S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (54 page)

Tarasov sighs.
I don’t even know what I was hoping for.

“No,” the Colonel says, looking out of the window into the wilderness. “We will never return. This is our home now. Tell this to the Beghum. I know it was her who sent you to find this. She could never comprehend…” The Colonel falls silent. After a long minute he turns back to Tarasov and takes something out from a wooden box. “Anyhow, you have my gratitude for your efforts. This is for you. I will also let you re-supply from our armory. Take whatever you like – I’m sure you’ll find something useful.”

“Thank you,” Tarasov quietly replies.

“You have also proven yourself worthy to be called a warrior. For many, we are the worst enemy but for you, we will be the best friends.”

Removing the oilcloth wrapper from the Colonel’s gift, Tarasov sees a beautifully forged combat knife. A delicate pattern runs down the blade, and its razor-sharp edge glows with a pale red hue. The weapon is not only beautiful as an object in its own right, but has obviously been alloyed with fire-emitting artifact too.

“This is our special Ka-Bar, as used by our warriors. Take it and bear it with honor.”

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to join your Tribe,” Tarasov boldly says. “I do have my own duty, that of my own country. I am still an officer of the
Ukraine
.”

The Colonel looks at him as if Tarasov has uttered the lowest profanity. “Don’t mistake a gift for recruitment. Even if you begged, I wouldn’t take you in. You are a friend, no more and no less… for now.”

“Fair enough.” Realizing how much he has overestimated his standing with the Colonel, Tarasov hesitates for a moment before continuing. “But there is something I need to ask you. As a friend, with all due respect.”

“And what would that be?” the Colonel asks, his voice promising nothing good.

“The Stalkers at Bagram are under attack by the dushmans and their allies. If the Tribe doesn’t help them, they will be annihilated.”

“So what?”

“If you helped them, you would have an ally to watch your back. They have traders too who could supply you with everything.”

The Colonel mockingly laughs. “We don’t need anyone to watch our back. Nor do we need Ashot’s rubbish.”

“You seem to have excellent spies, but they didn’t report everything to you. There is a technician there too. Name of Yar. He can work wonders with weapons.”

“You test my patience, Major. Didn’t you see that blade? If we go to such lengths to improve the most basic of weapons, what do you think we do to our rifles? We need no tinker man. But why do you care so much about them? You are with the military after all.”

“You think they are without honor, and you are right: many of them are scavengers, trespassers, adventurers, killers and robbers. They are, because in the end Stalkers can rely on no one but themselves. Right now you can teach them what honor means and make them your friends, and that would be a good thing for the Tribe. Because what good is there in being everyone’s worst enemy, without being anyone’s best friend?”

The Colonel keeps looking at him with the same measured state. Tarasov is at the end of his wits.
There is no way to influence this man. Whatever I say keeps rebounding off him.

Leaning against the wall with his hands, the Colonel now turns back to the window, drumming his fingers. Tarasov stands patiently awaiting a reply for so long that he begins to get the feeling that the Colonel has forgotten about his presence. It therefore startles him when the Colonel suddenly addresses him again.

“Would you be ready to die for your men, Major?”

“I am a soldier, trained to kill and to stay alive,” the major replies without hesitation. “But if dying would make a difference… I would take it on as a sacrifice with meaning.”

“Well spoken. Too bad there are bigger sacrifices than dying!”

Tarasov gives the Colonel a baffled gaze but the big man turns his back on him to look out into the dusk again. “Go and see to your woman now. I will have my decision in time.”

The major knows the Colonel has nothing more to say. He also knows that, while the Lieutenants are standing at the door like statues, they are watching every move he makes. With nothing left to say and no action to be taken, Tarasov salutes and takes his leave. The Lieutenants let him pass and, stepping out of the Colonel’s tower, the major becomes silently preoccupied with his own concerns.

So… probably it will be me alone, maybe with a few Stalkers from the Asylum at best. I’ll leave at dawn.

Tribe stronghold, 18:41:56 AFT

It is the first time he finds himself unguarded and free to roam the Tribe’s stronghold, and it comes as a surprise to him how peaceful, even romantic the encampment appears. Small fires light up the narrow street leading down to the gate, each one with fighters sitting around, relaxing. Warm light emanates from the small windows of the mud houses overlooking the valley that is now cast into darkness by the approaching night. Some homes have been built into the rocks with rope bridges leading up to and connecting them. The jagged mountains gleam crimson for a few minutes before the sun sets, leaving only shades of deep blue and purple on the horizon. But with the eyes of a well-trained soldier, Tarasov can also see that every stone in the stronghold has been placed with only one goal in mind: defense. The serene lights from the fighters’ homes come from a direction where the valley could easily be kept under fire. The way to the gate is winding, with pillboxes perfectly aligned at positions to intercept intruders with machine gun fire. The fighters themselves may be chatting and smoking on hookah pipes, but all keep their rifles within reach, and here and there sandbags lie uniformly stacked up, ready to bolster the defenses. On the ramparts and bastions, rifle lights shine as guards keep their watch, and he also recognizes the small but well-trodden path that leads to the Pit. The thought of a home here with Nooria waiting for him almost makes him regret his words about not joining the Tribe.

“Are you lost?”

Tarasov jumps even as he recognizes the voice of the black gunnery sergeant.

“As a matter of fact… I am.”

“Don’t worry. It’s easy to get lost in this warren. If it’s the healer’s house you’re looking for, keep walking up the alley, always uphill.”

“That’s not exactly how I meant it…” The fighter seems friendly enough, so Tarasov decides to ask him the questions that are on his mind. “Do you have a little time?”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“Just a few questions.”

“My watch is coming up. If I’m late, the Sergeant Major’s gonna get my ass.”

“Then at least tell me where the armory is.”

“Boxkicker’s den? Up that alley to the right and across the bridge. He should be around with a few fighters doing PMCS.” Seeing the confusion on Tarasov’s face, he adds: “That’s p
reventative maintenance checks and services
.”

The fighter hurries off. Following his directions, The major passes by a few campfires where the warriors stop chatting and watch him with curious, distrustful eyes before turning back to their chat and the fruity-smelling smoke of their hookah pipes.

Tarasov has a strange feeling about them. Then he realizes that one thing is missing, something he had thought no soldier could live without: alcohol. He can’t see any bottles being shared, any glasses filled with spirits. Only teapots steam over the charcoal fires.

No way could I ever join them. No booze.

Passing by a home hewn into the rock he hears a woman chastising a misbehaving child.

“Hush! Go to bed or Osama will get you!”

“But Mom, the Colonel killed Osama long ago!”

“Go to bed, big mouth, or you’ll not be going to the shooting range tomorrow!”

Walking over a rope bridge, Tarasov sees a bunker ahead. A sign on its metal door says
PROPERTY SHED
in neatly painted letters.

Before entering, Tarasov examines his equipment. He has only two magazines left for the Vintorez
.
It will barely be enough for the trip to the Asylum, never mind Bagram.

I’ll need an arsenal for fighting my way to Bagram. Let’s see what they have
.

Stepping inside, he finds a few warriors tending to their rifles under shelves that are beginning to sag under the weight of the weapons on them. A man is standing at a work bench, welding something that looks like heavy armor plates for a machine gunner’s position in a Humvee.

“Look at that! You got yourself a new customer, Boxkicker,” a fighter says.

The technician switches off the welding torch and removes his mask. Heavy sweat runs down his red, snooty face.

“Spare the introduction,” he says wiping the sweat away, “I know you’re in for a free ride.”

“Where did you get all this gear from?” Tarasov asks, scanning the shelves. The amount and variety of first-class weaponry leaves him in awe: what he can see from a mere glance blows Ashot’s stock, or even many military armories, out of the water. From pistols to Gatling guns and submachine guns to heavy assault rifles, every lethal weapon ever made in the Western hemisphere lies here in perfect order and condition.

“
Where
is none of your business,” Boxkicker says. “Suffice to say, we still have… sympathizers. Rest assured, it’s not Human Rights Watch or the ACLU.”

The warriors burst out laughing but Tarasov doesn’t get the joke.

“What’s the ACLU?”

The armourer grins. “No clue, eh? You Russians don’t know how lucky you are.” The warriors laugh again. Tarasov looks back at the weapons, feeling like a child in a toy shop.

“We got the word you’re in for some cumshaw. Make your choice, but we have no Kalashnikovs or other slavshit here,” Boxkicker says, eyeing Tarasov’s rifle covetously. “I dig your Vintorez, though.”

The technician’s American slang puzzles Tarasov.
Dig a weapon?
he thinks.
Never heard that before.
“What do you mean? Why would you… use my rifle for digging?”

Seeing his confusion, the technician gives him a wide grin. “Never mind, Russkie. If you can’t choose between a forty-mike-mike and a gimpy, just ask.”

“I’d go for the nightwatch,” a warrior adds. The others eagerly join in the mocking.

“Forget that. No man is man enough without a bushmaster.”

“Check out the Ma Deuce, Russkie.”

“You ever fired a Pig?”

“I love firing my boomstick in the morning. Sounds like victory.”

“Once I dumped a girl because she made me chose between her and my blooper.”

“Come on, dude, the only girl you got into was your
ALICE
!”

“So, Russkie,” Boxkicker says, turning to Tarasov, still laughing and wiping more sweat from his face. “Tell me what you need.”

Tarasov looks around. The abundance of Western-made arms is overwhelming. “Boxkicker… what about that SOP-modified M4A1, including the ACOG? You could throw in a few 30-round magazines as well.”

“Hear ye, hear ye… we have an educated Russian here.”

“And the Heckler & Koch
M27 with a
C-Mag on that shelf to your right. Can I see it?”

“Come on, that’s too good for you. I can offer a PIP M249 with a cloth pouch holding two hundred rounds.”