The fighter scowls when he arrives and sees Tarasov’s condition. He starts tending to Tarasov's many bruises and wounds, first of all putting a bandage on the major’s chest. More bandages and painkillers follow.
“You are in a dreadful shape,” Strider anxiously says, holding the camelback once more to the major’s lips. “Drink. It’s just water, but tonight we’ll toast with cold beer in Termez!”
Slowly regaining his strength from the cool water and the painkillers administered by the medic, Tarasov looks around. Beyond the perimeter set up by Strider’s squad around the wreck, the ruins of the City of Screams loom in the sunset. The snow on the far mountains appears pure and the sky is clear to the west where the Tribe’s hidden valley lies.
“I don’t go home. I stay home.” Tarasov stretches out his arms, as if he wanted to embrace the landscape. “This is where I belong now.”
“Joking has never been your strong point, you know that?”
“I mean it.”
“And I’m not sure if the army will approve of your idea of deserting.”
“Deserting? Who is a deserter in this place, where everyone betrayed everyone else?”
Strider nods and sighs at length. “I get your point… Does the call sign Kilo One mean anything to you?”
“It does,” says Tarasov with the ghost of a smile on his face, “but I don’t want to talk to him for a while… he could send me on another mission to a place worse than this.”
“I doubt there’s any place worse than the New Zone.”
“Any place is bad where it is not.”
Strider does not reply, but a barely noticeable bow of his head suggests his accord, or at least consideration.
The fighter ordered to kill Bone’s surviving guards appears.
“The chopper is clean,” he reports and gives a bag to Strider. “I found this inside.”
“Is that your gear?” Strider asks.
Tarasov peeks inside. Eagerly, he retrieves his belongings that were taken from him by Khaletskiy’s men. Strider makes a whistle when he sees the artifacts appear. Tarasov carefully puts them into the containers on his belt. Closing his eyes, the major takes a deep breath as he feels the artifacts radiating their benevolent powers into his body again.
“Not too bad a collection. But if you insist on staying, you’ll need more than that… Sickle, did you find any usable weapons inside?”
“A couple of Grozas are still on the bodies.”
“Collect them. Give the most serviceable to our friend here. Make sure you get him enough spare magazines, too.”
Another Dutier arrives with bulky communication gear on his back. “Voronin is calling for a sit-rep.”
Strider takes the speaker. “Slushayu, Eagle Eye… Mission accomplished. No casualties to report. The friendly is secured… Understood. Standing by.” He listens to the reply and gives the speaker to the major. “It’s Kilo One for you — Degtyarev. He wants to talk to a Lieutenant Colonel Tarasov, and the only guy with that name around here is you… guess you’ve been promoted. Congratulations.”
Tarasov waves the speaker away. “I don’t care anymore. Just tell him… tell him that I’ve gone on a long raid, but one day I’ll be seeing him at the Antonov. No, wait… Here. Take this.” Tarasov removes his most valuable artifact from its container. The warmth in his body diminishes and a slight ache creeps back into his head, but he has been through much worse. “Take this to Degtyarev and mention to him an old lady in Kiev. He will know what to do.”
Strider studies the artifact with pensive eyes. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about this?”
Tarasov nods. Strider shrugs, but takes the artifact and transmits his words.
“Understood. Moving to the extraction site. Renegade out.” He gives the speaker back to the radio man. “Degtyarev wants you to know that, soon, that old lady will be a very rich lady. He also wants you to know that you’ll be missing Kuznetsov’s court-martial. Still not interested in coming back with us?”
Tarasov shakes his head. “I’ve had enough of court-martials,” he says and gives Strider a pale, yet defiant smile.
“What will you do now?”
“I will see the only healer who can give me comfort and cure my wounds. They are deeper than your medic could treat. And then… I’ll have to visit a friend’s son in America.”
Strider and the fighter called Armor exchange a puzzled gaze.
“America? Armor, give him one more painkiller!”
The faint noise of a helicopter comes from far away. Strider stands up and brushes the sand off from his knees.
“That’s our bird… You can still change your mind and leave this land.”
Strider offers his hand to help him up. Before accepting his help, Tarasov looks him deep in the eyes.
“Would you? Would any real Stalker?”
“So, you’re a free Stalker now?”
“The worst enemies are my best friends now. I have to see how far this takes me.”
“You better keep an eye out for the jackals. I won’t be around to save your skin again… at least for a while.”
Many words rush to Tarasov’s mind in a reply to Strider’s remark, but all he gives him is a painful smile.
“Good bye for now,” Strider says, saluting, “and good hunting. It’s time for me to get out of here, Stalker!”
Tarasov, now on his feet again, returns the gesture. Followed by his squad, Strider moves out and makes his way westwards. Tarasov watches their column march through the rocky terrain, where the setting sun has by now turned the shades of ochre into pale red.
A howl comes from afar. Cradling the rifle, he looks at the wreck one last time.
Time for me too to get out of here. The jackals will have a lavish dinner tonight but it’s a party I don’t want to join.
His long, dark shadow moves ahead of him as Mikhailo Tarasov turns eastwards and sets out on his long trek home through the New Zone, towards a hidden valley where desperate men from all over the world flock to live their lives according to a code of honor that not even the greatest evil could overcome, and where he has found the comfort without which not even the strongest men can live.
Tribal (Dari/Hazaragi) — English glossary
“Khosh haal hastam az inke in gasht tamaam shod. Mesle sag khasteh hastam.” — “I’m glad this patrol is over. I feel dog tired.”
“Are, man ham hamintor. Chandin rooz ast ke inja sabr kardim ta in suckers saro kaleyeshan peida shavad.” — “Yes, me too. We’ve been waiting for days until these two suckers showed up.”
“Fekr nemikoni bayad be Lance Corporal Bockman begim ke biaad va be motor negahi bendaazad? Zaaheran dandeh moshkel darad.” — “Don’t you think we should ask Lance Corporal Bockman to check the engine? Something’s wrong with the gear shift, too.”
“Dar har haal. Man farmandeh hastam, to raanandegiat ra bekon.” — “Whatever. I’m the commander, you just do the driving.”
“Aslaheye khodkaare jadide M-27 ra didehyee? Boxkicker yek mahmooleh.” — “Have you seen the new M-27 machine gun? Boxkicker got a shipment.”
“Dar haale haazer hich selaahi barayam mohem nist. Bogzaar bekhaabam.” — “I couldn’t care less about guns right now. Let me sleep.”
“Zendeh bogzaaridash!” — “Spare his life!”
“Man behesh tarahhom kardam!” — “I have mercy on him!”
“Daastaani toolani va ghamgin ra bayad be to begooyam…” — “I have to tell you a long and sad story…”