Balazs Pataki: S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort

“Some Stalkers made it into Strelok’s chamber. We’re going in to seal it again, this time for good.”

“Piece of cake!”

Tarasov can’t see the lieutenant’s eyes under the helmet’s dark visor but he’s sure his second in command is not just swaggering. Today you will be tested, lieutenant . He looks at the two other troopers huddled up in the cramped compartment, flanking a technician who carries welding equipment. Kolesnik and Shumenko had been veteran Stalkers until they signed up to the army, motivated more by their need to escape debt collectors than fulfilling patriotic duty. They were made sergeants to let them know their place in the military’s food chain. Although not cast from the mold of legendary Stalkers, they were at least good team-players. For Tarasov, commander of the Ukrainian army’s own squad of Zone Stalkers, this was more important than individual abilities. He looks at the lieutenant’s fingers nervously drumming on his AKSU assault rifle.

“By the way, lieutenant… what’s that duct tape on your magazine?”

“That? I taped two mags together, so that I can change them with a flip of my hand!”

“Do you see that on my rifle? No? And can you think why?”

“Because I’m stupid and you are smart, komandir! ”

Tarasov laughs out loud. His grumpy mood vanishes in an instant. From the corner of his eye, he can even see two hard-boiled sergeants grin.

“What to do? That’s a fact,” he shrugs and gives a pat on the lieutenant’s helmet. “Hand me that duct tape if you still have it on you.”

The lieutenant pats down his pockets and hands him a roll of blue duct tape. Tarasov takes out a spare magazine from the pockets on Ivanchuk’s body armor.

“If you keep the mags like that,” he explains, “your weapon will feel much heavier than it is.”

He whips the tape around the magazine, leaving free an inch-long flap. “Look. If you grab it by this flap, you can draw it much quicker from the pocket and win a second if you’re in a firefight. Then there’s that carabineer on your assault vest. When you remove the empty magazine, just fasten it there with the duct flap. See? Like this… It will win you another second. Once the party is over, you can put the magazine back into to the vest pocket.”

“Two minutes to touchdown,” the pilot reports, “I have a visual on Fortress One.”

“All right people, here we go,” says Tarasov fastening the strap of his helmet, “check your gear.”

He detaches the magazine from his silenced SA Val rifle and pushes the first cartridge down to make sure no cartridge is stuck inside. The steely clack of the weapon cocking is like music to his ears.

“One minute to touchdown,” sounds the intercom. “Landing zone is clear.”

Tarasov has landed more times in a helicopter than he can count but he still can’t shake off the slight sickness he feels during the sudden descent. He grabs his weapon and opens the hatch. Giving each man an encouraging pat on the shoulder while they exit, he waits until everyone is out. He signals to the pilots with his thumb up and follows his soldiers. The gunship immediately takes to the air and sets out on a circling path over the abandoned buildings to watch over the environment. Its turbine engines are still too loud for Tarasov to address the squad leader without shouting.

“Any developments, Lieutenant Nabokov?”

“We saw a pack of mutants not far from here but the helicopter’s noise scared them away.”

“Keep your eyes peeled, just in case something nasty comes out of this hole. Are the Stalkers still inside?”

“I’ve been standing by with Fortress One since zero-six-hundred. No one has left through here, sir, and Fortress Two didn’t report any earlier contacts either.”

“Good. Chumak, come over here!”

The technician — a haggard civilian who usually tends to the vehicles at the base and now looks helpless in the bulletproof vest he’s wearing for the first time — has fear written all over his face. Tarasov gives him his pistol.

“You know how to handle a Fort-15?”

“Yes, komandir, but…” Chumak points at Tarasov’s rifle. “Could I have a machine gun like that?”

“If you ever find you need a bigger weapon, pick up any of our rifles because that would mean we’re dead.”

With his squad following behind, Tarasov walks to the tunnel entrance, a round opening in the ground like a manhole.

“Chumak, on me. Kolesnik, Shumenko, move forward. Ivanchuk, you look out for our six. Our mission is simple: we go in, seal the shaft to Strelok’s hideout and get out.”

“Rules of engagement?”

“This is a high priority area, Lieutenant. Shoot at everything that moves. Watch out for ricochets — the tunnels are narrow. Keep a little distance from the walls.”

“If we find any artifacts, can we retrieve and sell them?”

“Not if I find them first, sergeant. Anything else?”

“Major, sir!”

“Spill the beans, Shumenko.”

“Permission to take a leak before we go in.”

“Do it quickly and make sure you don’t put your yalda into an anomaly.”

“Shumenko’s dick needs not fear any anomalies on the ground” says Kolesnik with a grin.

The lieutenant is quick to reply. “He’s only pissing to let the mutants know his territory!”

Tarasov sighs with impatience, but he has given up cutting such casual manners long ago. Even if this squad was improvised just an hour ago, at least he could count on these men should things go wrong. He knows this could happen. His men know it too. And Kolesnik’s joke wasn’t that bad for a man who is about to descend into a mutant-infested tunnel system where anything that can move will move in for the kill.

“Feeling much better.”

“All right… now that Sergeant Shumenko has gracefully marked his territory, let’s get moving. Switch to your breathing system. Check night vision and intercom.”

“Ivanchuk here. Always ready.”

“Kolesnik ready.”

“Shumenko here. Locked and loaded.”

“Err… I mean, do I also have to say something?”

“Can you see and breathe in that gas mask, Chumak?”

“Yes, komandir .”

“Keep it that way. Let’s move!”

Before Tarasov descends into the narrow shaft leading to the tunnels, he switches the channel on his radio. “Cordon Base, this is Condor One. Condor Squad moving in. Over and out.”

The sergeants climb down through the narrow shaft. As soon as they arrive at the bottom of the ladder, they kneel and assume a firing position.

“Clear,” Shumenko reports.

Tarasov notices a disapproving look on the technician’s face. He ignores it, but Ivanchuk jumps at the opportunity to lecture him.

“What are you looking at, Chumak? Command elements take point only in war movies. If there’s an ambush down there and the major gets shot, we’re screwed.”

His comrades descend one by one. Tarasov can hear their panting. With his left hand, he signals them to proceed. The tunnel reeks of rot, dampness and corrosion. Above, a lonely red light flashes and casts its eerie light across the walls, like the reminder of a long-forgotten alarm when these catacombs were still part of a secret laboratory. All is quiet but for the shrieking noise of the rotating flashlight and moisture dripping from the ceiling.

Suddenly, something moves on the ground with a noise that sounds like a thunder.

“Sorry, Major” whispers Chumak, “I stumbled on something.”

“Shit! Why don’t you just shout ‘hey we have just arrived!’?”

“I’m sorry, komandir !”