Needle in a Haystack
Tarasov is surprised to see a fragile AK1-3 helicopter on the helipad. It has SBU written all over it despite its civilian color scheme. When Tarasov climbs out of the gunship’s hatch, Degtyarev and a lieutenant in Spetsnaz field camouflage rush to greet him. The lieutenant holds his beret against the wind swirled up by the Mi-24’s rotor blades. Degtyarev is bareheaded, as usual.
“Major Tarasov, this is Lieutenant Priboi,” Degtyarev shouts over the engine noise after exchanging salutes. “He will debrief your men. You and me, let’s go to the command room. We need to talk.”
“Good to see you too, Alex,” Tarasov shouts back.
Inside the dingy command room overlooking the gate, they give each other a hug.
“You still have blood on your face,” Degtyarev says as they sit down at Tarasov’s desk, facing each other.
“We met a controller,” replies Tarasov. He moves to wipe his face with the back of his gloves, but seeing they are bloody too he accepts the paper tissue offered by Degtyarev. Compared to Tarasov, who is still wearing his blood-stained, bullet-riddled armored suit, the operator’s impeccably clean and neatly ironed uniform makes him look like a visitor from another planet.
“Things got a little messy… I hope I didn’t spoil your uniform.”
“Come on, Misha. It’s damn good to see you’re still in one piece.”
“I wish you could say as much to Lieutenant Ivanchuk.”
“Yes, I heard the dispatch on my way here… pity. He was a good man.”
“He could have grown into an even better one.” Tarasov looks up to the wall with its faded green paint. Next to the large drawing board with patrol orders and watch rosters, a bloodsucker’s file photograph is fastened to the wall with scotch tape. Someone has skillfully covered the mutant’s head with the portrait of a female politician from Kiev. He didn’t ask but knows that it’s Ivanchuk’s artwork. Once Degtyarev is gone, he’d better remove it. “I suppose you’re not here to write the letter to his next of kin for me?”
“No.” Degtyarev leans back in the chair and pulls out a hip flask from his pocket with two little shot cups. “But before we talk — davay vipyem!”
“To Ivanchuk,” Tarasov says raising his cup, “he was a good soldier.”
The vodka, still cold from the chilly weather outside, slowly creeps down Tarasov’s stomach and turns into comforting warmth. It does not dissolve his concerns about Degtyarev’s visit, however.
“If the SBU sent you to investigate this incident today,” he says, “they were either very quick or knew beforehand that it was going to be messy.”
“Those were not Stalkers at Agroprom, were they?” Degtyarev asks as he puts his heavy suitcase onto the desk.
“They were mercenaries,” Tarasov replies, “I’ve never met mercenaries so far south of Rostok. I hope it was a one-time incursion, otherwise things will get really shitty for us here. We have barely enough men to keep the southern approach to the Dark Valley secure.”
“If it’s of any comfort to you, Duty is having troubles around Yanov too. A few months ago, their quartermaster sold a whole shipment of weapons to the mercenaries.”
“Morgan again?”
“Yes, Morgan. They tried to track him down but he disappeared into thin air. Probably he has left the Zone altogether.”
“Duty’s problems don’t make my life easier. On the contrary, we’d be screwed for good long ago without them.” Tarasov looks out of the window to the dilapidated buildings. “Last week I had to literally beg Kiev to provide us with fuel for the chopper. We got none. One more flight and we’ll run dry.”
“I know.” Degtyarev sounds concerned. “I have asked for more resources on your behalf but still get stonewalled by your brass. It’s as if they don’t care about you grunts here at all.”
“Tell me something I don’t know yet.”
“This is exactly why I came here,” Degtyarev says, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t have to worry about those mercs anymore… or about the Zone itself, for that matter. It’s Priboi’s job now.”
Tarasov swallows hard, thinking: Could it be that the army wants to get rid of me?
“Are we so low on resources that the brass sends a lieutenant to replace me?” he asks. Tarasov’s innocent enough question can’t hide his concern. His friend seems to read his thoughts because a smile appears on Degtyarev’s face, even if it’s not a very reassuring one.
“Priboi is a capable officer. And as for you — I have good news and bad news. First of all, you are relieved of your duties as base commander. I don’t know if this is good or bad news for you, actually.”
“It depends on why my command is terminated.” Tarasov turns his face away and looks out through the window. “Am I to leave the Zone?”
“Well… we have a problem, and you will be the solution.” Degtyarev takes a deep breath before continuing. “I suppose you’ve already heard about the developments in Afghanistan.”
“What? Afghanistan?” shouts Tarasov in surprise, so loud that a guard by the gate glances up with a concerned look on his face. Tarasov points his fingers to his eyes and then towards the Zone, reminding the soldier of the direction he is supposed to watch. Then, still perplexed, he turns back to his friend. “I mean, yes, I heard about strange things happening there after the nukes went up… Stalkers talk about a Klondike of artifacts.”
“To cut a long story short: looks like a new Zone has happened there.”
“Is it true then? A new Zone? Anomalies, artifacts, mutants and all?”
“Kind of.”
For a long minute, Tarasov looks his friend in the eye. “I think I need more vodka.”
Degtyarev fills his cup. “We believed we’d done a good job here, with all the Stalker activity in decline. Then we realized that the central regions in Afghanistan, which were not directly hit by the blasts, have become the new attraction for Stalkers. The Americans can’t keep anything secret… You know what? I’m glad we have no Freedom of Information Act.”
“I still don’t get it,” says Tarasov looking at his cup. “The Zone wasn’t created by radiation. It needed the egg-heads tampering with the Noosphere. Now please don’t tell me the USSR had secret laboratories there during the Afghan war.” He finishes his second shot.
“You want to leave some vodka for the end, brother… We have been studying things there for a while, having exactly the same question in mind. How could a new Zone happen there? An expedition was sent, similar to those in Yantar and Jupiter. The name of Professor Sakharov should ring a bell.”
“He is a psi-emissions expert,” Tarasov nods.
“Yes. His team was digging up something in a place called Shahr-i-Gholghola until we lost communications.” Degtyarev takes a thick envelope from his suitcase and gives it to Tarasov. “Here’s the detail. In short: you will go there, find them and get them out. But most importantly, you will secure any research results. That’s your first priority. Misha, are you still with me?”
“The City of Screams…” Tarasov murmurs, lost in his thoughts.
“Exactly. That’s what that Gholghola thing means. You’ve heard of it?”
“My father mentioned it in one of his letters to my mother, yes.”
Tarasov regrets his words as soon as they are spoken. Degtyarev’s smirk remains on his lips but it is not jovial anymore — it more resembles the grin of a predator, ready to jump at its prey.
“I understand,” Degtyarev says leaning closer.
“I don’t want to talk about this. For me, one of the few good things about the Zone is that it made me forget certain things.”
“He died there without seeing his boy grow up, is that correct?” asks Degtyarev, looking at the major with narrowed eyes.