“Who is in command now?”
“Senior Sergeant Zlenko. It was probably him who saved our life, because as soon as we took off, he ordered us into our armored suits.”
“That was a wise choice. And where is your Berill suit, soldier?”
“Err… I got a serious case of armor chafe and removed it. It’s because of my size… even the biggest one is too small for me, sir!”
The major decides not to flak him for the moment, although he suspects that the machine gunner has used armor chafe as an excuse to flaunt the many tattoos on his robust arms.
I got it. He’s crazy, Tarasov thinks.
“What happened to the other squad, sir?”
Staring at the ground, Tarasov shakes his head.
“Not even Zotkin?” the soldier with the medikit asks.
“Not even him.”
“How did you survive?”
“I was wearing my exoskeleton, remember? It saved my life but was destroyed. I hope you have a spare armor suit.”
“We do, sir. Actually, we have too many spare suits.”
“Help me up and let’s get back to your chopper. I hope you established a defensive perimeter?”
“Certainly, sir,” the machine gunner says cutting down two boughs from a tree with a combat knife. “But there is this shit all around us. Nothing gets through, but in exchange, we can’t leave the perimeter either. Sit on this, sir. Kamensky, hold the branches from the other side, will you?”
Tarasov hates the idea of arriving at the crash site like an invalid, but when he tries standing on his feet he realizes that he actually is one. Swearing, he reluctantly lets the two soldiers carry him.
“Don’t worry, sir,” the chatty machine gunner says. “Making it here alive was feat enough in itself. All the boys will agree with that. There’s nothing bad about being carried for a few meters. Besides, it’s better to have a little burnt skin than your head ripped off by that… thing. Wouldn’t you agree, Major?”
Tarasov scowls, his face still distorted by pain. “What’s your name, trooper?”
“Private Ilchenko, sir. Friends call me Ilch. And that’s Private Kamensky to your left.”
“Good. And now, Private Ilchenko: hold your mouth! You talk more than a salesman.”
“As ordered, sir,” the soldier grins.
“It’s good to have an officer around again,” Kamensky whispers, flashing a gloating glance at Ilchenko.
The two troopers arrive at the crash site as proudly as if they were carrying some large and noble prey. Their comrades, most of them with arms and heads wrapped in bloody bandages, cheer when they see them carrying their commander. Ilchenko loudly tells everyone what had happened. Tarasov doesn’t mind — at least it’s not him who has to tell the squad about their ill-fated comrades. For him, it’s the first moment since the crash when he thinks that maybe the mission has not failed altogether. However, his relief is overshadowed by the sight of four bodies covered with waterproof canvas. If not for his reckless decision to change the flight path, those men would still be alive. Or maybe they would still have died but in an ambush or a firefight, something that offered a more dignified death.
Even with their heavy losses, the survivors have preserved their cohesion as a unit, having set up a small perimeter around the badly damaged helicopter with the squad’s grenade launcher positioned to cover the area where the woods open up. They have also erected a small tent where the medic, a very young but smart-faced soldier, tends to the wounded.
“Dragonfly Two carried fourteen men, including the pilots,” the squad’s senior sergeant reports. He wears a blood-soaked bandage around his head. “We lost two troopers and the pilots in the crash. Now we have four heavily wounded and four men combat ready. That means they can still fire their weapon, but…”
“Thank you, Sergeant Zlenko,” Tarasov replies while the medic is treating the burns on his legs. “Do you have communications?”
“I’m afraid the radio is busted, sir.”
“What do you have that still works?”
“Since our chopper carried all the equipment, we have enough ammo, food and medical supplies to last a while. The only thing we don’t have is a way out of this hellhole.”
“Worry about that later. Why aren’t you wearing the exoskeleton assigned to you?”
“With all due respect, sir, I know it’s good gear and all but I prefer the Berill. I can fetch an exo for you, if you wish.”
Tarasov looks into the forest where darkness is growing like thick, black fog. Attempting a night march through the unknown wilderness would be reckless, even with full forces. With half of the survivors barely able to walk, including himself, it would be utter suicide. He also needs to find a way through the anomaly field.
“No” he finally replies. “Can the wounded stand on their feet? Let two wounded of your choice wear the exos. It should make walking easier for them. Tomorrow we move out at daybreak.”
“Where to, sir?”
“Bagram. It makes no sense to establish a forward operations base with half of the men down. Bagram shouldn’t be too far.”
“No rescue mission, then?”
“Looks like we have to get out on our feet or die here. But not before picking up those scientists.”
“Will we be able to get through those… burners?”
“The briefing said you were doing peacekeeping missions with the 13th Air Mobile Brigade.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“This of course means that none of you was ever posted to the Exclusion Zone around the CNPP.” Tarasov sighs. It would have been a major miracle if they had been, he thinks. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask. “All right, listen up. I’ll need to explain to you a few things….”
Tarasov explains the basics about mutants and anomalies to the survivors, adding his latest experiences with the jackals, the snake and the bear. As he talks, the forest around them seems to come alive. Growls, grunts, roars and howls penetrate the darkness, causing the soldiers to exchange anxious glances.
“Make a bonfire,” Tarasov orders, “and be prepared for another long night. This time tomorrow we can rest in Bagram.”
“Are you sure the fire will keep those beasts at bay?” the medic asks. Fear looms in his eyes behind the thin spectacles.
“No.”
“But then… why?”
“Because it’s cozy.”
“Lobov has a point, sir,” the sergeant interjects. “What if hostiles see it?”
“The hostiles we should be concerned about don’t need a campfire to see us.”
“If you say so, Major… I’ll go and see to that fire.”
Tarasov nods in approval and leans against the helicopter’s wreck to rest his aching body. Soon, a bonfire casts its relaxing light over the perimeter. The warm flames, together with the soldiers’ quiet chatter, remind him of nights in the Zone. This familiarity eases his nerves; he feels safe at last, but still doesn’t let his AKSU out of his reach.
A trooper comes and offers him a loaf of bread. It’s still fresh and must be from the rations they got in Termez. Tarasov gladly accepts it. His stomach is rumbling almost as loudly as the mutants growl in the gloomy night.
The dawn brings rain, turning the already muddy forest ground into a veritable swamp. Tarasov orders the squad to move out at first light, or better when according to his watch — or at least when first light should have appeared. He watches the slowly moving column of soaked soldiers, all of them carrying as much extra equipment from the crashed Mi-8’s load as they can bear. Sweat and rain blend on his face as he moves on, keeping his eyes on Ilchenko who walks in front of him. Like a gray ghost shrouded in a veil of rain, Sergeant Zlenko follows them at the tail of the column. With the mud sticking to his boots and making every step twice as difficult for his wounded legs, Tarasov is content with the slow pace.