S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (57 page)

“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 corpses 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.”

Body Count

Bagram, 16:34:56 AFT

“Yar! You have a minute?”

“What? I can’t hear you Ashot. My ear drums are blown.”

“That’s nothing, me dear! I have bullets in me ass.”

“Actually, I got stabbed in my neck too.”

“C’mon, man, that’s nothing compared to me amputated toe!”

“Sorry, I can’t admire it. I’m wearing a patch on my better eye.”

“So you have no seen me boots? I can’t find them since Bonesetter patched up me feet!”

“You removed your boots? Now I understand why they ran away!”

“YOU TWO! THE INTERCOM WAS NOT REPAIRED TO FACILITATE YOUR SMALL TALK! AND YOU, MAJOR… COME OVER. WE NEED TO TALK.”

Fuck you, Bone,
Tarasov thinks as he gets out of the Humvee and looks around.

The siege has taken a heavy toll on the Stalkers’ base. Incoming RPGs have pounded the walls of Bone’s command center. The old Antonov is in even worse shape than she was before, with one of the wings broken away from the fuselage, probably due to mortar fire, and now lying on the ground riddled with bullets indicating how the Stalkers had converted it into a makeshift firing position to compensate for the steel container that had been blasted away at the gate. Close to a relatively intact part of the container wall, Tarasov sees a dozen freshly dug graves. The watchtower still stands, with one Stalker on top of it behind the sandbags that have been darkened by the smoke of explosions. The only comforting sight is that of his two battle-worn soldiers hurrying up to greet him.

“Major Tarasov!” the sergeant greats him cheerily. “It’s good to have you back!”

“Viktor! Ilch! Glad to see you in one piece!”

“What happened to you? You look… different.”

“It’s a long story…”

“In one sentence, Major,” Ilchenko says, “please. You left with Squirrel and returned with a whole army!”

“In one sentence? All right… we destroyed the AA battery that shot down our choppers and ran into the Tribe who killed Squirrel and wanted to stone me to death, but a woman preferred that I get her witch daughter with child and sent me to a mutant-infested village to find some old intel that was very important for the Tribe’s leader, who I eventually made save Bagram. That’s that.”

“Damn… stone you to death?” Ilchenko asks shaking his head. “What on earth are those people? Savages?”

“Far from it.”

“The only thing that counts is that you are finally back with us!”

Tarasov doesn’t know how to counter Zlenko’s enthusiasm.

If I wanted to be honest with him, I would admit that I no longer know where ‘back’ and ‘away’ is and who ‘us’ might be. This place has got me good.

“Be happy it didn’t happen to Ilchenko. If it were him telling this story, we’d still be listening to him till Christmas!”

“Don’t worry, Sarge, I’m looking forward to make nice story out of this once I get home!”

“All right,
rebjati
… Whatever happened, I am still your commander and we still have a mission to accomplish. Zlenko, what’s the status of the squad?”