10
“Hey dostan! Mikhahid be chizhaye aali gosh bedahid?”
Under a clear, cobalt-blue sky one of the Tribe’s Humvee is driving down a narrow canyon. Painted over the sand-colored camouflage scheme in bright red letters, Raghead Reaper is written on its hood. The road is barely more than a track but with no anomalies in sight, the driver allows himself for more speed than what would be necessary to navigate along the bumpy track.
Looking around from his tower atop the vehicle, the machine gunner drums his fingers on the built-in .50 caliber. He repeats his question through the intercom.
“In mosik rak ast begzarid espeakerhaye MP3 player ra vasl konam! “
“We are to supposed to talk English,” the fighter sitting in the vehicle commander’s seat replies. He is wearing a Marine corporal’s chevrons on the sleeve of his light combat armor. “Anderson’s orders. Practice, practice, devil pups.”
“Okay,” the machine gunner replies. “Care for a little music?”
The corporal looks at the GPS, then at the high, rocky slopes flanking the canyon. The area looks safe to him. “Let’s rock.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
The machine gunner grins. He slides into the compartment and plugs his MP3 player into the dashboard radio. At first, the song that made him rave sounds oriental, but each line recited by a hoarse voice begins with an forceful guitar riff.
“Dig that, dude,” the driver says. “Sounds like Arabic. Like Ilias talks, the Moroccan guy in Lieutenant Trang’ squad. You got the lyrics?”
The corporal’s radio crackles but with the music playing loud, neither he nor anyone else in the compartment is noticing it.
“Papa Duck. Raghead Reaper, I have a drone image on you. You’ve taken a wrong turn about, uhm, half a klick back. Perform a U-turn and rejoin column.”
“Positive. I found the lyrics on the net. Wait a sec, I’ve a printout somewhere—”
He fishes a piece of paper from a pocket on his assault vest and starts reading it out loudly.
“That’s cool, dude. Carry on!” the driver says jerking his head to the rhythm.
“Love such patrols,” the machine gunner shouts back as he assumes his position behind the .50 caliber.
“Did Driscoll write this between two kills?”
“Papa Duck. Raghead Reaper, you are approaching a non-secured map grid. Turn back. Repeat: non-secure section ahead. Turn back!”
“I don’t think so!”
“Does he ever listen to music?”
“A little Shakira might have a good effect on him.”
The machine gunner laughs and shakes his hips. “Hell yeah! Make him waka-waka!”
“Raghead Reaper, drone image shows an ambush prepared, I repeat: ambush ahead! Get your ass out of there, immediately!”
“Listen, the last part is really awesome!”
The music becomes more chaotic, aggressive even as despair and anger mount in the singer’s voice.
“We should ask Bockman to build in subwoofers!”
“We’re not on a joyride, for God’s sake. Better keep your eyes open!”
With his gloved hands, the machine gunner drums the rhythm on the metal plates defending his position. A glimmer catches his eyes which instinctively open wide with alarm. He has only one second to shout.
“Ahr-pee-geeee!”
Then the rocket-propelled grenade impacts, lifting the vehicle and almost throwing it off the track. One single hit from an RPG wouldn’t be enough to destroy the heavily armored vehicle, but to the hapless crew their vehicle runs up a rock on the path that the driver would have certainly avoided if his eyes wouldn’t be darkened from the blood gushing from his forehead. The Humvee turns over, right at the moment when a second projectile impacts. Shaken, the corporal screams a desperate order.
“Out! Defensive perimeter!”
He doesn’t know that he is the last of his crew still alive. Neither does he have time to crawl out of his wrecked car when the third projectile impacts, penetrating the cracked bullet-proof windshield as if it were a sheet of paper and exploding inside the compartment.
A minute later three men emerge from behind their cover overlooking the canyon. They wear the kit typical for Loner Stalkers in the New Zone: a light brown armored suit with a small oxygen flask and a camelback water container on the back, a gas mask shouldered and a shemagh woven from white and sand-colored fabric wrapped around their necks. One of them shoulders the RPG launcher and takes a short-range walkie-talkie from his assault west. The two others keep their AK-47 automatic rifles at ready.
“Hedgehog here. They went off in a ball of fire. We’re ready to move in with barrels blazing.”
“Good job. Be with you in a minute. Strip those suckers naked. Get whatever you can from the Humvee too. Ashot is waiting for you to unload all your crap on him.”
The Stalker with the RPG grins. “Roger that.”
One of his mates gives him a concerned look. “Are you sure it’s safe? More of them might be here soon.”
“Nah, Vitka. The big guy said it’s safe around here and he knows this canyon like the back of his hand.”
“You sure?”
“He told me himself.”
“And that makes you believe it?”
“I’d believe even Winnie the Pooh if he showed me a way to loot a Humvee!”
The three Stalkers hurry down the hillside. They have barely arrived at the smoldering wreck when they hear the sound of a heavy engine approaching.
“What the—”
Hedgehog is about to get his AKS-74U carbine from his shoulder when another Humvee appears, the hail of bullets from its .50 caliber killing his two mates instantly. He still has a moment left to curse the half-mutant who let them walk into a trap, no doubt to secure all the loot for himself alone, before three bullets hit his chest armor and pierce it together with the water pouch on his back. Blood and water mix in the sand.
About two hundred meters away, the half-mutant Stalker watches the grisly scene through a pair of binoculars.
“No happy end to anyone involved,” he quietly says to himself. “But then, this is just the beginning.”
11
“We drive all the way to that place you call the Meat Market, Top?”
“Negative. It’s been a busy day and I need to sleep off my jet-lag.” Driving by a fast-food restaurant, Hartman slows down. and steers it into the drive-thru lane. “Dinner time.”