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

ordered Dragonfly Two to carry the armored suits!”
    “I hear you now, Zotkin, you don’t need to shout.”
    ‘It’s a bad idea to me too, sir, but he insisted.’
    “At least the troopers are carrying their rifles with them… but where are the machine gunner and the sniper?”
    “All present, Major…”
    “Then why don’t I see their weapons?”
    “Dragonfly Two carries all our heavy gear. The Colonel’s orders –”
    Hearing this, all that Tarasov can do is to burst out in a stream of profanities. Most of it is directed at Kuznetsov, the rest at the army brass as a whole. Praporshchik Zotkin grins in approval.
    The ventilator might ease the heat for the soldiers but Tarasov is bathed in sweat under his exoskeleton. Its kinetic motors are supposed to load the batteries powering the cooling pads but he hasn’t moved enough to fully charge them yet. He switches off the system to save power for their arrival. He knows that one thing that not even the nukes have changed in Afghanistan is the heat. A signal beeps in his intercom.
    “Condor, this is Kilo One, do you copy?” Tarasov is delighted to hear Degtyarev’s voice. He touches the speaker’s button on his neck and replies: “This is Condor. Copy you loud and clear.”
    “In five, you will be in Afghan airspace. Give me a sit-rep.”
    “All well, but according to Whiskey we’re going to a parade ground.”
    “Say again, Condor?”
    “Alex,” shouts Tarasov losing his patience, “I’m moving into a fucking Zone in fucking Afghanistan with my men wearing nothing but their fucking uniforms!”
      “Two minutes to Afghan airspace,” reports the pilot.
    “Listen, Condor… all you can do now is consolidating your gear as soon as you touch down. Our satellites indicate your landing zone as clear. Whiskey will give you updates from now. You are good to go,” sounds Degtyarev’s voice. “See you at the 100 Rads. Good luck on your raid. Kilo One clearing out.”
    “Like I don’t give a damn about your luck. Over and out.”
    The praporshchik looks surprised at hearing this but Tarasov doesn’t feel like explaining.
    “That river below is the Amu-Darya, Major” says the pilot, “you can see the Friendship Bridge to our left… and the refugee camps.”
    All that Tarasov sees is a huge square below, once probably consisting of neatly arranged army-issue tents, now turned into a colorful mess, like an oriental carpet, by ten times as many people living there as the camp was laid out for, using every square meter to carve out a space for living.
    “Bloody Afghans,” Tarasov hears Zotkin’s voice. “They hate our guts. I hope I’ll never have to see these refugees appear in my country.”
    The helicopter flies over the Amu-Darya – a silver band crossing the ochre-colored plains.
    “Here we go,” comes the voice of the pilot. “We’re flying over Afghanistan now.”
    Tarasov looks out of the tiny window. The endless plains below look the same all over.
    According to his watch they still have forty minutes to their landing zone. He unfastens his safety belt and moves closer to the window. The two helicopters fly now over undulating terrain, the color reminding him of milky coffee. The sand dunes appear like wrinkles on the palm of a hand, even though they might be several meters high.
    “Once we too were running from a nuclear disaster, Zotkin,” Tarasov tells the old soldier. “Never forget that.”
    “I never will, komandir ,” the praporshchik replies. “I left my family in Limansk.”
    Tarasov’s second in command narrows his eyes, as if checking if his words made an impression on the major. But Tarasov refuses to appear impressed.
    “We can’t change what happened, can we?”
    “No, komandir .”
    “And Afghanistan ? We can have our revenge, can’t we, Zotkin?”
    “I don’t care about revenge, komandir !”
    “You didn’t lose anyone from the family there? Your brother, father, a friend? Because it’s pay-back