That car was like a tank… but somehow whoever was after these guys must have gotten inside, because there are no survivors here for sure.
He looks around. Close to the wreck, the heavy branch of a tree almost reaches the ground. Carefully balancing his weight, Tarasov climbs up it. After a few steps, he can comfortably leap over onto the top of the van.
They cut a hole in the weakest part… too small for a man to climb through, but big enough for a grenade. Now how can I get inside?
A closed hatch lies next to the satellite dish. Taking his pistol, he reaches through the hole and fires, aiming towards the hatch as best as he can. After a lucky shot the hatch moves, as if its lock has been suddenly released. After that, it is easy to force it open. Leaving his bulky backpack outside, Tarasov lets himself slide down into the compartment.
Three grimy skeletons appear in the dim circle of his headlight, their clothes long rotted away, along with their flesh. Without knowing what he is looking for, he rummages amid the debris. A camera lies on the ground alongside a broken laptop and he picks them up. The computer is nothing more than garbage now so Tarasov lets it fall back to the ground, where it breaks into small pieces. Something shiny falls out, a CD or DVD, and when he leans down to pick it up, his headlight falls on a tiny orange object amongst the bones of one of the skeleton’s hands. Upon closer examination, the major realizes it is a pen drive.
Climbing out through the shaft, he seeks a safe spot where he can have a closer look at his loot. Behind a boulder, hidden from any hostile sight, he plugs the device into his PDA.
Now let’s pray it’s not encrypted… Ah! It seems to be my lucky day indeed.
A folder system appears on the screen. Some are labeled in a script he recognizes as Arabic, but most of the folders have English names. There is one titled DIARY, but only one message is readable.
July 2, 2006. Kabul. Hooked up with Gardi and Hetherington at the Mustafa Hotel over a few cans of contraband Heineken. Those boy scouts still dream about being embedded with a USMC unit. Had to listen to their endless lectures over ethics again. Gardi was quite happy with his photographs of Medecins sans Frontiers turning an old prison into an asylum. I couldn’t care less about such BS. They just can’t understand that the real story is on the other side.
He opens ARCHIVE. It’s empty. Switching to a folder titled MISSION REPORTS 07/2006 brings more success: a few readable files appear on the screen.
08.13. AM, July 6, 2006. ISAF’s new rules of engagement make it difficult to provide the coverage that our peak-time audience is seeking. Phyllis hopes to find local sources to get behind the scenes. She better do it, otherwise we’ll all lose our jobs.
09.24. PM. July 14. Phyllis came up with a new source today. The idea is pretty risky but if it works out we’ll have a really big story. We leave tomorrow morning. I hope Mahmud and Phyllis know what they are doing.
11.30. PM, July 15. If I hadn’t got my fucking divorce to deal with I’d not go along with this, but I need my damned salary to pay that bitch. Fucking English legal system, robbing bastards… Anyway, this is our chance to land the scoop of our lives. The source has prepared everything. We only need to wait till morning and then keep the camera rolling.
01.57. PM, July 16. That was one hell of a show. The Yanks took the bait and were busted as soon as they arrived in the village. And we got the whole thing on tape! We wanted to move in quickly after they left but the source didn’t let us. For our own security, he said. But when we eventually saw it… shit! Chuck-Up Central. Anyway, the only thing that counts is that the suckers have now their second My Lai coming.
02.43 PM, July 16. Something is not OK. While Phyllis was arguing with the source about money I saw the mujahedin dragging their fallen from the ruins. I also saw a shepherdess approaching the village. I grabbed my camera to take a photograph of her face when she saw what had happened — it would have been my WPP winning shot — but then the mujahedin wanted me to photograph a dead civilian. As I went there he moved and they just shot him in the head. Could it be that… it’s too late now, we have already transmitted the footage. Should be on air tonight. The shepherdess ran away though, and with her went my chance to take the photograph of a lifetime. I’d better check on Phyllis now, it looks like their argument is getting out of hand.
03.55 PM, July 16. Shit shit shit! I can’t believe I am part of this. They fucking drove the villagers away before the battle! They fucking shot them after the Yanks left, then arranged their fucking corpses. They even raped a woman, at least that’s how it looks…That’s why we had to wait and that’s why they demanded extra payment. We want to drive away like hell but those bastards have blocked the road. We are now hauled up in the van. Phyllis is desperately calling the bosses to sort this mess out.
13.25 PM, July 16. We’re fucking screwed. They’re not letting us go. We wanted to ask ISAF for help but our comms are down because those bastards climbed up and smashed our antenna. I just hope the hatch will hold…
Tarasov removes the pen drive and carefully puts it away, thinking deep, dark thoughts
This explains a thing or two… Bhegum Madar was right. I must take this intel to the Colonel.
He is about to close his PDA when a LED indicates that somebody is calling him. He switches to the helmet’s intercom.
“Tarasov here.”
“At last! I have been calling your for two days. Where have you been?” Captain Bone’s voice sounds anxious, even terrified.
“It’s a long story. What’s up?”
“We came under attack yesterday. It was the damned Chinese during the day and the dushmans by night, but now they’ve joined forces! Major, you need to collect all Stalkers from the Ghorband area and relieve us!”
“That’s bad news…” The events of the last couple of days have kept him so preoccupied that Tarasov had almost forgotten about Bagram and the Stalkers. Then his soldiers come to his mind. “What about my men? They should be assisting you, Bone.”
“They are but we lost two of them already. Many Stalkers too.”
“What? Who is dead from my squad?”
“I don’t know their fucking names and I don’t care to, either. The only thing that counts is that you get all the men you can assemble in the west and help us! Now!”
Tarasov hesitates. If Bone is panicking, the situation must be dire. But he also has to deliver the pen drive to the Colonel. “How long can you hold out?”
“One and a half days, two perhaps. We are already running low on ammo but they just keep coming!”
“There aren’t many Stalkers in Ghorband. What am I supposed to do with a dozen men?”
“Every Stalker and bullet counts. Bring everyone you can gather or we are done for… including your precious soldiers.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Tarasov receives no reply and he looks toward the north where the road, invisible in the vibrating heat, forks to the west and east. To the west, there is an opportunity to restore the honor of the Colonel and his Marines, because what he found has made it clear that they had been lured into a set-up and hadn’t committed the crimes they had been charged with. To the east lay the strong chance that he would die in a futile attempt to protect Bagram, or even before getting to it, taking the white van’s secret with him to the grave. Go east, and he might be able to help the Stalkers and his soldiers as they fight for their lives. Go west, and they would surely die horrible deaths.