Read S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort Online
Authors: John Mason,Noah Stacey
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (42 page)
“That’s a very good plan,” Tarasov smirks, “like those taught at the military academy. You ever considered becoming an army officer?”
“With all due respect, man, I might be crazy but I’m not an idiot… Do you have some bread? If I had gear like yours, I’d carry a full kitchen with me!”
“You’d be better off if you didn’t carry that RPG launcher with two warheads.”
“Come on, man. They make me look cool!”
“Why don’t you at least disassemble them?” Tarasov asks, shaking his head over the guide’s inexperience with heavy weaponry. “It would be safer for you to carry that shit with the warheads dismounted.”
“What? You can remove the warheads?”
“Yeah… I’ll show you later. Now, it’s
havchik
time.”
Tarasov offers a loaf of bread to Squirrel. They have enough resources now.
He’d set out to find Crow’s stash at dawn, following the road west until the APC’s wreck emerged from the fog like a sleeping monster. The huge stone slab serving as a memorial was smashed, an only faintly readable English inscription still bearing a clue to the battle – itself just one of many – that had ravaged the place a few years ago.
When Tarasov had cautiously peered inside the wreck, he’d expected to find the usual stash: ammunition, food or bandages, perhaps some common artifact. He was therefore surprised to find a huge crate with a hand-written note on top of it:
This suit rocks! Now I only need to find out who’s killing your soldiers to get these exoskeletons and who’s paying him. He won’t see my bullet coming. Or if he does, I don’t care. I hope you don’t mind that I took one of the two suits I found with the mercs. I’ll consider it your thank-you to me for saving your ass at Salang. We’re quits – for now! C.
When he donned the brand new exoskeleton and the armor’s built-in instruments – radiation meter, anomaly detector, kinetic motors, life-support system – quietly started to hum in the silence of the mountain dawn, with his heavy kit becoming almost weightless once fitted to the titanium-alloy body frame, Tarasov felt as if he had boarded a gunship after many days on a perilous foot patrol: safe at last. With the exoskeleton’s silicon carbide ceramic armor – capable of stopping dozens of armor-piercing bullets – protecting him, he feels as if he has become a walking juggernaut.
Once back at Ghorband he tried to talk Squirrel into joining forces with him. Since he had nothing else to offer but a fight, the major had eventually had to offer his own, serviceable Berill armor, rendered a dead weight now that he had the exoskeleton. Albeit feigning reluctance, the Stalker had accepted it gladly in exchange for joining him on the raid.
However, his period of confidence had made way for concern soon enough when it came to his mind that this wonderful suit had actually been
taken
from him and his men. There was nothing in Crow’s messages that would give him a hint to the players in the shady dealings going on behind his back. As he walked behind Squirrel to the north, he tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle he already knew – Bone’s men ambushing the squad sent in before them, the mercenaries hunting him, Crow’s hints at danger in Bagram… Crow might be his ally in this game, but the sniper certainly knew how to keep his findings to himself – that is, if he actually knew any more than Tarasov.
“Hey, man, don’t look so down,” Squirrel says, interrupting the major’s thoughts. “Let me cheer you up with my harmonica. Do you have a favorite song?”
“Let me think… I love
Steppe, endless steppe
for example.”
“Nah, sorry man. I don’t know how to play that.”
“What about
The Ships
then? You know, that Vysotsky song?”
“Actually, the only tune I can play is the Soviet anthem.”
“Then why did you offer me to play my favorite song? That’s certainly not one of them…”
“I just asked about it. I didn’t say a word about playing it.”
“You are totally crazy, Squirrel. You know that?”
“Of course. After all, I slept at an abandoned asylum last night.”
“Squirrel… where do you come from, anyway?”
“
Germany
.
Berlin
, actually. You know, I was a guerilla there, fighting against the oppression of the poor.”
“Sounds like a tough battle.”
“Hell, yes! Each night, me and my buddies used to set a few big fat BMWs and Porsches on fire. Just to show the rich bastards that the resistance was alive and kicking!”
“Setting cars on fire doesn’t really sound fair. They don’t fight back.”
“But it’s fun! You should try it, man. Anyway, then one of our night raids went wrong – I picked the wrong car. It belonged to one of the lawyers defending our comrades from injustice. Things got a little messy, and I decided to join our comrades in arms in the Zone. So I volunteered to deliver another shipment of… let’s call it humanitarian aid to the
Ukraine
, and two days later I was drinking vodka with all the Freedom guys.”
“Freedom… anarchists and bandits,” Tarasov grumbles under his breath.
“Don’t worry, man. Those days are gone. The Zone changed me a lot.”
“How come?”
“You see… once you find an artifact to sell, you think differently about the distribution of riches. Then I heard that in the New Zone there’s even more to find. Less hunters, more game, you see? And here I am now. Are you sure you don’t want to hear the Soviet anthem?”
“Play it, if that makes you happy...”
Listening to the jarring tune from Squirrel’s harmonica, it occurs to Tarasov that this would be a good time to check out the text messages that Yar had found on the old mobile phone and uploaded to his PDA. The date and time is not recorded, but it’s obvious enough that the messages are from the times of the Bush war.
Hey Frank – here’s why I’m pissed off. They want to conduct a disciplinary procedure against the sergeant but why? All he did was getting some aftermarket replacement parts for his G3 rifle to bring it at least to semi-modern condition. What was he supposed to do? The new rifles we’re supposed to use are crap. For God’s sake, we can’t switch off the safety on the new G3 DMR while aiming because our thumbs are too short to reach the switch. Did they design those rifles for pianists? Besides, we can’t use them because we don’t have proper sniper ammo. We were told to use MG3 machine gun cartridges but that’s only accurate up to
Afghanistan
!
The second message is shorter:
After what happened at Kunduz, we are not allowed to ask for air support. Not as if the Brits nearby would have any choppers available, anyway. We asked the French to beef us up with a squad for this mission but they are low on ammo. The Hungarians wanted to give a helping hand but their Mercedes jeeps are broken down as usual. We must not ask the Americans for assistance because we’re supposed to maintain security in our sector on our own. Now we move out with a company of Afghan troops which is an invitation for trouble. SNAFU like always, my friend! Anyway, I’ll hook up with you later, we’re moving out now. Wish me good luck – in two weeks, my tour of duty will be over.
The major switches off his PDA and looks into the thick fog, sadly, wishing he was a believer so he could say a prayer for the soul of the dead soldier.
Mercenary base, 3 October 2014, 12:39:28 AFT
Lying prone on the top of an ice-cold, rocky hill, Tarasov studies the narrow ridge connecting their position with the mercenary stronghold through his binoculars. Their target encampment lies atop another hill, not quite as high as their narrow vantage point, and overlooks the wide landscape, easily commanding the valley below. Far in the distance, the major can see the flat, sandy plain between the mountains and the Amu-Darya.
The conical shape of the concrete structure looks similar to the many Soviet-built pillboxes and bunkers he has seen before.
“Must have been an observation base during the Soviet war,” he mutters to Squirrel.
No mercenaries can be seen on the ridge.
It could still be mined or booby-trapped. We’ll still need to exercise some caution.
A jeep track leads up to the stronghold, passing by another bunker with a radar dish and a forest of other antennae on top. Tarasov gives a sigh, wishing he could use the radio facilities, but it is bound to be heavily defended. At least the terrain ahead looks advantageous enough to him with its many rocks and boulders. It should make their approach a little easier.
“Mount your silencer, Squirrel.”
“That PBS won’t help me much. The shots will echo like hell among these mountains.”
“Just in case. At least you won’t be deafened when I tell you to cease fire.”
“Fair enough. So what’s the plan?”
“We stick to your plan.”
“You must be kidding, man. I was.”
“Take these binocs. Keep your eyes open while I’m aiming. Warn me if a hostile pops up where I can’t see him. Watch our six. Clear?
“Like the sky.”
“All right. Let’s get this over with.”
Lucky for them, the sky is actually overcast, regardless of what Squirrel said. Relieved that he doesn’t have to worry about his shadow betraying his movement, Tarasov moves quickly forward and crouches behind a rock. Scanning the sandbag walls through his rifle scope, a mercenary soon appears in the reticule. Tarasov follows his movement. Seemingly bored, the guard moves in a predictable back-and-forth pattern along the wall, making no contact with anyone else. Another hostile stands on top of the wall with his back towards them.
I can only see these two. There must be more around. If they fall, the whole place will be stirred up.
“You asleep?” Squirrel whispers. Ignoring the guide’s impatience, Tarasov weighs his options.
I must get closer.
He signals the Stalker to follow him. Watching their steps in case of booby traps, they move forward until they reach more cover. The major takes another look at the bunker.
“Squirrel, I see one on the wall and one on the top. Do you see any others?”
“None.”
“Take the binocs. Keep your eyes on the bunker and the road while I’m focusing.”
“Okay, man.”
Tarasov adjusts the scope.
And now let’s hope that Uncle Yar did his homework on this baby
.
After the quiet, when only the wind whistles, the sharp, piercing sound of the silenced shot seems to be deafeningly loud. In the middle of the reticule’s dark circle, the first guard’s helmet flies off. His blood has not yet made contact with the wall behind when Tarasov already moves the rifle towards the guard on top. Another shot pierces through the howling wind. The second guard falls forward, as if an invisible fist had punched him in the back.