S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (48 page)

“What happened to ‘
semper
fidelis
’? No matter what reasons you might have – what you did was, after all, plain mutiny.”

“What makes you think you can judge me?” the Colonel questions him, grimly. “We had to choose between heeding the call of the Spirit or keeping true to a morally corrupt country that has no appreciation for our way of life anymore. Do not dare to judge me and my Marines.”

“And to keep up with your losses, you took in Afghan children to let them fight for you?”

The Colonel waves a hand towards the table. “Have you studied Napoleon’s works, Major?”

“Yes. We had to study his battles.”

“That’s only the surface of his genius. Back at
Quantico
, we too had to read Napoleon. In his memoirs, he wrote that his soldiers could have stayed in
Egypt
forever, had they used the local women to supply the army with new soldiers. Back when I read that, it sounded like madness, or at least like a broken old man’s desire for the young women he must have enjoyed in his youth in a foreign land. When we found ourselves here on our own, I wasn’t laughing about him anymore. Strong and desperate men come to join us now and then from all over the world, but they are not like my Lieutenants. And while invincible, my warriors are not immortal. Yes, we need natural born warriors, who have the spirit in their heart as soon as they are born, who are like the flesh growing from the rocks of this land. The Hazara are not just any tribe, Major. They are the direct descendants of Genghis Khan’s warriors. Or so they claim… and once I took up his heritage, it was my duty to protect his lost tribe. With my guidance, they have recovered their roots.”

Tarasov feels odd. At the beginning, what the Colonel told him sounded like the ranting of a lunatic, but the longer he listens to the big man, the more it seems to him that his words start shaping into a steadfast theory – a cruel and savage, but nonetheless logical, theory. It is the logic in the Colonel’s words that he finds the most frightening.

He looks at the girl. Using a short pause between the Colonel’s words, he dares to speak again. “It seems that in the end, you did win over some hearts and minds.”

“In these valleys, Major, the Pashtu were fighting the
Tajiks
and the Taliban both, and all three were murdering the Hazara. We offered the Hazara widows protection and their orphans education – proper education. You call us mutineers, but where are the billions of dollars my country spent to ‘help’ these people? Where are the NGOs, the rights activists and other idealists? It is only us, the warriors you dare call mutineers, who remained and accomplished the mission we were sent here to do. Don’t you think so, Major Tarasov?”

“But you didn’t do it to give them freedom and peace.”

“Both freedom and peace have a different meaning here than in our countries, Major. This is what our politicians could never understand. Here, freedom means to be free to live according to a code of honor. Peace means that this code is upheld. Our code of war and their code of life created the Tribe. The only real treasure this land can offer is its women. They will never betray you. They will never want to rip off your manhood by claiming to be equal to you. They
want
you to be stronger than them, to protect and care for them. All they ask in exchange is loyalty… and fair justice. They use the same word for justice and revenge:
badal
. For the mistreated, be it orphans or widows, nothing makes a better leader than one who offers
badal
. And we were all thirsting for… for someone who would at last appreciate our code of honor, our strength and our loyalty.”

While the big man spoke, the girl sewing up his wound has finished the last stitch. With a pass of his hand, the Colonel sends her away. He reclines and sighs, as if relieved of torturing pain.

As the girl passes by Tarasov with a jingle of bangles that adorn her ankles, she gives him a look of curiosity. Their eyes meet for a moment and Tarasov shudders once more, but this time at the regret that his life will soon be over and he will have no more chances to meet and love beautiful women like her who, as it seems to him now, has eyes yielding some unique quality that makes him forget about her gruesome scar.

“What happened later only proved me right,” the Colonel continues, “so right. We had shelter and were well equipped. We survived the nukes. Thrived, even. Soon, when enough men have joined us and the sons of our women grow up, there will be enough of us to conquer more of this land. And after that… but there’s no point in telling you more. I wanted to share this long story with you so that I don’t have to shoulder its burden alone. It is not often that I meet a fellow officer, and only men like you could possibly understand. And now, Major Mikhailo Yuryevich Tarasov, tell me – what do you think of my methods?”

The thought that his reply might save his life if it was to the Colonel’s liking paralyzes Tarasov’s mind; he can not decide which path to take – telling the big man something that he would find flattering, or the truth.

“You don’t have to worry about how to reply,” the Colonel replies upon observing his hesitation. “You will die anyway, and if I had not wanted a chance to talk, you would be dead already. Repay me the extra time you’ve been given with your honesty, Major. It is, after all, my trust in your honesty that has kept you alive so that I could ask you this question.”

Tarasov clears his throat.

“I don’t know if you, Colonel, defeated this land or this land defeated you.”

The big man smiles, but it is a somber smile. “Only the end of war will tell who is defeated. And who has seen the end of the war?”

Tarasov knows this quote. “Only the dead have.”

The Colonel nods. “Tomorrow, you will see it too. And to reward honesty with honesty: I envy you for that. Now go and see the last sunset of your life. You will see the death of this day and the next day will see yours. Corpse by corpse, we carved out a piece of the world that belongs only to us now, where we can preserve our honor. This is our Promised Land, and this Stronghold our
Alamo
. You are nothing but a trespasser here. That’s why you have to die.”

Tarasov stands motionless, waiting for a sign that will allow him to ask all the questions still flooding into his mind. The Colonel closes his eyes.

“You are dismissed.”

Tarasov pulls himself together and speaks out. “My fate is what it is. But give my guide a proper burial... please. His dignity deserves that much.”

“My First Lieutenant has already done that,” the Colonel softly replies without opening his eyes. “May that scavenger find in death the peace he was looking for in his restless life.”

At a slight motion of the Colonel’s hand, a Lieutenant appears from the shadows and leads Tarasov out of the room.

18:17:00 AFT

The two prison guards are waiting outside.

“Take him up,” the Lieutenant commands.

The guards stand to attention and salute, then lead Tarasov to a narrow staircase.

“Good news, Russkie. No more climbing stairs for you.”

“From here, your only way is down.”

“Just a few more steps up.”

After a minute, they reach the roof of the tower. The guard with the beard signals Tarasov to step forward. “This is our valley. You are to enjoy the view before you die,” he says.

“Not bad for a last sight,” the blue-eyed guard adds. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Seen from their high vantage point atop the tower, the Tribe’s hidden valley stretches out in the canyon below. The sunset makes the jagged hills appear as if they are glowing with even deeper shades of pink and red than at the break of dawn, while the green fields in the canyon are already darkened by the shadow of twilight. Now, with lights appearing in the windows and campfires being lit, the maze of narrow alleys reminds Tarasov even more profoundly of a medieval town come to life. He also realizes that the town built into the hillside is but a small part of the Tribe’s stronghold: more fortifications loom above, the stalwart, concrete-enforced bastions giving way to smaller pillboxes as the hill steepens. Partly covered by the highest rampart running along the top of the hill, the tips of antennae and satellite dishes are visible. Beyond this forest of steel, in the deep blue sky a full moon rises, glowing with orange. Compared to this stronghold, the Stalkers’ base at Bagram appears like a decrepit gipsy camp.

“It is beautiful,” Tarasov agrees.

“Say your prayers if you want,” the blue-eyed guard says. “We don’t speak your language, so feel free to curse us and ask your god to destroy us in the cruelest way possible.”

“Yeah, Brother Polak. That’s what prisoners usually pray for.”

“And their god usually doesn’t listen to them. Or did he ever listen, Brother Hillbilly?”

“Nope. And even if he does, he better not do it during
our
watch.”

Tarasov has given himself up to enjoy the scenery and have a last peaceful moment under the open sky, but the two guards begin to casually chatter amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious of his presence.

“I love this part of the job, Brother Hillbilly. Makes me feel being on top of the command chain.”

“It literally does, Brother Polak. Talking about chain of command – how is your woman doing?”

“Pretty well, well and pretty. She’s learning English really fast but still has an issue with articles. Last night, I tell her ’could you please, please say
the
bed? ’ and she puts her sweet little tongue to her upper lip and says, ’
dzeh
bed
’. So, I just tell her, ’never mind, never mind…’”

“Yeah. I heard that they all have a problem with that. ”

“I don’t mind, Brother Hillbilly. I love everything about her except her name – Forozenda. Geez, it’s so long and complicated.”

“Why don’t you just call her by another name? Being her man has its prerogatives, you know?”

“My thought exactly. I’ll call her Lechsinska. Easier for me to pronounce.”

“I call mine Peggy. Yeah, women are one’s only comfort.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic today, Brother Hillbilly.”

“Yeah. Day after tomorrow I’m scheduled for a patrol with Driscoll. Oorah.”

“I feel for you. He’s a badass, even for a First Lieutenant.”

“Not as much a badass as the Top, though.”

“Hell, yes! The Top rocks!” The guards high-five each other. “Where’s the patrol area, anyway?”

“To the south. Rag-heads keep creeping up the passes.”

“Like moths to a flame.”

“I guess we’re marked on their map as Martyrdom Central.”

“I wonder why. Anyway, did you hear that one of the newcomers was cast out last week? He said the d-word in the presence of a Lieutenant.”

“You mean,
democrat?
”

“No,
drink.
”

“Guess he couldn’t wait until his first covert recon to Bagram.”

“Yes, that’s the only way to get a – you know what, Brother Hillbilly. I won’t say it twice.”

“Too bad for the Lieutenants. No way for them to disguise themselves as scavengers.”

“Being suspiciously oversized comes at a price.”

“By the way, have you tried one of the new M27-s, Brother Polak? Lieutenant Ramirez says that beast can take a bear down with only one STANAG clip.”

“Come on, that’s overkill. What do we have the Benelli for?”

“Good point. But Ramirez likes hurting mutants. He hates them.”