Free S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort by John Mason, Noah Stacey

Tarasov of his worst mission ever was obviously intended as a punch below the belt. The soldiers seemed self-confident enough, bolstered by their previous peacekeeping missions in the Balkans and Africa , but most of them had no idea of what they were up against now.
    If he was concerned about his troopers, the new exoskeleton proved perfect. His backpack carrying medikits, bandages, personal hygiene kit, socks, tee-shirts, underwear, combat meal packs, anti-radiation drugs, his ammunition web holding spare magazines, fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades and the combat belt with the army-issue PDA, first aid kit, combat knife and side arm seemed almost weightless once supported by the titanium-alloy bodyframe. Even his new Val assault rifle, strapped over the armor plate covering his shoulder, felt as light as a plastic toy.
    But now, after cleaning himself up in a shared shower facility nearby and finishing a ration of oat meals for breakfast, he is less eager to get into the suit. He knows it will feel hotter than a Burner anomaly in there.
    War is hell , Tarasov thinks with a sigh and grins over his own sarcasm whilst preparing the exoskeleton.
    Ten minutes later he reports for duty in the operation room. Colonel Kuznetsov doesn’t care to return his salute. Instead he looks down at Tarasov’s exoskeleton, his eyes wide as if he finds something funny.
    “Do you think Termez is about to be overrun by mutants?” Kuznetsov says by way of greeting. “Remove that suit at once. There’s nothing but mosquitoes and butterflies around here. What the hell are you afraid of?”
    “I thought I was going on a mission,” Tarasov replies, unsuccessfully trying to suppress his resentment with a tone of formality. “And with your permission, Colonel, I would like to inspect the men now.”
    “No need for that, Major. I inspected them already and made all arrangements while you were still sleeping. Let’s go.”
    Kuznetsov’s voice is full of mockery, as if Tarasov had not shown up punctually to the second. He also talks loud enough for everyone in the operation room to detect the disdain in his words and tone. The only thing going for Tarasov is that there is no alcohol on Kuznetsov’s breath.
    Could it be that he takes his duty seriously after all , and his remarks about my exo were just because he’s got too used to the safety here?
    “What are you, deaf?” Kuznetsov snaps impatiently. A few computer operators look up from their screens, but quickly drop their heads again. “Move!”
    “Yes, sir.” Baffled, Tarasov walks down to the runway with Kuznetsov.
    “Doesn’t that shrieking noise from your gear drive you mad?”
    “With all due respect, sir, I don’t hear my exo making any noise.”
    “Maybe you still have Zone dirt in your ears. The metal joints shriek like a dentist’s drill. You better remove it and have it fixed before you go into battle.”
    Tarasov cannot understand. The exoskeleton does not make any noise apart from the buzz of its kinetic motors, and that is so faint that only its wearer could hear it.
    The two helicopters are already prepared for take-off. The two squads stand in front of them, neatly lined up in formation. Tarasov doesn’t believe his eyes: the soldiers are not wearing their exoskeletons, bullet-proof suits, or helmets, only their summer fatigue and berets. He feels embarrassed in his exoskeleton as if overdressed for a party.
    “Summer fatigues?” he asks gripping the Kuznetsov’s arm. “Do you think they are going to the Victory Day parade?”
    “Calm down, Major,” Kuznetsov coldly replies, freeing his arm from Tarasov’s grasp. “First: the mission will be a piece of cake. Second: it’s goddamn hot. They will have enough time to slip into their gear later.”
    “I can’t believe this. You must order them into their battle gear!”
“The hell I will. And now I’m going to hold a nice speech.” Kuznetsov glances at his Rolex. “You are already three minutes