“Bloody Afghans,” Tarasov hears Zotkin’s voice. “They hate our guts. I hope I’ll never have to see these refugees appear in my country.”
The helicopter flies over the Amu-Darya — a silver band crossing the ochre-colored plains.
“Here we go,” comes the voice of the pilot. “We’re flying over Afghanistan now.”
Tarasov looks out of the tiny window. The endless plains below look the same all over.
According to his watch they still have forty minutes to their landing zone. He unfastens his safety belt and moves closer to the window. The two helicopters fly now over undulating terrain, the color reminding him of milky coffee. The sand dunes appear like wrinkles on the palm of a hand, even though they might be several meters high.
“Once we too were running from a nuclear disaster, Zotkin,” Tarasov tells the old soldier. “Never forget that.”
“I never will, komandir,” the praporshchik replies. “I left my family in Limansk.”
Tarasov’s second in command narrows his eyes, as if checking if his words made an impression on the major. But Tarasov refuses to appear impressed.
“We can’t change what happened, can we?”
“No, komandir.”
“And Afghanistan? We can have our revenge, can’t we, Zotkin?”
“I don’t care about revenge, komandir!”
“You didn’t lose anyone from the family there? Your brother, father, a friend? Because it’s pay-back time!”
Zotkin frowns. “After two tours of duty in ’87 and ’88, I was hoping to never see that cursed country again!”
Tarasov leans closer to the soldier, as if that would make a difference in the helicopter’s roar while they talk through the intercom. “What? You’ve been there?”
“As a private, then a sergeant with the blue berets. Airborne. Got a hang of it. Had to lie about my age, but who cared?”
“Praporshchik Zotkin!”
“Komandir?”
“I have a feeling that we’ll make a hell of a team!”
“It would be a privilege,” Zotkin replies with a smile, then turns his attention to one of the soldiers who is nervously effing around with his AKSU. “Don’t fondle that rifle, son! If it goes off, I’ll throw you out of this chopper!”
After a few minutes they reach a hilly region. According to Tarasov’s map, the wide and flat Shamali valley lies beyond it, still invisible in the haze.
“It’s the Salang Range” the pilot says as if he were a tour guide, “there’s a pass and a long tunnel beneath. It was our main supply route back in those times… you know.”
Their altitude is low enough to make some hills tower over them, appearing close enough for the rotor blades to strike. Only the helicopters’ tiny shadows show how far up they actually are. The jagged, rough mountains around them fill him with awe. Suddenly, Tarasov sees a gleam on a ridge, seconds later another one. He puts on his helmet and zooms in with the built-in binocular.
“Can we get any closer to that ridge at forty-five degrees?” he asks the pilot.
“That’s off of our flight path,” comes the reluctant reply.
Tarasov’s curiosity prevails and he ignores his gut feelings telling him he might be about to make a mistake. “Turn right and lower the altitude.”
For a moment, the pilot remains silent before acknowledging. “Yes, sir. Adjusting course by zero-four-five.”
The gleam appears again for a split second. Now it’s Kuznetsov in his earphones. “Dragonfly One, we noticed an unauthorized deviation from your flight path. I want you to — “
Before the sentence finishes, the other helicopter’s pilot’s scream pierces into Tarasov’s earphone.
“Dragonfly One, this is Dragonfly Two, we’ve been hit, I repeat — “
Tarasov’s pilot shouts “pull up, pull up” but the only reply is fragmented swearing, getting thinner until it becomes static. The gunship is making a desperate, almost vertical ascent. Tarasov’s stomach seems to drop as he frantically tries to reach for his safety belt. He knows the pilot’s drilclass="underline" climb over and disappear behind the nearest ridge to make any anti-aircraft weapon lose its target, unless it was a missile. He grasps a handle but the weight of his exoskeleton pulls him down. His head smashes against the cabin wall. The helmet softens the impact but he feels blood gushing from his mouth. A sizzling thunder suppresses the soldiers’ agonizing screams. The turbines howl like wounded animals fighting for their lives. Blue electric sparks splutter everywhere, as if the gunship had been hit by a hundred thousand volts of electricity. The earphones transmit the pilot’s desperate scream of “Brace for impact!” before falling silent. Darkness engulfs Tarasov’s sight. Before his consciousness dims and blacks out, a song echoes in his mind.
Encrypted digital VOP transmission. Central Afghanistan, 20 September 2014, 16:44:08 AFT
#You were not supposed to shoot down those choppers, you trigger-happy bastards.#
#Next time make sure they stick to their flight path. They were approaching our positions. When are you sending us the next exoskeleton delivery?#
#There will be no more deliveries, shithead. Can’t you understand this one was carrying three exoskeletons, not to mention the regular suits? You don’t expect us to suck more American cock to get them, do you?#
#You already received half the money in advance. Make sure you deserve the second part. A deal is a deal.#
#You can get one exo from the Hind. The rest were on the transport chopper.#
#We’ll send a team to the first crash site. We know its location. But we need the whole shipment.#
#Then go and get your damned delivery from the transport chopper’s carcass.#
#Negative. That’s your area. We must keep a low profile.#
#So what do you expect me to do?#
#If you want to stay in business, get those other suits like you did last time. Out.#
Eyes in the Darkness
I’m in hell.
Tarasov’s nose and lungs are filled with the reek of burning flesh. Blinding light pierces into his brain with weird reflections. He doesn’t dare to open his eyes.
I must be in hell.
Slowly his brain starts working again. He realizes his eyes are open. The light comes from above. It’s the empty sky, with the sunrays refracted by his helmet’s broken visor. He wants to sit up but cannot move.
Oh God, my spine is broken.
He tries to move his fingers and toes. To his relief, none of his bones feel as though they are broken. He can even raise his left hand now.
But why can’t I move my body?
Then he grasps it — the exoskeleton is holding him. It must have saved his life but now, shattered and deformed by the impact, it keeps him down as if he’s tied by its metal tubes. Groaning, he reaches for the combat knife fastened to his belt and cuts through the straps attaching his backpack to the metal frame. With his shoulders free, he leans forward to release his legs. Finally he rises to his knees and, after gathering his strength for a long moment, he stands up. He checks his rugged, military-issue PDA. It’s still in one piece but doesn’t function.