S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (26 page)

#Positive. You are running out of options. He is becoming troublesome.#

#Actually, you bastards have a point…[sharp, unidentified noise] Hey, wait… #

#Come again?#

#[sharp, unidentified noise continues]#

#Someone has sounded the alarm. Breaking contact.#

#I have difficulties in hearing you. Repeat…#

#[unidentified human voice]We have a man down! Man down in the base!#

#I have no copy on you. Check your transmission.#

#[another unidentified human voice] Everyone, to the infirmary! Now!#

#[static noise]#

#[static noise]#

Bagram Blues

25 September 2014, 16:45:27 AFT

“It was a flesh wound, but try not to exert your left arm too much… As your doctor, I forbid you from firing any pump-action shotgun for at least two weeks. Otherwise, you’re in surprisingly good condition.”

The Stalker doctor, nicknamed Bonesetter, motions for him to stand up. Tarasov does so, stretching his arms and back.

“Two days in bed with a flesh wound and a little radiation…” he says getting to his feet. “Am I feeling my age, Bonesetter?”

“That’s the best thing one can feel because it means one is still alive. You’ve had a close shave. Now, t
ake care and stay healthy...”

The doctor shuffles to the next bed where another wounded Stalker lies and the major freshens himself up from the bucket of water standing in the corner of the infirmary, enjoying the sensation of splashing cold water to his sweaty face. He can barely wait to get out of the metal container.

The sun hurts Tarasov’s eyes as he steps out of the infirmary. A paratrooper guards the entrance. Seeing Tarasov appear, he stands to attention and salutes. It is one of the wounded they left behind to recover, which he obviously did well enough despite the bandage on his arm.

“As you were, Stepashin,” Tarasov says after a brief glance at the soldier’s name tag. “What’s all this security about?”

The paratrooper gives him a baffled look. “Sir, you were probably unconscious. A Stalker tried to kill you. One of Bone’s guards interrupted him. The Stalker shot him and disappeared in the fray.”

“A Stalker?”

“Yes, sir. That bastard who was sitting at your bed. Probably he was waiting for the right moment.”

That’s odd. Why would Crow want to kill me?

“Where are the others? I’ll need to talk to the sergeant.”

“Three are still in the infirmary. Sergeant Zlenko was here earlier. He and the others have set up camp in that shack, just behind you.”

“All right… I suppose you were guarding me?”

“Yes, sir. On Sergeant Zlenko’s orders.”

“Your watch is over.”

“As ordered, sir,” the paratrooper replies, shouldering his rifle with a relieved grin.

Still weak and light-headed from two days of lying around, Tarasov is on his way toward the paratrooper camp when Uncle Yar’s voice sounds from the loudspeaker.

“Ashot! Drag your sorry ass over here.”

“Sorry me dear, I can’t! I’m trying to find out why me new hash pipe ain’t working!”

“Maybe before lighting it up you should remove your gas mask first?”

“You don’t get it, do you? Me gas mask
is
me new pipe!”

“ASHOT! LET ME REMIND YOU THAT ANY MODIFICATION OF EQUIPMENT TO FACILITATE DRUG CONSUMPTION WILL BE PUNISHED!” Captain Bone’s voice booms.

“I hear you, Captain, I hear you! What’s wrong about me finding a new meaning for
‘integrated breathing system’
?”

Bone’s voice returns on the intercom, but this time it is not directed at the misbehaving trader.

“Major! I am delighted to hear you’re on your feet again. Come over here. Let’s have a little chat.”

What the hell could Bone want from me?

Tarasov feels uneasy as he enters the Captain’s fortified compound. Judged by the tower overshadowing the half-ruined building, it might have been the control center of the airport once upon a time. The guards salute and let him in, and he is about to open the door when one of them bars his way.

“You can’t go there.”

“I’m on my way to see Bone.”

“The Captain’s room is in the tower. Take the stairs.”

Tarasov shrugs him off and climbs up the stairs to the former air traffic control room, from where the whole base can be seen. Encircled by the wall of containers, Bone’s headquarters are at the center of the perimeter. Not far from here, a dilapidated transport airplane is collecting dust and rust. Wires run from its tail to the central building where the generators should be. Makeshift shacks and tents litter the cracked concrete, sitting among all kinds of war debris, from gutted military vehicles to helicopter wrecks. Stalkers with an affection for personal hygiene have set up a field shower by attaching a plastic water tank to the trunks of a metal structure that might have been a radio relay tower once upon a time. All looks peaceful, like a boy scouts’ camp – except for the armed Stalkers keeping watch in the fortified positions, the look-out posts along the container wall and a watchtower where a sniper scans the horizon through his binoculars.
     

The commander is standing in front of a huge, detailed map of the area. He is wearing his armored suit with the helmet on.

Does he ever wash himself?
comes to the major’s mind. The sight of the field shower made him realize how much he desires a long, refreshing bath himself.

“You are feeling better, Major? Congratulations on a battle well fought. Now that you have proven yourself, I’ll let you stay for a few days. A deal is a deal. But that’s enough idle talk. I want you to do something for me.”

Tarasov stares at him curiously, hoping that his anxiety is not too visible.

“Here,” Bone says, pointing at a position on the map that lies to the north-west of Bagram, “is the location of a mercenary base. They constantly harass the Stalkers moving between Bagram and the small Stalker base at Ghorband, here. I want you to find and eliminate the mercs.”

“I’ll need to check on my men first.”

“No need for that. I want you to do it alone, because your men are needed here.”

“They are still under my command, Captain, not yours.”

“Listen! Those cocksucker mercenaries have become very active recently. I need your men to help us defending the base, should we be attacked. You do this mission for me and leave your men here, or I’ll have you all kicked out of Bagram. Period.”

Tarasov has to admit that no matter how arrogantly presented, Bone’s idea is not entirely unreasonable. “I suppose that only leaves me with two choices… to do it or to do it, right?”

“Exactly, Major,” Bone nods. “At least your wounded men can recuperate while you are gone.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. By the way… now that we defended the Outpost we can have our exoskeletons back, I suppose?”

“Well… I’m afraid, that’s not the case.” The helmet might hide Bone’s face but his gestures reveal his embarrassment. “Your suits were stolen from our armory.”

Hearing this, all his suppressed anger is released into Tarasov’s face. “Stolen? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yes, it’s… shameful. I have already initiated an investigation but… In any case, if Ashot is involved in this, I’ll shoot him myself. That’s a promise.”

“Why on earth would he steal them?”

“Do you know how much such a suit costs, Major?”

“Actually, I don’t but…”

“It’s about eighty years of your salary. Yes! People turned into scoundrels for a fraction of that… Anyway, go talk to that no-good anarchist. And we are clear about those mercs, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Tarasov reluctantly replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

18:25:14 AFT

Leaving Bone’s compound, Tarasov runs into Ilchenko and the sergeant. The machine gunner’s nose is bandaged and his face blue from multiple bruises, but that does not prevent him from giving Tarasov a bearish hug. Zlenko acts more reserved, though equally glad to see his officer on his feet again, and it’s Tarasov’s turn to hug the young sergeant.

“What happened to your nose, Ilchenko?”

“That damned Stalker who wanted to kill you knocked me out.”

“You? You are one meter ninety and more than a hundred kilos. One would need a sledgehammer to knock you out.”

“Shame on me, Major. That piece of shit was a damned quick little son of a bitch,” Ilchenko replies, embarrassed. “But if I ever see him again I’ll break his neck. I swear it!”

“If you get close enough to him, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind… What about the squad, Sergeant Zlenko?”

“Privates Nakhimov and Obukov are still in the infirmary. Bondarchuk too - he got a nasty stab in the stomach during our charge. We had two KIAs.”

“
Damn!”
A curse escapes Tarasov’s lips. “I hope no one was left behind.”

“No, sir. They’re both here – Kamensky and Vasilyev.”

Zlenko points toward two crosses close to the container wall, each made up of a rifle stuck into the sandy ground with a helmet on top. The boots of the fallen soldiers stand at attention beside them.

Tarasov bows his head. “Did Skinner make it?”

“Yes, but he didn’t stay. He went on to a place called… what was it, Ilch?”

“Ghorband, Sarge. Actually, as soon as he got off the truck he wanted to kill the Captain but the guards kicked him out.”

“Pity he didn’t succeed,” Tarasov grumbles, looking at the graves. “Two men. What a goddamned waste. And I suppose there’s no priest among the Stalkers.”

“We said a prayer and let off a rifle salvo for an amen.”

“Proper funeral for our paratroopers.” Tarasov sighs. “Well, then… let’s have a toast on their memory. How’s that famous Stalker bar?”

“We haven’t checked it out yet.”

“How so?” Tarasov is surprised.

“We held off on the toast until you were on your feet again.”

“Well, I am… and your patience is appreciated, Viktor. It must have been a sacrifice second only to dying.”