“Maybe there actually is such a secret lab in the New Zone,” Pete says. “That would explain how such weird species like the Top and the Tribe were created.”
He obviously intended this as another sarcastic remark but unknown to him, his guess is almost spot on.
“Finding a lab preceding the Zone’s creation would be like… finding a needle in a haystack,” Tarasov says with a bitter reference to the code name of his mission that had originally led him to the New Zone. “Anyway, no matter what — I must help Strelok.”
The Top thinks for a moment, then shouts for the base commander.
“Second Lieutenant Stone! Come over here for a second.”
“Sir!”
“Whenever I come here, you start pestering me about a combat assignment. Are you prepared?”
Stone gives him a beaming smile. “Sir, yes, sir! Very much so, sir!”
“Outstanding. You will take the fresh meat to boot camp. If I’ll like how they turn out, you’ll get your combat assignment. To give you a little motivation — you might be assigned to First Lieutenant Driscoll’s squad. They’ve lost a few warriors recently and need replacements anyway. Do we have a deal, Stone?”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! I will give them hell in boot camp!”
“No doubt about that. Keep your eye on that black guy, though. He might have got what it takes to be a good warrior. Besides, Lieutenant Collins could use another ex-Ranger in his squad. That would be all. No-Go!”
“I’m listening.”
“Put the satellite maps up on that display.” The Top turns back to Tarasov. “Now tell me, where exactly is your Zone?”
Tarasov recites the coordinates that every true Stalker knows by heart.
“Its center lies at 51 degrees 23 minutes 18 seconds north longitude, 30 degrees 06 minutes 12 seconds east latitude… and our infiltration point will be on the western edge of the Swamps, below the railroad emplacement with the wrecked freight train, opposite to the spot where the path to Agroprom begins and where a three meter stretch of the barbed wire fence is missing. No satellite map will show you that.”
Pete protests. “Hey! Wait a minute! Why did nobody ask me about what I want to do? To hell with this, I don’t want to go there! I heard about that place — it’s irradiated and infested with mutants, anomalies and all that! Not even decent people there but crazy Russian shooters who jerk off on their Kalashnikovs!”
“I will be there too,” Nooria tells Pete with a reassuring smile. “At least we will get to better know each other.”
“We’re going to the Exclusion Zone,” Hartman concludes. “Outstanding! Let’s go to the property shed. We’ll need weapons, ammo, armored suits!”
“Sure, Top. Let’s see if there’s something we can use in the Zone.”
Hartman gives him a proud smile for a reply.
The room where the Top leads him has a stronger door than the others. When Tarasov steps inside, he feels a tenfold of the awe that came over him when he saw the Tribe’s armory at the Alamo. Walking down an aisle between two racks full of first-class weaponry, the Top points to the racks.
“Assault rifles, sniper rifles, silenced rifles, anti-material rifles, machine guns, chain guns, Gatling guns, bunker-busters, tank-busters, frag grenades, smoke grenades, stun grenades, incendiary rounds, armor-piercing rounds, tracer rounds, regular rounds, sniper rounds, light gear, assault gear, exoskeletons,” he raps as quickly as a machine gun fires. “Welcome to warrior paradise!”
They halt in front of a workshop that seems to have all the gear of a weapon factory massed up on a few square meters. A merry-looking man wearing a technician’s khaki overall is standing behind a work bench and aims a futuristic assault rifle at them.
“Bang! You’re blown away!”
“I am, actually” Tarasov replies looking at the rifle in the technician’s hands. The behavior of the grinning technician is disrespectful at best but Hartman doesn’t seem to mind. They even exchange a handshake.
“Major Tarasov, this is Jimmy the Nut. Best gunsmith in the world, although Boxkicker makes for a strong second.”
Tarasov looks at the weapon in Jimmy’s hands. Overall, it looks like a slightly bigger version of the M27 carbine that he has seen back in the Alamo’s armory. The no-nonsense design tells of German origin.
“That’s a Heckler & Koch, isn’t it?”
“Not just a HK but the HK. 417, latest version. Mimics the AR-15 with a few gimmicks. Ergonomics über alles. This one’s got a 20 inch barrel, telescope and detachable bipod. Fires 7,62x51mm NATO, emptying a 20 rounds magazine in two seconds. Yes, this one makes Kevlar a part of yesterday!”
“That probably means two seconds of fun and two minutes to let the barrel cool down,” Tarasov observes.
“The barrel is cold hammer-forged. Can be replaced in a few seconds, even with simple tools in the field. By the way, our version has an accuratized barrel. Just make sure you use the proper ammo.”
“Selectable fire?”
“Are you kidding? Single shots and full automatic mode.”
“Short burst option?”
“You’re hard to please, you know that?”
“I’ve heard that before,” smiles Tarasov.
“Jimmy, when will these arrive to the Alamo?” the Top asks eyeing the weapon.
“The first few hundred or so in a matter of weeks, maybe a month.”
“Jesus, Jimmy! What takes so long? Anyway, is that one over there what I think it is?”
“The fishgun?”
“No, that piece looking like an XM25.”
“It also feels like an XM25 because it is one.”
“I’ll be damned. Let me try it — I mean, just holding it for a sec.”
Tarasov studies the black weapon that the Top cautiously takes from its rack. It looks like streamlined, with its designers having eliminated almost every chance for dust and dirt getting inside. It has a bulky, non-demountable scope, apparently usable under any light condition.
“It’s heavy,” the Top says, assuming an aiming position.
“Twelve pounds. Won’t be an issue if you wear your exo.”
“How much does a single one set us back, Jimmy?”
“Thirty-five thousand bucks plus the ammo. Sorry Top, don’t reach for your credit card. This one’s not for sale yet!”
“Too bad. When and how many?”
“Depends on if the big man lets Allied Techsystems know the witch’s recipe. You know, her strange-smelling stuff that repels dust on gun metal. We might be in for a huge discount then.”
“What’s so special about this one?” Tarasov curiously asks.
The technician gives the Top a questioning look. He replies with a reassuring nod and Jimmy the Nut bursts out an enthusiastic presentation.
“This, my friend, is the modern version of the English longbow. We call it the XM25 Counter Defilade Target Engagement System. It has a range of eight football fields, meaning that you can stay out of the effective range of hostile assault rifles. You could do that with an RPG or scoped rifle too but this is far more accurate than a grenade launcher and takes a heavier punch than a long rifle, of course. That’s the long part. Once the trigger is pulled and the 25 mike-mike leaves the barrel, a computer chip inside the projectile communicates exactly how far it has traveled, allowing for precise detonation behind or ahead of any target. In practice, it will go through a wall before it explodes. That’s the bow part.”
“The longbow was a Welsh weapon, not English,” Tarasov wryly replies. “But I get your point.”
“Outstanding,” the Top says, handing the weapon back to the technician. “Truly outstanding. At last we have something useful that wasn’t designed by krauts or made by Belgians.”