“I knew you’d be impressed, Top,” Jimmy says, carefully putting the high-tech weapon back to its rack. He gives Tarasov a self-confident smile. “What about you?”
“Very impressive stock,” Tarasov replies.
“So, what would you like to have here? Now that the Top mentioned Belgium — care to try a SCAR? One of their new H-PR precision rifles? Perhaps something else?”
“Let me think… Do you have a Vintorez?”
The enthusiasm disappears from Jimmy’s face.
“Fuck. You.” Sinking in himself in front of their eyes, Jimmy the Nut looks rebuffed like a salesman who tried hard impressing someone with his stock and now realizes that he can’t deliver what his customer really wants. “A Vintorez… that’s sick, man!”
Tarasov doesn’t get Jimmy’s remark. “Sick?”
“He means, it’s outstanding, fabulous, great,” the Top explains. “Now he feels bad for not having any. You’ve stepped on a sensitive nerve there, Mikhailo.”
“No offense, Jimmy,” Tarasov says.
“All right,” the Top says clasping his hands. “Let’s decide which goodies we take with us. I would personally have a…”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Tarasov interrupts him. “We travel light.”
“Come again?”
“No weapons, Top. No grenade launchers, flame throwers, machine guns or sniper rifles. Neither exos nor armored suits.”
“You must be joking. If only half of what you told me about that place is true, then…”
“Everything is true, but probably you’ve no logistics in Ukraine to get such gear in and there’s no way to carry an arsenal in our checked-in luggage.”
“The man’s got a point about that, Top,” Jimmy the Nut says. “Sorry.”
“Damn,” the Top cusses. “Now that’s kinda anticlimactic.”
“Then, once there in Ukraine it isn’t exactly like here. You can’t just drive around with a trunk full of weapons. Most people can’t even own them legally.”
“Sounds like a dull place. Listen, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about this trip. What can we take with us?”
“Many things. Jimmy, we’ll need a dozen medikits or so for each of us. Lots of bandages and haemostatic drugs because bleeding can be a real pain in the neck… there’s something in the Zone’s air that hinders coagulation. Anti-radiation drugs, water purifiers, daily food rations…”
“Yikes,” the Top says with a grimace.
“Just about the same survival kit you use in the New Zone. I mean, in the sandbox, or whatever you call Afghanistan now. Then, some light but tough wear with a woodland pattern. Normal foliage green, not digital.”
“Now what’s wrong with that?”
“First, it’s ugly and second, it would cry ’the Americans are here!’ We’ll need light rucksacks, sleeping bags, overboots, protective gloves for picking up artifacts, I mean swags and a gas mask for each of us.”
“Yeah, gas mask… but which type?” Jimmy asks. “We’ve got MR40s and 95s stocked.”
“M95,” the Top cuts in. “Smells better, fits better. Don’t forget spare filters and extra cartridges.”
“The M95 comes with full NBC proof filter already. No need to swap them as the wind changes, Top.”
“I don’t know shit about gas masks, Jimmy. I’m more into things I can shoot with.”
“Let me see one of them,” Tarasov says.
The armourer disappears in a storage room behind his workbench and returns with a brand new, black gas mask. Inspecting it, Tarasov slowly shakes his head. Compared to the obsolete GP5 masks commonly seen on Zone Stalkers which makes their wearer appear like an elephant, or even the military’s more sophisticated PMK-2 type, their NATO counterpart was obviously designed with not only utility but at least a modicum of comfort as well. The M95’s silicone-covered material feels much smoother, yet fits tighter and the mask even has a hydration port where a canteen can be connected. Nonetheless, the most useful feature to him is the close-fitting overall design and the wide angle of view through the two large eyepieces. Aiming a shoulder-fired weapon while wearing a gas mask is any rifleman’s nightmare but at least this one would make it a little easier.
“They come with standard 40mm screw-in NATO cartridges, don’t they?” Tarasov asks. The two Americans nod. “Good, let’s take a few extra cartridges then. Could be useful should we ever need to trade with Freedomers.”
“Freedomers?”
“Zone faction using NATO gear. Will explain later. Last but not least — we need bolts. A few dozen at least.”
“Bolts? Do you think this is a DIY store?” Jimmy asks. “We’re drowning in guns here and you ask me for bolts?”
“Bolts can do lots of things your guns can’t. Like detecting anomalies. Can your XM25 detect anomalies? No. We need throwing bolts, not grenades.”
“But what kind of bolts?”
Tarasov heaves a frustrated sigh. “Any.”
“Listen, Major. I’m a precise man and take this kind of things seriously,” Jimmy explains. “There’s many kinds of bolts. Do you mean 1/4-20, 1/2-20, 1/8-20 or which caliber? Huh… size, I mean. What about screw-nuts, anyway? Those ain’t good enough?”
Tarasov sighs and exchanges an impatient glance with the Top.
“Something like this, ” he says showing the size with his thumb and index finger.
“5/8-18, then. Okay. That would be 16mm x 1,5 for you in the metric world. Give me a few minutes to arrange all that.”
Among the long weapon racks holding all kinds of rifles in several rows, they are already walking back to the lobby when something comes to Tarasov’s mind.
“Ten thousand pounds of education fall to a ten rupee jezail,” he recites the Kipling quote he had heard from the Colonel when he met him first.
“Spot on,” the old warrior replies. “You know, I never told Jimmy but should I ever find myself in a really bad clusterfuck, I’d rather have my trusty M1911 pistol on me than any of his high-tech gadgets… but I still have a bad feelings about going there without weapons. Any weapons.”
They make their way to the lobby where Nooria and Pete are waiting at No-Go’s computers.
“We’re into a challenging trip,” the Top says. “Mikhailo insists on not taking guns.”
“We’ll need to keep a low profile,” Tarasov adds. “I’d hate to shoot at the same grunts I was commanding until just a few months ago.”
“But they are your enemies now,” Nooria says, surprised.
“My only real enemies are certain high-ranking officers and you won’t see any of them lurking in the Zone. That’s for sure!”
“And all the mutants you told me about?” she asks. “Those… snorks, pseudodogs, controllers and all?”
“We’ll need to avoid them, at least in the first days. Rest assured — when a Stalker has a destination in the Zone, he is usually pretty well equipped by the time he gets there. You can’t approach the Zone with heavy gear, but you’ll need heavy gear to survive there.”
“Sounds like a damned Catch-22 to me.”
“What do you mean, Pete?”
“What I mean is that the whole idea is bullshit.”
“Surviving there is not only about weapons and body armor. If you go in with gun barrels blazing and try to shoot your way through, the Zone will punish you. If you treat the Zone with humility and respect — it might just allow you to survive. We’re going to take a chance on that.”
“Sounds like a challenge and I love challenges. As for you, Marine — it might be a good opportunity to learn both humility and respect.”
“Top, stop calling me a Marine.”
“Once a Marine, always a Marine. Even if you went AWOL, even if you’re all but an empty shell of a Marine in your present state of a half-debilitated junkie.”