“They do have guts,” he hears the Sergeant Major commenting. “Not bad — keeping their cohesion under fire like that. The scavengers throw everything at them but the kitchen sink.”
Something must happen or it was all for nothing, Tarasov reflects, barely able to keep himself from charging into battle. He switches to his sniper rifle’s scope to have a closer look and sees a group of Stalkers pouring out of the gate led by two figures in military armor, one of them raking the enemy ranks with his machine gun and the other relentlessly firing an assault rifle. To his incredible relief, he recognizes Ilchenko and Zlenko.
Thank God they’re still alive. But where are the others?
He watches the Stalkers surge forward, screaming, killing and dying until they run into the steel wall of Tribe warriors with only dead and dying enemies left between them. For a moment, Stalkers and warriors face each other.
“Assault team, regroup. Commence pursuit,” the Colonel commands laconically.
The Tribe’s warriors turn and jump on the Humvees, some of which now carry fewer men than before the battle. Tarasov spots a few daring defenders join the warriors, with the Shrink and his die-hard Stalkers from the Asylum among them. The vehicles speedily pursue the routed enemy, crushing those who get under their massive wheels, the warriors firing their weapons at those too far away to be squashed as they drive the few surviving enemies towards First Lieutenant Driscoll’s position, where they will be trapped in a final crossfire.
“All right, Top,” the Colonel says. “Order them to cease fire before we go blue on blue. We’re done for today.”
“Cease fire, cease fire,” the Sergeant Major orders into his radio. “Show’s over!”
“Let Bauer and Ramirez mop up the area. I want the rest of our warriors to gather at the gate of that pathetic shithole. Let the corpsmen move in, and have a Humvee take our friend to his men.”
At once, the vehicles turn around and, with the warriors finishing off the few enemies still alive, return to the shattered Stalker fortress, where they line up like a cavalry unit — dusty, smoky, flecked with blood, their riders jumping off and joining the Stalkers in celebrating victory. At the sign of the Sergeant Major, the music fades to a less ear-splitting volume, then tapers off.
“Security team. A few rag-heads have surrendered. Awaiting instructions. Over.”
The Colonel calmly lights up a cigarette. “I’m not in the mood to take prisoners today, Driscoll,” he replies through his radio.
“Affirmative.”
After a few seconds, the chilly wind brings the noise of short machine gun bursts from the First Lieutenant’s position.
The old warrior takes off his helmet and slings his carbine over his shoulder. “Damn this shit,” he tells Tarasov as he shows him to the nearest Humvee. “For men like us, watching such a battle and only smelling the cordite from far away — it’s like torture, ain’t it?”
“I could hardly agree more, Sergeant Major,” Tarasov replies, climbing inside. “But it was hell of a battle either way.”
“Of course it was. It was my Tribe fighting, the best men in the world. Semper Fi!”
“What was that music? Once I heard something like that in a movie, with choppers and all, but didn’t believe that you Americans really played music when going into battle.”
The Sergeant Major gives him a smile. “Wagner is for pussies. We prefer Metallica.”
Body Count
“Yar! You have a minute?”
“What? I can’t hear you Ashot. My ear drums are blown.”
“That’s nothing, me dear! I have bullets in me ass.”
“Actually, I got stabbed in my neck too.”
“C’mon, man, that’s nothing compared to me amputated toe!”
“Sorry, I can’t admire it. I’m wearing a patch on my better eye.”
“So you have no seen me boots? I can’t find them since Bonesetter patched up me feet!”
“You removed your boots? Now I understand why they ran away!”
“YOU TWO! THE INTERCOM WAS NOT REPAIRED TO FACILITATE YOUR SMALL TALK! AND YOU, MAJOR… COME OVER. WE NEED TO TALK.”
Fuck you, Bone, Tarasov thinks as he gets out of the Humvee and looks around.
The siege has taken a heavy toll on the Stalkers’ base. Incoming RPGs have pounded the walls of Bone’s command center. The old Antonov is in even worse shape than she was before, with one of the wings broken away from the fuselage, probably due to mortar fire, and now lying on the ground riddled with bullets indicating how the Stalkers had converted it into a makeshift firing position to compensate for the steel container that had been blasted away at the gate. Close to a relatively intact part of the container wall, Tarasov sees a dozen freshly dug graves. The watchtower still stands, with one Stalker on top of it behind the sandbags that have been darkened by the smoke of explosions. The only comforting sight is that of his two battle-worn soldiers hurrying up to greet him.
“Major Tarasov!” the sergeant greats him cheerily. “It’s good to have you back!”
“Viktor! Ilch! Glad to see you in one piece!”
“What happened to you? You look… different.”
“It’s a long story…”
“In one sentence, Major,” Ilchenko says, “please. You left with Squirrel and returned with a whole army!”
“In one sentence? All right… we destroyed the AA battery that shot down our choppers and ran into the Tribe who killed Squirrel and wanted to stone me to death, but a woman preferred that I get her witch daughter with child and sent me to a mutant-infested village to find some old intel that was very important for the Tribe’s leader, who I eventually made save Bagram. That’s that.”
“Damn… stone you to death?” Ilchenko asks shaking his head. “What on earth are those people? Savages?”
“Far from it.”
“The only thing that counts is that you are finally back with us!”
Tarasov doesn’t know how to counter Zlenko’s enthusiasm.
If I wanted to be honest with him, I would admit that I no longer know where ‘back’ and ‘away’ is and who ‘us’ might be. This place has got me good.
“Be happy it didn’t happen to Ilchenko. If it were him telling this story, we’d still be listening to him till Christmas!”
“Don’t worry, Sarge, I’m looking forward to make nice story out of this once I get home!”
“All right, rebjati… Whatever happened, I am still your commander and we still have a mission to accomplish. Zlenko, what’s the status of the squad?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“With all due respect — I’ve missed that bossy tone of yours.”
“I must admit that I met my match.”
“He must have been a very tough guy.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s a she. So, what’s our body count?”
“Only the two of us are left from Sparrow Two. Ignatov died during the first night. Obukov and Stepashin fell the next day. Bondarchuk was killed by a sniper. We received heavy mortar fire during the first night and the bastards hit the infirmary with Saitov and Lobov inside.
“They got our medic? Damned baystrukhi!”
“Then Kravchuk and Nakhimov fell during a raid to take the mortars out.”
“Who was leading the raid?”
“It was the initiative of a Stalker called Crow…”
“Best sniper I ever saw, Major,” Ilchenko cuts in. Tarasov gives him a disapproving look but the soldier refuses to allow being interrupted. “He showed up with a band of real badass Stalkers just before the siege began.”