“Then it’s a pity I shot that Bandit.”
“Probably we couldn’t have caught him alive,” Shumenko says with a weary wave of his hand. “Two days ago, we encountered a similar group and had the boss cornered. He blew his own head off with a hand grenade. Whatever secret they have, they are keen to keep it. All the better for us, I guess. If grunts don’t know where to go after deserting, they think twice before deserting.”
“You talk now like an officer.”
“The army has treated me well, so I play according to its rules. No reason to complain.”
“What about Sergeant Kolesnik?”
“Being low on men has its advantages. Cordon Base is run now by a lieutenant. Patrols are commanded by sergeants. Kolesnik and I are patrol leaders now. He’s doing well, patrolling somewhere between the Red Forest and Limansk. Now you tell me, who’s that girl with you?”
“Just a rookie.”
Shumenko stops at a tree and takes a leak. “She’s from the New Zone, isn’t she?”
“She is. How do you know?”
“That’s where you went. Now you’re back, I guess with her as a souvenir.”
Tarasov smiles. “Yes, kind of.”
“We all believed that you found a treasure trove of artifacts down there, got rich and were living happily ever after,” Shumenko says closing the zipper on his camouflage leggings. “I mean, with dying never being too much of an option for you, that’s the only thing we could think of. What brought you back as a Loner, apparently?”
“Just passing through. Really. You wouldn’t believe me that I’m actually a hunter’s guide, anyway.”
“No, I wouldn’t. In any case, tread carefully.”
“I left my cover because I had no choice. That Bandit was running right up to me with you closing in on him.”
“Wise decision. We would have shot you first and asked later. Some of us would have shot you even knowing who you are.”
“No surprise, with everyone mistaking me for a deserter.”
“But you are. No offense.”
“I don’t take any because there’s a lot to be told that you don’t know. Where are you going now?”
“Back to Cordon. Another squad will arrive soon to continue combing this sector. We have some intel for a certain Captain Maksimenko.”
“Maksimenko? He was always a self-loving bastard but not without abilities… very good abilities, actually. He missed the career bus if he’s still only a captain.”
“Maybe not for long. He’s in charge of our operation, at least partly. His superiors might appreciate the intel we found.”
Hearing this, an alarm bell goes on in Tarasov’s mind. Slowly, his hand moves to unsling his rifle, disguising the movement as adjusting the strap on his shoulder. Meanwhile his other hand in his pocket touches a button on the PDA.
“You just told me you didn’t find any intel during your patrol.”
“That was true until you appeared, Major Tarasov,” Shumenko says tossing away his cigarette. Then he shouts out to his men.
“Seize them!”
Before Tarasov can get his rifle ready, Shumenko has his Vintorez already pointed at him.
“Sorry Major. Don’t even bother to ask that question. Two weeks leave and two thousand hrivnya is more tempting than letting you go for old times’ sake.”
Held in check by the Sergeant’s rifle, Tarasov watches helplessly as Inquisitor puts his heavy hand on Nooria’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, rookie. I’ll only ask you a few questions.”
She reaches for her blade but two more Dutyers grab her arms.
“Don’t touch her! Shumenko, you bastard—”
No matter how much Tarasov curses him while the Spetsnaz manhandle and bring him to the ground, Shumenko just shrugs it off. The sergeant only reacts when he sees Inquisitor holding Nooria’s chin and rudely turning her head left and right, checking how she would look as another wall trophy in his collection of dead mutants.
“Hey, you creepy freak!” he shouts. “Leave that girl alone or you’ll have a really big problem!”
Checking if the plastic handcuffs are tight enough, Shumenko kneels down and pats Tarasov’s back.
“Don’t worry, komandir. If he touches her, I’ll shoot him. That I will do for old times’ sake.” Then the sergeant waves to the Spetsnaz with the patrol’s communication gear. “Call Cordon Base. Ask them to send Osprey One to our exfil position. Tell them, we have priority intel for Captain Maksimenko.”
45
Walking his watch in the Alamo’s vaults where the Tribe has its ammunition, fuel and other supplies stored, Lieutenant Nelson is desperately wishing for a cigarette but smoking is strictly prohibited here. To face the impending attack, the Colonel has ordered to haul up most of the ammunition to the overground defenses but the ban on smoking still stands and not even a Lieutenant would dare to defy it. Least of all he, Nelson, who still feels guilty over the ambushed Humvee under his command.
He moves down the hall which looks like an underground hangar. The walls and ceiling are reinforced with concrete, with several smaller vaults holding supplies opening on the sides. Usually, this place is bustling with life: the rough terrain takes its toll on the Tribe’s vehicles and there’s always something to be repaired. Supplies are administered and moved 24 hours a day. Most of the combat vehicles are in the field now and the big maintenance hall is all but empty, save for a few trucks that were in too bad repair to be used. Apart from a single fighter in one of the smaller vaults taking stock of food supplies, it is only Boxkicker and Lance Corporal Bockman there. They are busy fixing a broken-down Humvee.
Nelson smiles as he looks over the hall. When they first entered this underground, there was nothing but a dark but spacious cave system and a path to the then still ruined citadel that was probably an ancient escape route from the citadel above. In the few years that had passed since then, no efforts were spared to turn the cave into a well-equipped storage and maintenance facility. The narrow path leading up to the ancient town where now the Tribe’s living quarters are has also been re-built into a safe and wide passageway since. Nelson, however, can still remember the frenzy, panic almost, that overcame Marines and their Hazara protégés alike when the nukes went up. The Hazaras repaid for this protection well enough. Without them, they would have never found this refuge. Nelson himself owes his personal luck to them; his girl, at that time barely more than a scared little brat but now grown into a beautiful woman in her early twenties and already a proud mother of two, was one of the Hazaras who guided them here. After the Colonel assigned him to guard and training duties, Nelson’s only comfort is that he can spend more time with her—such short periods of peace are rare in the life of Lieutenants, who always fight in the first line and deal with the most perilous assignments.
There is silence in the vaults, and Nelson is missing the usual bustle as he trots to the broken vehicle where two pairs of legs stand out from under the chassis—one wearing a blue civilian overall and the other in grease-stained fatigues.
“Think this gear shift will ever work again?”
“My fault. Should’ve looked at this weeks ago when some pups first complained about it… geez, a Lieutenant’s boots! We got company!”
“As you were, Bockman,” Nelson says when the lance corporal’s oily face appears from under the chassis. “Take your time. There will be more to repair once the strike force returns.”
“Sir!”
Bockman smiles flashing his impeccable teeth and disappears under the Humvee again.
“With all due respect, Lieutenant Nelson, but could you just kick that monkey-wrench over?” Boxkicker asks. “Gotta be there next to my tool kit.”