The fighter hurries off. Following his directions, The major passes by a few campfires where the warriors stop chatting and watch him with curious, distrustful eyes before turning back to their chat and the fruity-smelling smoke of their hookah pipes.
Tarasov has a strange feeling about them. Then he realizes that one thing is missing, something he had thought no soldier could live without: alcohol. He can’t see any bottles being shared, any glasses filled with spirits. Only teapots steam over the charcoal fires.
No way could I ever join them. No booze.
Passing by a home hewn into the rock he hears a woman chastising a misbehaving child.
“Hush! Go to bed or Osama will get you!”
“But Mom, the Colonel killed Osama long ago!”
“Go to bed, big mouth, or you’ll not be going to the shooting range tomorrow!”
Walking over a rope bridge, Tarasov sees a bunker ahead. A sign on its metal door says PROPERTY SHED in neatly painted letters.
Before entering, Tarasov examines his equipment. He has only two magazines left for the Vintorez. It will barely be enough for the trip to the Asylum, never mind Bagram.
I’ll need an arsenal for fighting my way to Bagram. Let’s see what they have.
Stepping inside, he finds a few warriors tending to their rifles under shelves that are beginning to sag under the weight of the weapons on them. A man is standing at a work bench, welding something that looks like heavy armor plates for a machine gunner’s position in a Humvee.
“Look at that! You got yourself a new customer, Boxkicker,” a fighter says.
The technician switches off the welding torch and removes his mask. Heavy sweat runs down his red, snooty face.
“Spare the introduction,” he says wiping the sweat away, “I know you’re in for a free ride.”
“Where did you get all this gear from?” Tarasov asks, scanning the shelves. The amount and variety of first-class weaponry leaves him in awe: what he can see from a mere glance blows Ashot’s stock, or even many military armories, out of the water. From pistols to Gatling guns and submachine guns to heavy assault rifles, every lethal weapon ever made in the Western hemisphere lies here in perfect order and condition.
“Where is none of your business,” Boxkicker says. “Suffice to say, we still have… sympathizers. Rest assured, it’s not Human Rights Watch or the ACLU.”
The warriors burst out laughing but Tarasov doesn’t get the joke.
“What’s the ACLU?”
The armourer grins. “No clue, eh? You Russians don’t know how lucky you are.” The warriors laugh again. Tarasov looks back at the weapons, feeling like a child in a toy shop.
“We got the word you’re in for some cumshaw. Make your choice, but we have no Kalashnikovs or other slavshit here,” Boxkicker says, eyeing Tarasov’s rifle covetously. “I dig your Vintorez, though.”
The technician’s American slang puzzles Tarasov. Dig a weapon? he thinks. Never heard that before. “What do you mean? Why would you… use my rifle for digging?”
Seeing his confusion, the technician gives him a wide grin. “Never mind, Russkie. If you can’t choose between a forty-mike-mike and a gimpy, just ask.”
“I’d go for the nightwatch,” a warrior adds. The others eagerly join in the mocking.
“Forget that. No man is man enough without a bushmaster.”
“Check out the Ma Deuce, Russkie.”
“You ever fired a Pig?”
“I love firing my boomstick in the morning. Sounds like victory.”
“Once I dumped a girl because she made me chose between her and my blooper.”
“Come on, dude, the only girl you got into was your ALICE!”
“So, Russkie,” Boxkicker says, turning to Tarasov, still laughing and wiping more sweat from his face. “Tell me what you need.”
Tarasov looks around. The abundance of Western-made arms is overwhelming. “Boxkicker… what about that SOP-modified M4A1, including the ACOG? You could throw in a few 30-round magazines as well.”
“Hear ye, hear ye… we have an educated Russian here.”
“And the Heckler & Koch M27 with a C-Mag on that shelf to your right. Can I see it?”
“Come on, that’s too good for you. I can offer a PIP M249 with a cloth pouch holding two hundred rounds.”
“Only if it comes with enough duct tape to prevent it from falling apart.”
“You have a point, I give you that. All right… Ammo for this one? Suppose you want to take some full metal jacket M855’s.”
“I don’t need it for pea shooting. Are those Match bullets over there?”
“Bingo. Two boxes is all you get.”
“I could use that Benelli M4 too with a few boxes of slugs.”
“You are a rat-fuck, you know that? Take this shotgun.”
“What about that one?” Tarasov points at an ochre-painted, heavy rifle.
“Uh-oh… you want to make my life really difficult, eh?”
“Is that so?”
“I don’t know what’s screwing me up more, giving you that Gepard M6 or ignoring the big man’s orders… how would an anti-material rifle help you, anyway?”
“By making a material difference between life and death, I suppose.”
“That’s a real ass for sure. But it only works with Russian 12,7 millimeter rounds and we don’t have many of them around here.”
“I ask you very nicely: may I take the Gepard, please?”
“No way. You better keep your dickbeater off that.”
“Stop being so shit-hot, Boxkicker,” a warrior says quietly. “He’s Nooria’s mate. Unless you want her pissing into your wounds next time you need first aid, you better give him what he wants.”
“Oh, yes, Nooria.” The armourer smacks his lips. “I guess before eating her out, you’ve had to let her soak in hot water for an hour, scrubbed and disinfected her, and then put a bucket over her head to cover her face?”
Tarasov’s face reddens with anger.
“You don’t want any trouble for yourself,” another warrior tells Boxkicker. “Give him what he wants, big mouth.”
“I won’t give the Gepard to this rat-fuck. He can kiss my ass. But only if he washes his mouth after kissing that pus-faced little witch who—”
The armourer doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Quick as lightning, Tarasov’s fist darts out and slams into Boxkicker’s cardia and arm, followed by one more punch to the throat that sends him sprawling among the neatly arranged weapons. Knocked out, he stays on the ground with rifles, tools, grenades and ammunition magazines raining down onto his head from the ruined shelves.
“Fuck,” Boxkicker eventually groans, spitting out blood and teeth.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, have anything you need’,” Tarasov says firmly, and piles the weapons and ammunition into his exoskeleton’s rucksack.
“Respect, Russkie,” a fighter laughs, “that’s what I call a ninja punch!”
“Wrong, pindos,” Tarasov grumbles back as he leaves the armory. “It’s called Systema.”
“I’m back.”
Upon entering Nooria’s home and putting his new weapons down on the floor, the irony of his situation makes him smile.
It feels like returning to a perfectly normal home after a day’s shopping.
“Welcome, my warrior!” Nooria beams happily from the hearth, where she is boiling something spicy in a blackened pot. She looks different now, wearing a white gown with beautiful embroidery with her loose, freshly washed hair shining with the fire’s reflection. “You look happy. What did he say?”