Sergeant Major Hartman’s voice comes from the bathroom where he is singing the Yellow Rose of Texas, very cheerily and horribly out of tune. Tarasov and Pete share a grimace.
“Strange understanding of honor,” Pete eventually says.
“For the Tribe, it’s like religion and they deserve respect for that.”
“And who are you, Mikhailo? By what I saw last night, I guess you’re some KGB assassin.” Pete looks into the bottom of his mug where the tea has left a strange, thick sediment. “You sure this stuff is safe to drink?”
“Nooria’s concoctions usually are. Just don’t ask her what’s inside.”
“What’s inside?”
“She wouldn’t tell, just mumble something about herbs and artifact powders. They don’t call her a witch for nothing, you know?
Pete looks puzzled. “What? Artifact powder? What the hell’s that—artifacts?”
“You’ll see. Back to your question — there’s no KGB anymore. In my country, it’s called SBU now. I used to work for them occasionally, but now I’m just a Stalker. This stands for many things: scavenger, trespasser, adventurer, loner, killer, robber, of which I’ve been everything except for the last one. Before that, I was the commander of our troops securing the Exclusion Zone around the Chernobyl NPP.” Seeing Pete stir, Tarasov laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not radioactive! To cut a long story short, not so long ago I was sent on a classified mission to the New Zone, as we Stalkers call what’s left of Afghanistan. One thing led to the other, and I would’ve been killed by your father’s people if it hadn’t been for Nooria’s mother — and ultimately, for Nooria.”
“How romantic.”
“Maybe from hindsight… anyway, the shepherdess who witnessed the set-up that framed your father was Nooria’s mother. The abused girl warning your father’s unit was Nooria.”
“Got to admit I find her very peculiar.”
“What’s your guess, how old is she?”
Pete shrugs. “Don’t know. It’s difficult to judge age by such Middle-Eastern faces. My guess would be something between seventeen and twenty-five.”
“Correct. In terms of years, she’s twenty-three. In terms of lore and wisdom, she might be a thousand or even more.”
“Now you’re exaggerating. That’s fantasy, dude.”
“You’ve probably noticed the tattoo on her forehead. The only similar one I’ve ever seen was on a wall painting in a room that’s been sealed for almost nine hundred years, and probably built another nine hundred years before that.”
“Gosh! Okay, maybe I’ll let her call me her 'little’ brother even if I’m two years older than Nooria.”
“Yes. The girl who is now washing up our tea cups bears the wisdom of—”
The bathroom door opens. Hartman enters with the vigor of a wild elephant, still wiping his upper body with a towel.
“We still got some coffee left?”
“You’re late for that, Top. Nooria has even finished doing the washing up.”
“Too bad for me. Anyway, there’s plenty of drive-thru’s on our way. Let’s get our gear and shove off!”
“What exactly is that Meat Market where we’ll go?”
“You’ve been always wondering where we get our supplies from. Today you will see.”
Nooria arrives from the kitchenette, holding her curved blade and pulling it from its jeweled scabbard.
“Mikhailo, are you finished talking to Pete? I need to cut his hair. My brother must not look like a sister.”
“You will not touch my hair with that weapon of mass destruction!”
Pete is about to jump up from the sofa when the Top grabs his shoulders and pushes him back to his place. Nooria starts cutting Pete’s black hair, ignoring the cusswords he utters under his breath.
“I always wanted to have a baby doll,” she says with a chuckle. “Now I have a baby brother. Don’t move, Pete! My knife is very sharp.”
“Don’t cut the kid’s ears off, Nooria,” the Top replies, slowly releasing his grip on Pete’s shoulders as the youth accepts his fate. “He’s got a big enough problem listening to me already.”
16
In the United States Marine Corps, rifle squads usually consist of thirteen men. When the remnants of Colonel Leighley’s recon battalion rebelled and took the Hazaras under their protection, they found themselves at war with everyone around them strong enough to wield a Kalashnikov. Their stretched defense meant that single squads had to perform what had normally been a platoon’s task, and they rarely massed their forces to reach the numbers that would justify calling them a company. The Colonel had each squad commanded by one of his men who were with him in the catacombs of Shahr-i-Gholghola and became his most trusted and fierce warriors. He referred to them as his Lieutenants, regardless of their earlier ranks save for Sergeant Major Hartman. No matter what, the warriors of the Tribe hung on their past as Marines and a Marine force needs a sergeant major as much as a body needs a backbone.
Later on, as their strength grew with recruits flown in and the martial Hazara youth beefing up their ranks, the Colonel could have refer to his units as companies and platoons but the term ’squad’ stuck. It could by now mean any force between that and company level, organized in task-force manner as the objectives require. The nature of fighting in the wilderness where small skirmishes are the norm rarely makes big operations necessary , and it doesn’t happen too often that a Lieutenant moves out with a ’squad’ of three hundred men which would more or less equal the fighting force of three rifle companies.
Hence it is to First Lieutenant Driscoll’s great satisfaction to look over the column of Humvees and trucks carrying the three hundred men of Task Force Anaconda. The vehicles stand still on the narrow road below the hill from where he observes the Stalker outpost through his binoculars. Lieutenants Collins and Schmidt are at his side.
“Looks like the scavengers did half our job already,” he observes.
Though the road block at the end of the ruined village is manned by Stalkers, they appear busy looting the dozen bodies strewn around their position. Black smoke rises from behind the Asylum’s all but impenetrable mud brick walls.
“Never seen them fighting among themselves before,” Lieutenant Schmidt says.
“Scavengers,” Driscoll grumbles with disgust. “At least we can save some ammo. Let’s get this show on the run!”
“Sir, there’s something weird about this.” Collins lets his own binoculars down and points to the men looting the bodies. “They look different. The bodies have the standard scavenger kit. The looters though—look, it’s trench coats.”
Schmidt nods his agreement. “Yeah, I wonder how they could run over that place without heavy weapons. Most of them only have shotguns but those Ghorband guys were all armed to the teeth.”
“So what? Trench coats seem to be the new scavenger fashion,” Driscoll says. “Doesn’t matter much what they’re wearing when they die. Collins, call the Gunny and let his Javelin team move up here. I want them to blast that place before the assault team moves in.”
“Aye, sir,” Collins replies and takes his radio set to convey the order.
17