Do we have an understanding about this, Major Tarasov? Because bringing you here means I vouch for you, and by trusting you I risk my honor.”
“You have my word as an officer that I won’t disclose anything about this to anyone, Sergeant Major Hartman.”
“If that was enough for the Colonel, it’ll suffice for me as well. Let’s go.”
The Top marches to the abandoned bar with huge steps that are difficult for even Tarasov to keep up with. The two men — one with a red beard, the other with sky-blue eyes — stiffen their stance as he approaches.
“Good to see you again, sir!” the blue-eyed man greets the Top.
“I hate it when my sergeants grin at me as if I were Miss November,” the Top replies. “Both of you no-good pranksters, follow me.”
The guards open the door and let the Top enter the bar.
“Hello, Spetsnaz,” the blue-eyed guard whispers to Tarasov with a wink of his eye.
“Sergeant Polak! How do you and Brother Hillbilly like this view?”
“Dust and sand, sand and dust. Feels like home.”
“I’m lovin’ it,” Hillbilly ads.
“Zip it, Sergeant,” the Top snaps. “You make me feel hungry.”
With the two sergeants in tow, the Top moves directly to the bar where a young man wearing civilian clothes is waiting. His stubbed hair and USMC tattoo on his strapping arms tells enough of his real background. He nods his head in respect to the Top and opens a lid on the counter. A palm-reading device appears. The Top places his hand onto it. A green beam runs down the screen. After a minute, the noise of several heavy locks being disengaged comes from a door with a RESTROOM sign. It slowly opens and what appeared an ordinary door reveals itself as a metal gate fit for guarding the vaults of a bank.
“Close down the place and follow me.”
The fighter acknowledges the command with a nod and presses a button under the counter. Heavy, bullet-proof shutters descend and bar the light beams falling in through the wooden planks covering the windows. With the bar darkened, a blue glow emanating from behind the steel door becomes visible.
They all follow the Top who marches down a staircase. It takes several turns and leads deep below ground level, ending eventually in a narrow corridor. Another massive door is at its far end.
The Top presses a button on a metal plate fastened to the concrete wall. A pleasant but resolute female voice sounds from the speakerphone above.
“Voice check. Say the password.”
“Tarawa,” Hartman replies.
“Voice check successful. Welcome, Sergeant Major. Now identify the three elements you have with you.”
“I vouch for Major Mikhailo Tarasov on the Colonel’s orders. The other one is Corporal Peter E. Leighley, USMC. Last but not least, it’s the witch.”
“Please repeat.”
“Yes, you heard it well enough, Second Lieutenant Stone. It’s the big man’s son and Nooria. Let us in at last, unless you want to remain an usher for the rest of your life!”
The metal door slowly slides open. No matter what Tarasov and Pete might have expected, what they see is just a large room with yet another door at the far side. It is guarded by three warriors armed with M-4 carbines and wearing the Tribe’s sand-colored combat armor. A brunette female officer steps forward and performs a perfect salute.
“Sir! Second Lieutenant Stone reporting, Sergeant Major, sir!” “Stop screaming into my ear, Stone, I ain’t deaf,” Hartman replies. “I want to see the list of recruits.”
“Sir!”
Tarasov frowns. The respect the apparently senior officer shows to the sergeant major, who is after all below her rank, again reminds him of the unorthodox pattern of life in the Tribe. If the old saying of one saluting the rank and not the man is true, it certainly goes the other way round in the Tribe.
They are led into a cavernous, round room that buzzes with life. A round computer terminal is located in the middle, manned by a man in civilian outfit. Soldiers in fatigue appear busy everywhere — two fixing one of the many neon lights illuminating the hall, another driving a trolley loaded with open crates holding strange machine parts, while others tend to the devices that cover almost every inch of the concrete walls. With all the gauges and pipes running along the walls and under the ceiling, the place appears like a submarine being prepared for leaving port. This impression is even strengthened by a massive metal door at the far end of the hall. It appears as if it could withstand even a nuclear blast.