And then it happened that I met her, he thinks looking at a photograph pinned to the wall. He puts the shell back into its place.
The photograph, not of very good quality and obviously taken with a mobile phone in a mirror, shows a pretty, blonde woman with blue eyes and full lips.
“You sent me one single photograph and even on that, you were making that stupid duck face,” Tarasov grumbles to the photograph. He tears it from the wall, then crumples and tosses it under the neatly made bed. “Slag… I prefer brunettes anyway.”
Everything looks to him as if he would be trespassing in a stranger’s room — he might have survived everything that the Zone threw at him, but the young man who once dreamed and loved here did not.
Tarasov opens his suitcase and takes out the PDA. Waiting for it to start up, he takes his old school map from the shelf. It opens up almost on its own at the two-page map of the USSR. One line, drawn by a faded pen stroke, connects Kiev with a place in Afghanistan, still marked on the outdated map as ‘Democratic Republic of Afghanistan”. In the margin, distances and names of places in childish handwriting remind him of a childish plan to go there.
I wanted to hitch-hike but didn’t get past the first militiaman.
When he turns the pages to find a closer map of the area, a black and white photograph falls out.
Picking it up from the floor and looking at it, Tarasov’s sight becomes hazy. It shows three young soldiers in ragged fatigue leggings, wearing stone-age flak vests over their striped tee-shirts. With a broad smile that flashes bad teeth, they lean against an armored vehicle. The soldier in the middle, wearing a tank driver’s black headwear, looks like a younger version of himself: a lean face with sunken cheeks, dark eyes and a smirk. Only his moustache and long hair tells how long ago the picture was taken.
He turns the photograph over to read the few words on the back, the handwriting looking oddly old-fashioned: With love from Kunduz, October 1987. Yuriy and the gang.
“That damned operator has the mind of a controller,” he murmurs to himself, putting the photograph in his pocket. “He mentioned my father to motivate me into this insane mission.”
With a muted beep, his PDA signals its readiness. Tarasov opens the map, switches to 3D mode and scrolls all the way from Rusanovka to Afghanistan. A smile comes to his face when he compares the capabilities of his PDA to the yellowed school map. The state of the art combat gear waiting for him in Termez comes to Tarasov’s mind, and his smile hardens.
Things will be different now. And I swear by God — I’ll make the dushmans suffer.
He hears his mother knocking on the door.
“Misha! Come, dinner is ready!”
“I’m coming,” he reluctantly replies. “Just a minute!”
“I hope you didn’t start playing video games again… you will never change, sinok!”
Flash in the Sky
Termez… Shit. I’m still only in Termez… Every time I think I’ll wake up back in the Zone.
Local time in Termez is just three hours ahead of Kiev but Tarasov’s inner clock hasn’t adjusted itself yet. Switching off the alarm on his PDA, he glumly reckons that he has to go on a mission today.
Covered in sweat, he rises from his bunk bed. Colonel Kuznetsov assigned him one of the dozen or so metal containers where officers unfortunate enough to miss out on a place in the cooler quarters could sleep. The air conditioning had gone off in the middle of the night. Now, yawning and naked, Tarasov feels like he is sitting in a steam bath. To awake his muscles, Tarasov performs a few Systema movements — kicking, punching, throwing imagined enemies, crushing imagined skulls, grasping imagined hands and suffocating imagined throats. By the time he finishes the close-combat exercise, a healthy amount of adrenaline is rushing through his veins.
Colonel Kuznetsov had been waiting for him by the landing strip when Tarasov arrived on the previous afternoon. Kuznetsov even tried to be decent, concealing his disdain, except during the mission briefing when he presented Tarasov as a plain paratrooper officer “with some experience in Pripyat”. Reminding Tarasov of his worst mission ever was obviously intended as a punch below the belt. The soldiers seemed self-confident enough, bolstered by their previous peacekeeping missions in the Balkans and Africa, but most of them had no idea of what they were up against now.
If he was concerned about his troopers, the new exoskeleton proved perfect. His backpack carrying medikits, bandages, personal hygiene kit, socks, tee-shirts, underwear, combat meal packs, anti-radiation drugs, his ammunition web holding spare magazines, fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades and the combat belt with the army-issue PDA, first aid kit, combat knife and side arm seemed almost weightless once supported by the titanium-alloy bodyframe. Even his new Val assault rifle, strapped over the armor plate covering his shoulder, felt as light as a plastic toy.
But now, after cleaning himself up in a shared shower facility nearby and finishing a ration of oat meals for breakfast, he is less eager to get into the suit. He knows it will feel hotter than a Burner anomaly in there.
War is hell, Tarasov thinks with a sigh and grins over his own sarcasm whilst preparing the exoskeleton.
Ten minutes later he reports for duty in the operation room. Colonel Kuznetsov doesn’t care to return his salute. Instead he looks down at Tarasov’s exoskeleton, his eyes wide as if he finds something funny.
“Do you think Termez is about to be overrun by mutants?” Kuznetsov says by way of greeting. “Remove that suit at once. There’s nothing but mosquitoes and butterflies around here. What the hell are you afraid of?”
“I thought I was going on a mission,” Tarasov replies, unsuccessfully trying to suppress his resentment with a tone of formality. “And with your permission, Colonel, I would like to inspect the men now.”
“No need for that, Major. I inspected them already and made all arrangements while you were still sleeping. Let’s go.”
Kuznetsov’s voice is full of mockery, as if Tarasov had not shown up punctually to the second. He also talks loud enough for everyone in the operation room to detect the disdain in his words and tone. The only thing going for Tarasov is that there is no alcohol on Kuznetsov’s breath.
Could it be that he takes his duty seriously after all, and his remarks about my exo were just because he’s got too used to the safety here?
“What are you, deaf?” Kuznetsov snaps impatiently. A few computer operators look up from their screens, but quickly drop their heads again. “Move!”
“Yes, sir.” Baffled, Tarasov walks down to the runway with Kuznetsov.
“Doesn’t that shrieking noise from your gear drive you mad?”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t hear my exo making any noise.”
“Maybe you still have Zone dirt in your ears. The metal joints shriek like a dentist’s drill. You better remove it and have it fixed before you go into battle.”