Tarasov cannot understand. The exoskeleton does not make any noise apart from the buzz of its kinetic motors, and that is so faint that only its wearer could hear it.
The two helicopters are already prepared for take-off. The two squads stand in front of them, neatly lined up in formation. Tarasov doesn’t believe his eyes: the soldiers are not wearing their exoskeletons, bullet-proof suits, or helmets, only their summer fatigue and berets. He feels embarrassed in his exoskeleton as if overdressed for a party.
“Summer fatigues?” he asks gripping the Kuznetsov’s arm. “Do you think they are going to the Victory Day parade?”
“Calm down, Major,” Kuznetsov coldly replies, freeing his arm from Tarasov’s grasp. “First: the mission will be a piece of cake. Second: it’s goddamn hot. They will have enough time to slip into their gear later.”
“I can’t believe this. You must order them into their battle gear!”
“The hell I will. And now I’m going to hold a nice speech.” Kuznetsov glances at his Rolex. “You are already three minutes behind schedule. Now shut up or I’ll report your insubordination.”
“Don’t forget that I will also file a report,” hisses Tarasov but Kuznetsov ignores him and starts addressing the men.
“At ease, at ease… Soldiers, you are about to set out on a dangerous mission. Many of you might have looked forward to this day but I assure you, it won’t be anything like you have experienced before. Remember your training. Keep your weapons clean. Follow your orders. You set out to save the lives of fellow Ukrainian citizens who have been performing important scientific tasks!”
The colonel’s speech would impress Tarasov if he didn’t already know it by heart. It is one of the standard motivational speeches taught at the military academy. One only needs to exchange the place and mission objectives. He finds it pathetic to use this randomized text for soldiers embarking on a mission like this.
“…by successfully completing this mission, you will bring great honor to your unit and our Ukrainian motherland. And now, your new commander also has something to say. I suppose it will be about how hot he feels in that boiler.”
Tarasov sees the grins on a few soldiers’ faces. Quickly, he prays for an opportunity to lead Kuznetsov deep into the Zone and throw him into an anomaly.
He thinks for a second. Then he shouts out.
“Desantniki! Smirno!”
Their heavy boots thud on the ground as the paratroopers stand at attention. Instead of improvising a speech, the major walks up to the soldiers and inspects their ranks with slow steps, looking each man into the eyes. He is an impressive sight in full combat gear, but it is not his martial appearance that impresses the paratroopers. Tarasov is unaware of how much the Zone has marked him. He only sees that as he passes them by, the soldiers’ faces harden with respect — even fear. No one dares to return his gaze except Sparrow One’s praporshchik, a warrant officer, who will be his second in command. The soldier with a thick grey moustache is the last in the row. When their eyes meet, Tarasov bows his head in a barely noticeable nod. Already standing at full attention, the soldier squares his broad shoulders even more, a relaxed, jovial smile still lurking in his steel-blue eyes.
“Well,” Tarasov asks quietly, glancing down at the nametag on the uniform, “are you ready, praporshchik Zotkin?”
“Ready to go, komandir.”
Zotkin’s reply is quiet but Tarasov immediately knows that if treated with respect, or at least asked politely, this man will follow him into hell. The other squad leader, a young and nervous-looking master sergeant, doesn’t impress him much.
Walking back to Kuznetsov, he cannot refrain from darting a murderous glance in the colonel’s direction. Kuznetsov avoids his eyes. Tarasov turns back towards the ranks and shouts out again.
“Desantniki! Are you ready?”
“Ready to go, komandir!” reply the soldiers in a steely choir of confidence.
“Let’s go then!”
While the squads hurry to the helicopters, Tarasov turns to the colonel.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Kuznetsov.”
“Much better than you would believe. Now you better go before you miss your flight, Major,” the colonel says contemptuously, pronouncing ‘major’ like a swear-word. “Impressive speech you gave, by the way.”
“It comes from doing an officer’s job. One day you should try it, Colonel.”
Without salutation, Tarasov turns around and hurries to the gunship. It’s hot inside, with the helicopter having baked in the sun the whole morning.
“Switch on that ventilator, praporshchik,” he barks taking his place on the grey bench. “I can’t believe Kuznetsov let you embark like this. You don’t even have your bloody helmets with you!”
“He thought it appropriate — “ Zotkin explains but his last words are suppressed by the Mi-24’s howling turbines. Tarasov signals for him to switch over to the intercom.
“I said, he ordered Dragonfly Two to carry the armored suits!”
“I hear you now, Zotkin, you don’t need to shout.”
‘It’s a bad idea to me too, sir, but he insisted.’
“At least the troopers are carrying their rifles with them… but where are the machine gunner and the sniper?”
“All present, Major…”
“Then why don’t I see their weapons?”
“Dragonfly Two carries all our heavy gear. The Colonel’s orders—”
Hearing this, all that Tarasov can do is to burst out in a stream of profanities. Most of it is directed at Kuznetsov, the rest at the army brass as a whole. Praporshchik Zotkin grins in approval.
The ventilator might ease the heat for the soldiers but Tarasov is bathed in sweat under his exoskeleton. Its kinetic motors are supposed to load the batteries powering the cooling pads but he hasn’t moved enough to fully charge them yet. He switches off the system to save power for their arrival. He knows that one thing that not even the nukes have changed in Afghanistan is the heat. A signal beeps in his intercom.
“Condor, this is Kilo One, do you copy?” Tarasov is delighted to hear Degtyarev’s voice. He touches the speaker’s button on his neck and replies: “This is Condor. Copy you loud and clear.”
“In five, you will be in Afghan airspace. Give me a sit-rep.”
“All well, but according to Whiskey we’re going to a parade ground.”
“Say again, Condor?”
“Alex,” shouts Tarasov losing his patience, “I’m moving into a fucking Zone in fucking Afghanistan with my men wearing nothing but their fucking uniforms!”
“Two minutes to Afghan airspace,” reports the pilot.
“Listen, Condor… all you can do now is consolidating your gear as soon as you touch down. Our satellites indicate your landing zone as clear. Whiskey will give you updates from now. You are good to go,” sounds Degtyarev’s voice. “See you at the 100 Rads. Good luck on your raid. Kilo One clearing out.”
“Like I don’t give a damn about your luck. Over and out.”
The praporshchik looks surprised at hearing this but Tarasov doesn’t feel like explaining.
“That river below is the Amu-Darya, Major” says the pilot, “you can see the Friendship Bridge to our left… and the refugee camps.”
All that Tarasov sees is a huge square below, once probably consisting of neatly arranged army-issue tents, now turned into a colorful mess, like an oriental carpet, by ten times as many people living there as the camp was laid out for, using every square meter to carve out a space for living.