“My name is Jack, and my friend’s Joe. Easy to remember, thanks goodness,” the Top says and winks an eye to Tarasov. “Actually, we’re on the same flight. I’d love to carry our conversation on.”
“Really, mate? That’s great news, I hate ’em boring flights!”
They exchange a quick glance behind the Australian’s back.
“He’s in for the hunting trip of his life,” Tarasov whispers with a grin. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
24
“Javelins kick ass,” First Lieutenant Driscoll says eyeing the carnage in the courtyard of the Asylum. “I can hardly wait to see more of this at Bagram.”
Lieutenant Collins nods agreement. “Yup. Though I suppose their main base will be a harder nut to crack, should it really come to that.”
“Of course it will.”
Driscoll looks at their dead enemies who the fighters have lined up in the courtyard like hunters would with their prey.
“Thirty-three scavengers and there might be more under the rubble. No casualties on our side. The big man will be pleased.”
“Agree, sir. With all the tasks we have, losing even one man would be—”
Driscoll interrupts him. “That’s not what I mean.”
He kneels to inspect the bodies.
The Lieutenant bites his lip, forgetting that Driscoll can’t see the concern on his face covered by the exoskeleton’s full helmet.
“You were right,” Driscoll says and waves Collins to look closer. “Appears that a band of scavengers, let’s call them trench coat gang, fought it off with the regular gang and won. Look… those we have killed all have an arm patch I’ve never seen before. Have you?”
He lifts a dead enemy’s arm to show the badge sewn to the sleeve of the jacket. It shows a black skull on white background.
“No, sir” Collins observes. “Scavengers usually have patches with the radiation sign, a red shield or something like that… a green wolf’s head, occasionally. This is something new.”
Driscoll touches his exoskeleton’s built-in intercom to call the other Lieutenant. “Schmidt!”
“Sir.”
“Any surviving hostiles?”
“Positive. We fished him from a hole in the latrine.”
“Is he a Ruskie?”
“Affirmative. Staff Sergeant Novikoff is already squeezing him for intel inside the main building, over.”
“Continue securing the perimeter. Out.” Driscoll waves Collins to follow him. “Let’s have a chat with that scavenger.”
They move to Shrink’s abandoned bar where half an hour ago Bruiser was skyping with Sultan. On the same spot, a tough-looking Bandit lies on the ground with a fighter manhandling him from behind. His abdomen is bloody where the light, Kevlar-padded armor beneath his leather trench coat failed to protect him from shrapnel. A balaclava with a white skull printed on it lays next to him on the ground. The crude features of his face make him appear like a textbook criminal.
“Ask him why the scavengers were fighting each other,” Driscoll tells the Staff Sergeant towering over the prisoner.
“He says it was just between them and free Stalkers… they are bandits but don’t seek trouble with anyone else.”
“Bandits?”
“That’s what he said, sir. Seems to be another faction or something.”
“Is he from Bagram?”
The Bandit doesn’t need translation to understand this one and shakes his head.
“Ask him where they have their base.”
The Bandit replies with a curse. “Vot khui te v rot, pindos!”
A grimace appears on Staff Sergeant Novikoff’s dust-clad face. “You don’t want to have that translated, sir.”
“Guess I don’t,” Driscoll replies. “Ask him once more about their base.”
The Bandit replies with another cuss and spits towards the First Lieutenant to prove his resolve. “Tak chto davai na khui, tvoia ochered!”
After a heartbeat of menacing silence, Driscoll takes the Bandit’s balaclava from the ground and wipes the saliva from his leggings.
“It makes me very angry when this happens,” he slowly says and looks at the balaclava with the white skull. “Is this supposed to frighten people?”
Novikoff translates. The Bandit shakes his head and says something in Russian.
“He says, it is just a joke.”
“Yeah, I thought so. A complete joke like scavengers are.” Still speaking calmly, Driscoll waves for Lieutenant Collins. “Get a devil pup over here.”
Collins barks a call into his intercom. While waiting, the First Lieutenant studies the Bandit’s face. Though Driscoll’s face is covered by his helmet’s face mask, there is something foreboding about his calmness that makes the Bandit turn his eyes away in fear.
“Sir!”
A Hazara boy wearing light armor appears and salutes. He might be about seventeen, though the look in his eyes is hardened.
“Novikoff, translate,” Driscoll says and draws his jagged combat knife. The artifact-alloyed blade emits a red glow. “You scum are just children playing men. I feel tempted to cut your nose and ears and send you to those ‘bandits’ to tell them: do not fuck with my Tribe. Too bad children like you wouldn’t survive for a day here alone. It would spoil my honor to kill you myself. You will be killed by a child like yourself.” He hands his knife to the young fighter. “Pup, finish this lowlife.”
The Bandit starts screaming in Russian.
“Please don’t hurt me and so on,” Novikoff translates dispassionately. “I have a little girl back home, she’s so sweet and needs me, look at her photograph, it’s in my pocket.”
“Let me see that.”
Novikoff opens the breast pocket of the Bandit’s jacket and fishes out the photograph taken from the dead Stalker.
“You must’ve been cheated on,” the First Lieutenant says after glancing at the picture. “This girl looks way too intelligent to be your daughter. Now what smells worse — your fear or your lies?”
The Bandit tries to crawl backwards but the brawny arms of the fighter behind him hold him down. He bursts out in Russian.
“They have a forward base five klicks east of the Charikhar ruins,” Novikoff translates. “He begs for mercy, he will never come back if we let him go and so on, it’s all the fault of someone called Bruiser and whatever.”
Driscoll stays and nods to the young fighter. The Bandit’s eyes open wide in terror — few things can be more dreadful than a killer’s dispassionate gaze before he slashes one’s throat without fluttering an eye.
“Stop,” Driscoll commands. A relieved grin appears on the Bandit’s face.
“Sir?” asks the Hazara fighter.
“Not like that,” Driscoll coldly replies. “Use the jagged edge.”
25
Two hours of driving have left the ten Humvees of Lieutenant Ramirez’ss column covered with a thick layer of dust. When they at last come to a halt in a valley running almost exactly from the north to the south and climb off the vehicles, he and his men are all wearing face masks and shemaghs wrapped around their face. The swirling dust would just be annoying but here, on the southernmost edge of the Tribe’s territory, the Geiger counters begin to crackle.
I hate this bloody outpost, Ramirez thinks in the column’s second Humvee. It is not his first time here and the caves in the steep hillside to their left bring back bad memories. A long time ago, he was reckless enough to recon one of them on his own. The jackal pack inside almost killed him, and if it hadn’t been for Nooria’s treatment he would have soon succumbed to his infested wounds.