The men manning the outpost appear to have similar feelings about this godforsaken canyon. They greet the arriving fighters happily, knowing that they can return to the Alamo now. Their leader trots to the Lieutenant and salutes. Even through the eyepieces of the M40 gas mask, Ramirez can see the relief in his eyes.
“Second Lieutenant Jackson reporting, sir!”
“Give me a sit-rep,” Ramirez responds.
“No movement, no events. Would have called in, sir. Not as much as a single jackal.”
Ramirez snorts. “Guess this place is too boring even for jackals.”
“Did you come to relieve us, sir?”
“Yeah. Help my guys unload the supply trucks. Saddle up and RTB once done.”
“Aye, sir!”
Jackson sounds happy. Ramirez climbs out and surveys the area. The dirt track follows the left bank of a creek that runs in the canyon. Where the rocky slopes narrow down to a few dozen meters, a rusty iron bridge spans over it; probably it was built by the Russians decades ago. The road continuing southward on the right side of the creek is heavily mined. A strong roadblock is situated where the bridge reaches the other side, built from rocks and reinforced with sand bags. It’s a perfect position to greet any approaching enemy with effective fire from the .50 caliber fixed behind it.
Behind a few huge boulders that have fallen from the mountainside ages ago, three stone huts serve as shelter, first-aid station and command post. Only sniper fire from the jagged hills above could pose a serious danger to this well-defended position. To deter any such threats, the defenders have two 81mm mortars at their disposal, safely located in a ruined house next to the bridge, that was once a police checkpost or toll collecting point for the local warlord. Parts of the iron plates covering it have been removed to provide space for the mortars to shoot through, otherwise the roof offers the mortar team adequate protection from sniper fire.
Sets of camouflage net are spanned over the fortifications. They offer both shade and protection from hostile rifle scopes. All in all, the outpost is perfect for its purpose: scaring enemy patrols away and delaying a stronger assault force until reinforcements arrive.
Yet when he has finished surveying the outpost where he will spend the next few days, if not weeks, Lieutenant Ramirez has a strange feeling in his gut.
Must be those damned caves, he thinks, trying to rationalize the premonition that has suddenly come over him. They are like eyes… eyes in the hills, watching us.
Dusk is approaching and there’s still a lot to do. Ramirez unslings his M27 automatic rifle and turns to his men who patiently wait for his command.
“All hands, listen up!” he shouts. “Let’s get this show on the run! Unload supplies, take up positions!”
26
“Welcome home,” Tarasov says, sniffing into the chilly evening wind outside the featureless glass façade of Kiev’s Borispil airport.
“Where to now, Mikhailo?”
Tarasov would prefer to stand there for a few more minutes, smelling the air and listening to the familiar language spoken around them. After his long trip took him all the way through the New Zone’s perils, and then not only Los Angeles but a missile silo turned secret base too, it is hard for him to realize that he is home—to the extent Kiev is still his home.
“Too bad you couldn’t talk our Australian friend into leaving for the Zone immediately,” he tells the Top. “To be honest, I don’t know where to go… it’s my first time in my home town without a place I could call my own!”
“It is beautiful here,” Nooria says curiously looking around. Seeing the bitter smile on her man’s face, she caresses Tarasov’s hand. “Like America… just smaller.”
“Cars especially,” the Top says watching the mostly German-made cars in the huge parking lot, separated from the terminal by a cabs-only lane where newly arrived people wait for a lift between steel pikes and red plastic blocks that are supposed to make the cab drivers drive slower.
“You got no friends? No nothing?” Pete asks. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Why should you be, indeed?” Tarasov asks back in a low voice, ignoring the sarcasm. “I am a deserter, kid. Our forged passports have worked fine so far but I don’t want to run into anyone shouting ‘Mikhailo, privet!’ This country is still… anyway, how much money do we still have on that credit card?”
“Not enough to buy an airplane, but more than we need for a cozy place with mini bar and jacuzzi if there’s any.”
“Let’s go where probably no one expects me.”
“Where?”
“The hotel where Sawyer is staying will do.”
“We take a cab?”
Regardless of his mixed feelings about Kiev, being back to his home land fills Tarasov with self-confidence. “Negative. Taxis here are worse than jackals. Let’s rent a car that we can dump later.”
“I want a Russian car,” Hartman says. “Do they have Alamo here?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve seen their logo somewhere in the arrival hall.”
“Can we pay by credit card?”
“You’ll be amazed, Top, but we even have running water.”
“No offense… it’s just a little strange here. Evensmells different. Smokier, somehow.”
“It’s all right. Okay, let’s get a car—and now I will drive.”
“Your turf, huh?” Hartman asks with a smile of understanding. “Fine with me.”
Ninety minutes later in downtown Kiev, driving a Skoda Fabia chosen for being inconspicuous enough and as much Eastern-made as possible for the Top’s sake who wished for a Russian-made car that no car rental agency had in its fleet, Tarasov slows the car down. They have just crossed the short Rusanovka Bridge over the Dnepr river. For a moment, he seems to hesitate. Then he turns left on Davidovka Street.
“Where are we going?”
“Home, Nooria… or what had once been home.” He halts the car in front of a grey apartment building. “Wait for a moment. Top, give me your baseball cap.”
Tarasov walks up to the gate of the building where his mother lives. He looks around cautiously. Being sure that he is wanted for desertion and that the only place in Kiev for him to go is therefore under surveillance, he tries to act as inconspicuous as possible. At daytime he wouldn’t risk this visit, but evening has fallen and the street seems dark enough to prevent anyone from recognizing him. Just in case, he pulls the cap with the flaming T of the Tennessee Titans into his eyes to cover his face even in the dimly lit gate of the building.
The gate is locked, unlike when he was here for the last time, and the intercom’s panel is rusty and gutted like it always was. He is thinking about turning back to the car when a woman appears, carrying a bulging shopping bag. The little boy with her is proudly holding a new soccer ball.
“Vybachte, I am with Titan Parcel Service and have a delivery for Mariya Valeryevna Tarasov.”
“Mariya Valeryevna…” The woman gives the name a moment of thinking while fishing for her keys in her coat pocket. “Oh yes, the old lady from the sixth floor. She is not home.”
“Any idea where she went?”
“Yes. She is in Europe.”
“Shto?”
“You heard me well! She won the lottery or whatever a few weeks ago and went travelling.”
“Do you know by chance when she’ll be back?”
“Here? Never.” At last, she finds her key and opens the gate. “Rumor has it that she bought a new apartment on the Kreshatyk.”
“The Kreshatyk? That’s posh,” Tarasov says, biting his lip. He wanted to prevent himself from smiling but the woman gets the wrong impression from his grimace.