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 preventative 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.”
“Only if it comes with enough duct tape to prevent it from falling apart.”
“You have a point, I give you that. All right… Ammo for this one? Suppose you want to take some full metal jacket M855’s.”
“I don’t need it for pea shooting. Are those Match bullets over there?”
“Bingo. Two boxes is all you get.”
“I could use that Benelli M4 too with a few boxes of slugs.”
“You are a rat-fuck, you know that? Take this shotgun.”
“What about that one?” Tarasov points at an ochre-painted, heavy rifle.
“Uh-oh… you want to make my life really difficult, eh?”
“Is that so?”
“I don’t know what’s screwing me up more, giving you that Gepard M6 or ignoring the big man’s orders… how would an anti-material rifle help you, anyway?”
“By making a material difference between life and death, I suppose.”
“That’s a real ass for sure. But it only works with Russian 12,7 millimeter rounds and we don’t have many of them around here.”
“I ask you very nicely: may I take the Gepard, please?”
“No way. You better keep your dickbeater off that.”
“Stop being so shit-hot, Boxkicker,” a warrior says quietly. “He’s Nooria’s mate.
Unless you want her pissing into your wounds next time you need first aid, you better give him what he wants.”
“Oh, yes, Nooria.” The armourer smacks his lips. “I guess before eating her out, you’ve had to let her soak in hot water for an hour, scrubbed and disinfected her, and then put a bucket over her head to cover her face?”
Tarasov’s face reddens with anger.
“You don’t want any trouble for yourself,” another warrior tells Boxkicker. “Give him what he wants, big mouth.”
“I won’t give the Gepard to this rat-fuck. He can kiss my ass. But only if he washes his mouth after kissing that pus-faced little witch who –”
The armourer doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Quick as lightning, Tarasov’s fist darts out and slams into Boxkicker’s cardia and arm, followed by one more punch to the throat that sends him sprawling among the neatly arranged weapons. Knocked out, he stays on the ground with rifles, tools, grenades and ammunition magazines raining down onto his head from the ruined shelves.
“Fuck,” Boxkicker eventually groans, spitting out blood and teeth.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, have anything you need’,” Tarasov says firmly, and piles the weapons and ammunition into his exoskeleton’s rucksack.
“Respect, Russkie,” a fighter laughs, “that’s what I call a ninja punch!”
“Wrong, pindos,” Tarasov grumbles back as he leaves the armory. “It’s called Systema.”
Nooria’s home, 7 October 2014, 21:57:13 AFT
“I’m back.”
Upon entering Nooria’s home and putting his new weapons down on the floor, the irony of his situation makes him smile.
It feels like returning to a perfectly normal home after a day’s shopping.
“Welcome, my warrior!” Nooria beams happily from the hearth, where she is boiling something spicy in a blackened pot. She looks different now, wearing a white gown with beautiful embroidery with her loose, freshly washed hair shining with the fire’s reflection. “You look happy. What did he say?”
“He is still thinking about it,” Tarasov shrugs while taking off his armored suit. “I couldn’t impress him enough.”
“I told you when you arrived from village. His heart is hard like…” Nooria knocks on the iron pot.
“I will have to leave you again tomorrow.”
Tarasov is concerned about her reaction. Nooria is a woman from the Tribe and he couldn’t blame her if she couldn’t understand why he wanted to go off helping the Stalkers, who her people considered to be nothing but worthless scavengers. Looking at the white dress that barely hides her dark-skinned, delicate figure, he almost regrets his words.
“Of course you will,” she casually replies taking the pot from the hearth and putting it on the table. As she moves close to him and waves her hair from her face, Tarasov smells her scent. He knows enough about women to know that her hair did not need to be fussed about. “And now eat. You look hungry.”
“What is this?”
“Stew. Devil pups hunted down a deer.”
After all the things he’s heard about Nooria, Tarasov is a little suspicious of the thick, spicy broth, but it tastes like a normal soup, even if it is spicier that what he is used to. He savors the first few spoonfuls. The last decent, warm meal he had was at his mother’s apartment, but the Ukraine, the Old Zone and Kiev now seem to be on another planet.
“You don’t like it?” Nooria asks with concern, studying his face. She sits down on the rug, watching Tarasov eating. “I have some powders to make it more tasteful.”
“Oh no, thanks, it’s delicious,” Tarasov quickly replies. “But listen… could you please sit with me here, at the table?”
“No. Women always wait until men finish their meal.”
Tarasov puts down the spoon. “But I can’t eat like this.”
“Please do. I have something to do until you finish.” Tarasov opens his lips to swallow down another spoonful but his mouth stays open in surprise as Nooria grasps his rifle and, before he can say a word, starts disassembling it.
“What are you doing, Nooria?”
“Cleaning your weapon.”
Tarasov rolls his eyes. “Leave that M4 alone, woman. It’s loaded.”
“Of course it is. But this one is from a new shipment… I didn’t treat this yet. Wait.”
She disappears in the back room. When she returns, she brings a small pouch and a piece of cloth. Nooria skillfully disassembles the rifle and applies a greasy, gray substance on it that the gun’s metal immediately absorbs.
“I made it from your new swag,” she explains seeing Tarasov’s puzzled look. “It will keep your gun clean. Dust and dirt will not stick to it.”
“What? You made gun grease from my artifact?”
“But of course. Some are better used like this than carried around. From some I make refreshing ointment. From others, I make oil for wounds. I make powder, mix it with herbs, glowing stones… Things like that.” She shrugs and gives Tarasov an innocent giggle.
“Where did you learn all this?”
Nooria’s giggle turns into a mysterious smile. “Ask me something else.”
“All right… Why do you call those kid soldiers devil pups?”
“The Colonel’s former tribe called themselves devil dogs. He loves tradition. That is why the children are called pups. They will become warriors one day, if they prove themselves.”
“Uh-hum… Did you give the Colonel and his Lieutenants some of these special powders of yours? Because all of them are so huge…”
“No… that was…” The smile vanishes from Nooria’s face. “They were with Colonel when they went into…”
“Where?”
“Depths of Shahr-i-Gholghola.”
Tarasov slowly begins to understand. Whatever they found under the City of Screams turned them into human, living juggernauts. But how could this happen? He wishes he could ask Nooria more questions about the village and the battle that had happened there, but she doesn’t look too eager to be pressed.
“I saw something weird in the village…” he says carefully. “It was a mutant, but instead of attacking me it made ghosts appear. Strange ghosts… they looked very real.”
“Was it difficult to kill?”
“No.”
“I know its kind… we call it djinn. It is very weak and hides in caves and ruins. It tries to scare its enemies away. If jackals come, it makes them see snake. If snake comes, it shows him bear. And to men, it shows dreadful things. You are brave.”
“Curious would be a better word… and now I feel miserable for killing a weak mutant that only wanted to scare me away.”
“You have good heart.”
“Now this is something no one has told me for a long, long time.” A feeling of compassion comes over Tarasov as he looks down at the fragile girl, who returns his look with a smile on her scarred face. “About those ghosts… were they for real?”
“My village has seen many sad things,” Nooria replies, getting up from the ground and taking the empty plate from the table. “Let us not talk about such things tonight. We have something more important to do.”
All Tarasov wants to do is to relax after the hearty soup. I wish I could have a beer now.
“Nooria, you are good with all kinds of powders and potions… do you know how to brew beer?”
“A bear? You did not like deer stew?” She asks, disappointedly, going back to cleaning the rifle. “Because a bear tastes very bad.”
“Never mind…” Suddenly, Tarasov’s eye falls on a large pot and a pile of stale, dark bread next to the hearth. “Is that made of rye?”
“Yes. But it is old bread.”
“All the better. Do you have… you know, that thing used for making bread…”
“Yeast? I think so.”
“Raisins and sugar?”
“Yes, but why?”
“All right… now it’s my turn to teach you a secret recipe. Cut and dry the bread. Boil water in that
big pot. When boiling, take it from the fire and stir. Cover the pot and let it rest in a dark, cool place. After half a day, filter the liquid. Mix yeast with warm water and a pinch of sugar. Wait until the yeast gets foamy. Stir it into the filtered liquid with a little sugar… can you still follow?”
Nooria nods while removing the magazine from the carbine. She wraps the cloth around her finger and starts cleaning the breech. Her finger moves slowly and gently inside the rifle, as if caressing it. Tarasov stares at her eyes, still fixed on him, and suddenly finds it hard to concentrate on the recipe.
“Okay… anyway… after a day, filter it into a pitcher and add the raisins. Wait for a couple of days, then serve it cold. The warriors will love it.”
Nooria gives him a suspicious look. “Hm… is that sarab?”
“What? Oh no, it’s not alcoholic. My mother prepared it for me when I was a child… it’s a very good drink… but why don’t you drink alcohol, anyway?”
“Long time ago, Colonel found two drunk fighters during their watch. He killed them. Since then, no sarab for fighters.”
“Gospodi… But don’t worry, nobody will be shot for having my kind of drink.”
“He didn’t shoot them. And as you wish, I can give it a try…”
“Please do, but don’t add any stone powders, swags or artifacts to it, all right?”
“All right. But I will not prepare it now. Now I have something else in mind.”
“And, uhm, what do you have in mind?”
Nooria now moves the cleaning cloth up and down the rifle barrel, softly, gently and very slowly. She gives him a broad smile, flashing her white teeth.
“What do you think I have in mind?”
Nooria’s home, 8 October 2014, 05:48:59 AFT
Knowing that it could be the last time he sees her, Tarasov leaves no inch of Nooria’s body untouched. While kissing and caressing her scars as if tenderness could heal them, Mac’s – or better, Elisabeth’s – words come his mind: “To find another human being who has everything about him what the Zone means – a new reason for staying alive.”
Staying alive… I wouldn’t mind if I died right now, with her as my last sight.
Her body stretches out like a landscape, undulating female curves that smell of sweat and the scent from the body oil, prepared from an artifact that seems to have the powers of an aphrodisiac – not as if he would need any such help tonight. He fondles her breasts and lets his hand glide up to her scarred neck and face, fondling her loose hair, and rests his head on her belly with her taste still on his tongue. Tarasov wants to fall asleep there, feeling the warmth emanating from Nooria’s body against his face.
He closes his ears to the commotion outside, not willing to get up even when Nooria gets to her feet and, quickly covering her nakedness with her long gown, leaves their sleeping place.
From somewhere in the distance, the noise of heavy engines being started sounds through the night.
Doors open and Tarasov hears an agitated male voice outside, but ignores it still.
“Wake up!”
Nooria sounds anxious.
“What’s happened?” Tarasov mumbles, half asleep. “Why are you so upset?”
Through his half-open eyelids, heavy with tiredness, Tarasov sees his rifle in Nooria’s hands. Its impeccably clean gun metal shines in the candlelight.
“Take it and use it with honor,” Nooria says with a hint of sadness in her voice, “because you must leave me now. Lance Corporal Bockman is here for you.”
“But… why?” Tarasov asks. A frightening thought agitates him. I hope it’s not the Colonel ordering me away from her after I pissed him off last night. “What is this about?”
Nooria gives him the weapon. “Our Tribe is going into battle. Be brave and strong, warrior... and return to me with victory.”
Ghorband, 11:34:26 AFT
Hidden behind a BTR wreck, Tarasov studies the Stalkers guarding the roadblock at Ghorband through his binoculars. They seem nervous, keeping their rifles ready to shoot and barely moving out from the cover of the sand bags.
“Don’t shoot! Friendly coming through!” Concerned that he might be shot on sight, the major slowly steps out of cover and starts walking towards the Stalkers with his hands held high. “Don’t shoot, brothers!”
“Lower your weapons,” he hears the Shrink shouting, “it’s the boyevoychik! Hey, come quickly! I hope you’re here to help us!”
“Indeed, Borys. We’re going to Bagram to kick ass!”
The Shrink looks at him with utter disbelief. “No way. We’ll be lucky if we stay alive here. We heard vehicles approaching… We are really screwed. Bagram is under siege and soon the Tribe will be at our throats too… This will be our last stand. Here, brother! Come, have some vodka while you still can!”
“No vodka today, thanks, nor will there be a last stand. I brought men with me... a few good men.”
“This is no time for jokes. Where are they?”
“Behind me. You better holster your weapons.” The major presses the button on his intercom. “Bockman, the road is clear. Proceed. Have a truck take a few hitchhikers aboard.”
The Stalkers become startled as they hear the noise of heavy engines approaching.
“This can’t be real,” Borys murmurs. “But if it isn’t real, it does sound real… and then it’s me who needs a shrink because I’m hallucinating.”
“No, you aren’t, and you won’t have to walk today. Look!”
From beyond the next bend in the road, a Humvee appears. Then a dozen more follow and after them a long column of a hundred heavily armored vehicles, decorated with decomposing Taliban and mutant skulls, the Tribe’s red banner proudly blazing on the antennae.
Bagram area, 13:07:51 AFT
The Humvee, driven by the Lance Corporal and now carrying the Colonel and Tarasov, turns up a trail leading to a high hill overlooking Bagram. The main convoy halts, still covered by the forest between the road and the sandy, open plain to the east. Two trucks leave the convoy and follow the Colonel to the hilltop where they stop, covering the flanks of their leader’s vehicle.
“You won’t need your gear,” the Colonel says upon observing that Tarasov is about to take his new M4 carbine with him. “Take the scope from the Gepard only. It’s longer than your toy binocs.”
A dozen Lieutenants jump down from the trucks and assume a protective position around the Colonel. They are led by a warrior wearing an exoskeleton that is entirely different to the others, since it has been painted entirely black – even his helmet, held under his arm, on which the red SEMPER FI inscription blazes out even brighter. Out of all the warriors around, except the Colonel, he is the only one without his helmet on. Blue eyes stare out from a sun-baked, wrinkled face topped by gray hair cut to stubble, radiating the composure of a senior fighter who has already seen many battles like the one unfolding in front of them. Although taller and leaner, there is something confidence-inspiring in his presence that reminds Tarasov of praporshchik Zotkin.
More trucks and Humvees arrive on the hill, carrying mortars and heavy machine guns. Their crews quickly start preparing them, but obviously not quickly enough for the senior warrior.
“Don’t be scared of breaking your fingernails, ladies! You are not just a fire support team, you are my fire support team! Anderson, do you want the big man to think that my fire support team is made up of pussies? Do you want to let me fucking down, gunny?”
“No, Sergeant Major Hartman, sir!”
“Then speed up! That also includes you, Corporal Hendricks! You’re not in the Belgian army anymore! Haul those ammo boxes!”
“Oorah, sir!”
“That’s the spirit! Move, move, move, warriors! Maybe the gunny told you that we’re here for a lazy pussies convention. That’s damn wrong! What are we here for today?”
“For the kill!” the warriors’ chorus replies.
“And what am I here for?”
“For the thrill!”
&
nbsp; “I want that kill! I want that thrill!” the Sergeant Major roars. “Move, you lame pussies!”
Standing in front of his command vehicle and studying the besieged base through his binoculars, the Colonel orders a command into his radio.
“Assault team, proceed towards Phase Line Akron.”
“Affirmative. Assault team is Oscar Mike,” comes the reply.
“Keep it steady, Ramirez.”
“Fire support team is prepared, sir,” the Sergeant Major reports to the Colonel, who glances at his watch.
“It took them three seconds longer than I expect, Top.”
“Apologies, sir. I’ll talk to Anderson about it once the show is over.”
At that moment, a volley of RPG projectiles hit the gates of the Stalker base, blasting a machine gun post and sending half a dozen defenders to their deaths.
“Looks pretty hairy down there,” the Colonel calmly remarks.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle, sir.”
“Top, have the fire team stand by.” The Colonel raises his radio set. “Driscoll, proceed with the security team to grid Zulu Bravo Seven Niner.”
Through his binoculars, Tarasov watches a few lighter armored vehicles leaving the main column, and cannot shake off a steady flow of bad memories when he hears the cruel First Lieutenant’s voice reply through the radio.
“Affirmative. Security team moving out.”
The vehicles speed up, driving around the hill the Colonel has chosen for his command post so as to stay out of the sight of the enemy, and quickly move towards the road leading to the south.
“Driscoll is closing the kill zone,” the Sergeant Major tells Tarasov with a grin. “No rag-head will get out of here alive, not even if they’re disguised as Minnie the Mouse!”
Two small, light trucks arrive on the hill.
What are they doing here? Tarasov asks himself. No armor, no nothing…unless that thing under the cover is some piece of artillery.
“Looks bad for the scavengers,” the Sergeant Major tells him, pointing towards the besieged Stalker base. “They’re in deep shit. A real clusterfuck.”
Tarasov raises his binoculars. The container wall around the Antonov is shattered, while here and there tracer bullets still fizz towards the waves of enemies who swarm around the Stalker base like a sea of ants.
“Major,” he hears the Colonel calling, “you will not take part in this battle. You will only have the pleasure of watching it. But before it begins, I give you a mission.”
Tarasov turns to him with a bad feeling festering in his guts.
“You were right, Major, we have no friends here. But I don’t think that Stalkers and the Tribe will ever be friends. I ordered my men into this battle because I want you to be in my debt.”
This doesn’t sound good, the major thinks.
“I want you to be in my debt because I will task you to do something that is almost impossible,” the Colonel says. “I give you the task of staying alive until you have done what you came here for. Afterwards, I want you to find my son and give him what you have found in that village. Tell him what you have seen here – everything. Are you willing to do this for me, in exchange for the miserable lives of a few scavengers?”
“What if I die, no matter how hard I try to stay alive?”
Another huge explosion rocks the Stalkers’ defenses.
“Would you dare to disappoint me?” A grim smile appears on the Colonel’s face. “You better make up your mind now, because your friends seem to have only minutes left to live.”
“Yes, I will do that for you. If I can stay alive.”
“Consider that a direct order from me. Take this damned pen drive and guard it with your life. I have saved everything on it that you’ll need to know to find my son. When you find him, you will understand what I said about heroin, and why we littered the poppy fields with corpses. And now… now you will see me unleashing the greatest warriors the earth has ever seen.”
“Assault team has reached Phase Line Akron. Sierra Bravo,” Tarasov hears a voice crackling in the radio.
“Security team is in position,” comes another report.
The Colonel looks up to the endless grey sky and takes a deep breath. His trembling nostrils tell of excitement barely withheld. “I love battles at dawn… let the sky crumble. Top – send the assault team in!”
“Assault team, proceed through Phase Line Boston to Phase Line Charleston,” the Sergeant Major commands through his radio. “When you reach Charleston, wait for the big man’s command before you strike.”
“Assault team. Affirmative.”
Tarasov raises his binoculars to his eyes. The column starts moving, turning eastwards on a narrow road through the forest.
The vehicles keep precisely the same distance from each other, as if they were railway carriages pulled by the same locomotive, even upon reaching the plain where they accelerate and swirl up a huge plume of dust and sand.
“Assault team crossing Phase Line Boston.”
So far, all the call signs, orders and destination codes sounded to Tarasov like a normal military operation, but now the Colonel barks an unexpected command.
“Top! Sound the bell.”
“Oorah, sir!” The Sergeant Major waves his hand to the light trucks. Their crews remove the canvas from the tops but, to Tarasov’s surprise, it is not a weapon that they are carrying but a massive set of loudspeakers.
Suddenly, Tarasov hears the toll of a huge bell, its sound so deep and menacing as if it heralds the Apocalypse itself, and so loud that it feels as if it is crushing his eardrums. The dreadful toll rolls through the plains and echoes back from the hills far away.
“Our way of letting them know that doom is coming,” the Sergeant Major shouts over with a wide smile, putting his helmet on.
“Assault team has reached Phase Line Charleston,” comes through the radio.
“Assume assault formation, Ramirez,” the Colonel commands. “Fire support team, the kill zone is yours.”
“Fire for effect! Give’m hell!”
On the Sergeant Major’s orders, the mortars fire a salvo and the heavy machine guns on the Humvees start barking.
The column has reached the plain and deploys into a semi-circle, outflanking the enemy like a gigantic snake raising its head to strike its prey. The Humvees slow down for a minute and turn towards the enemy who are already being hammered by the Tribe’s mortars and heavy machine guns.
“Assault team in position.”
“Assault team – go!” the Colonel commands. “Fire support, shift your fire!”
The sound of guitars now screams from the loudspeakers at skull-crushing volume, playing a symphony of pure rage. A desire for destruction overwhelms him and Tarasov feels the urge to run down from the hill with all guns blazing, unleashing a scream to join the singer’s brutal cry. He feels like a puppet moved by the toll of the bell, blending with the merciless rhythm coming from the loudspeakers.
A glance from the Colonel stops him dead. In the gray glow of dawn, the massive roar of battle blends with the music rolling over the plain below.
Tarasov believed that the Tribe had earned its notoriety by pure cruelty. But what he sees now unfolding is the most impressive deployment of mobile firepower he has ever witnessed.
The line of vehicles accelerates, the mounted machine guns and grenade launchers spitting bullets and explosives into the enemy ranks. They don’t slow down as they smash into the dushmans, throwing bodies and shattered limbs into the sky. Now the warriors jump off and charge forward while the machine guns on the vehicles cover the area ahead of them with a deadly rain of fire. Tarasov sees a warrior blasting the heads of two enemies with his machine gun while devil pups charge forward, their fixed bayonets red from the glowing alloy and blood.
A Humvee gets separated from the line and is soon surrounded by the enemy, only to unleash a massive streak of fire from a mounted flamethrower and clear a circle filled with burning corp
ses around it. He sees a devil pup dying, then another one who had tried to protect his fallen comrade. For a moment the line falters, but a few senior warriors fill their loosened ranks and mow the enemy down with rifle fire. The Tribe’s iron gauntlet closes around the enemy, mercilessly and irresistibly pushing them forward to the container wall, where the defenders’ bullets rain down into their massed ranks.
Tarasov swings the binoculars towards the Stalkers who are fighting a pitched battle against the dushmans, several of whom are climbing up the wall. A Stalker in a heavy suit kicks one in the head, only to be shot in the back by a dark-clad figure crawling up the wall. Two rounds from a defender’s shotgun blow the dushman’s head off. Tarasov sees the enemy starting to falter, but at the gate, blasted and half ruined by RPG hits and hand grenades, a group of heavily armored Chinese commandos hold their ground among the terrified, routing dushmans and pushes on towards the gate.
“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.”