Crow leads him into a half-ruined brick building that still has POLICE CHECK POINT painted on it in faded letters. A recent campfire is still smoldering inside, emanating pleasant warmth after the chilly wind outside.
“We’re in Stalker country now,” the sniper says, sitting down by the fire. “A few Brothers must have been here recently. Probably the mercs had interrupted their breakfast.”
“I don’t see any bodies around.”
“They obviously didn’t feel like taking on a whole squad of mercs and dusted off. Wise decision.” Crow takes a box of canned meat from his backpack. He opens it with his combat knife. “You want some havchik?”
“Gladly,” Tarasov says taking the chunk of greasy meat that Crow offers him on the tip of his knife. “To be honest, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I wasn’t out to scare you. I meant it. But we’re more or less in the same shoes… Condor. At least you have a fitting name for a Spetsnaz.”
“So… are we running from the same enemy?”
“I am not running, Condor. I am on the trail of a bizarre arm smuggling enterprise. It’s none of your business for whom I do this errand. Don’t even ask. At first I believed you might be involved,” Crow explains, “but I couldn’t understand why anyone would down your chopper if it was supposed to be carrying a precious load. I know of only one force here who might be the buyers, and it’s also the only force with anti-aircraft weapons. Besides… anyway, it doesn’t add up.”
“Those people from the crash site and the tunnel? Who are they?”
Crow shrugs and spits on the ground. “I don’t know. Gunmen, henchmen… Now they’re dead men.”
“And dead men don’t talk.”
“Too bad. If I knew who had sent them, I would have collected my reward already. Some people in Bagram might have great interest in state of the art equipment like your exoskeletons.”
“Tell me about Bagram.”
“It’s run by a weird character calling himself Captain Bone. He wears a heavy armored suit, all painted black, with red patterns on its chest. He would never remove his curtain helmet, even if it makes him look like a crazy astronaut. But he seems to care about looking important more than making money.”
Tarasov tries to hide his surprise. By the description he easily recognizes the armored suit worn by senior Duty commanders in the Zone.
“Are there more like him in Bagram?” he asks trying to withdraw his real interest from his face and voice.
“He does have bodyguards, but they wear lighter armor. Same color scheme, though. A Stalker doctor called Bonesetter tends to those who ran out of luck. Then there’s a junkie called Ashot. He runs a gun shop and bar and trades in everything. There’s his buddy, a gun nut called Yar, I mentioned him already. I hope he’s not involved in this, because I’d hate to liquidate such a wonderful expert on sniper gear.”
Tarasov frowns. The two big Freedom jokers in a base run by a captain from Duty? What the hell is going on there?
“I know them from the Zone. Ashot was dealing in smuggled NATO gear,” he says, “but I never took him for one of the bad guys. Even if he was always aligned with anarchists. Not to mention Yar, who only cared about weapon upgrades.”
“That might be so… in any case, for the time being I’m more interested in finding out who the client is. I believe they might be hiding somewhere to the west but haven’t been able to recon the area so far. To get there, one needs to cross Tribe territory. And that’s almost impossible without getting killed.”
It’s definitely impossible if you are killed, Tarasov thinks, but says, “Why?”
“Worst sons of bitches I’ve ever seen,” the Stalker scowls. “Take the skills of highly trained soldiers, add the cruelty of Genghis Khan’s warriors, top it up with excellent gear and you have the Tribe.”
“Maybe it was them who shot us down?”
“It’s a possibility, although the people we’ve run into were definitely not of Tribe.” Crow spits out a mouthful of canned meat. “Shit, what do they make this from?… Anyway, I’ve never seen them using choppers. Instead, they ride around in Humvees.”
Degtyarev’s words about rogue Americans come to Tarasov’s mind. “Maybe the pindosi are back?”
“Hard to tell… if their rules of engagement now include torturing prisoners, keeping tribal women as birth machines and decorating their vehicles with skulls and bones, then yes, one could say they are back.” Crow shakes his head. “But I doubt it. While I was in Bagram I heard that the Tribe was already here when the first Stalkers arrived. Usually they keep to themselves unless one gets too close to them.”
All this sounds too far-fetched to Tarasov’s ears to be true. Only one thing attracts his interest. “They have women?”
“Probably got to them before the nukes went off… You better not have any high hopes, brother. Most Afghans who were still alive after the nukes sought refuge in Iran, Uzbekistan, Pakistan… This sandbox is empty now.”
“Yes… I saw one of the refugee camps close to Termez.” Tarasov looks into the small fire which is about burning itself out. Seeing that the Stalker is preparing to leave, he asks him one more question. “You mentioned the Taliban. I never thought they would be still around.”
“Taliban are like cockroaches, almost impossible to exterminate. You’ll run into them soon enough.”
“Maybe we could contact each other from time to time. Share information. What do you think?” Tarasov suggests.
“Maybe,” Crow shrugs. “Now, I have to do some business of my own but let’s hook up in Bagram. I’ll be there in a few days. Until then, a word of advice: that place is messier than it seems. Do not trust anyone.”
Sparrow Two
After his mysterious companion disappears into the wilderness, Tarasov takes his binoculars and scans the horizon. He can’t see any trace of Dragonfly Two’s crash site — no fire, no smoke column, nothing. To the south, he can make out the cluster of buildings and grey landing strip that must be Bagram. Below his position, the road turns to the west and continues in an almost straight line to where the hills and forest meet, passing through ruined settlements along the way. The stream from the valley he and Crow had been following broadens and runs directly south.
The road appears easy going but it also offers many ambush opportunities, he thinks, the river bed seems safer but it’s probably crawling with mutants. His watch tells him he has four hours till nightfall. Still in doubt over which route provides the better option, Tarasov leaves the road and starts walking towards the forest.
Upon entering it, he is gripped by a feeling of familiarity. The dense undergrowth, the darkness beneath the thick foliage, the low, ruined walls here and there… all serve to remind him of the Zone’s Red Forest. So does the eerie silence.
But it is also different here. The trees grow taller, their intertwining foliage casting a suffocating darkness over the muddy ground that seems to suck at Tarasov’s feet as he makes his way through the mud and rotting undergrowth. The deeper he moves, the darker it gets, with tree trunks appearing like silent monsters in the beams of light falling through the foliage. Noxious vapors emanate from the muddy ground. The Geiger-counter’s crackle is the only noise, sounding in his ears like an echo of his quickening heartbeat whenever he sees a weirdly deformed tree reaching out with rotten branches as if to suffocate him, or dense bushes that might hide a mutant preparing for the killing leap before feasting on his remains.