Corporal Sokolov's anomaly detector wouldn't shut up until they crossed the last roadblock.
Then—perfect silence.
As if they had finally left this nightmare world for a more sensible one.
Well, their PDAs still made a noise, but that meant friendly people nearby.
"Welcome to the Bar, Major," his guide grumbled, putting his device away. "This is the most peaceful part of the Zone, so try not to cause a ruckus. There are guards everywhere."
Yeah. The area was definitely well-protected.
And the guards in question wore khaki jackets with boar shoulder patches.
Not exactly military uniforms, but they sure armed themselves to the teeth.
"They'll disarm us before entering the actual building," Sokolov noted. "The 100 Rads Bar doesn't allow anything worse than a knife inside, so don't act surprised."
"As long as they don't shove a shotgun in my face," Alex jabbed at his trigger-happy guide, but—
What they actually had was a 12,7 mm machine gun, scavenged from a T-72's turret.
Okay, yeah. No wonder the place was safe and peaceful.
Nobody in their right mind would have wanted to get shot with that.
And soon, his PDA lost count of the nearby Stalkers as well, showing nothing but a big plus sign on the screen. Seeing the first few shady faces did make him antsy, but—
It took no time to find the crash survivors, at least.
Heck, he didn't even have to ask around.
They still wore their uniforms, sitting in a corner, and looking way out of their element.
No wonder. But they were both alive.
"Go ahead," the Corporal nodded at them. "I'll sort some stuff out with the Barkeep first."
"Copy," Alex nodded, but caught Sokolov's sleeve before he actually left. "Mind asking him if he has an extra room or something? Less noisy. So I could record their report on the incident."
His guide sighed like an overworked corporate drone about to quit.
But he ended up giving him a curt nod.
"I'll see what I can do."
So all he had left to do was talk to the aircrews.
"Are you the survivors of Bort 22?" he asked, keeping his voice low. The soldiers had a third guy sitting at the table with a greedy glint in his eyes. "The name's Major Degtyarev."
"Skinflint," the Stalker introduced himself first. "Led them out of the worst of the anomalies."
And what he didn't mention outright, but already made obvious—
He would cost a fortune.
"S-Sergeant Shveiko," a soldier stuttered, trying to salute, but his hand shook too much. "And this is Sergeant Gazda. It's as he says. Sir Skinflint saved our lives. B-but the Captain—"
"Captain Furtez walked into something invisible," the other one added. "H-he's been—"
"Yeah, their pilot said he didn't want my services and kinda went poof," Skinflint grinned. "You don't fuck around with Vortex anomalies. He even blew the damn Black Box up with himself."
He put his fists together, then mimicked an explosion.
"Boom," he yelled, drawing everyone's attention. "Luckily, we could still save his comrades."
Yeah. Alex didn't miss that little 'we' this time.
"How much?" he grunted, slamming his wallet on the table.
Had those damn guards not disarmed him earlier, it would have been his pistol instead.
But oh well. The General sent him on this mission with appropriate funds.
"Ten thousand hryvnia," the Stalker leaned back, crossing his legs. "Per head."
That said, he could still knock the greedy little fucker out, if—
A glance around the bar was enough to see how things were.
The flight crew didn't stutter because of going down, or what happened to their Captain.
About half the Stalkers' eyes were on them, and now that he thought about it—
That wasn't even such a huge sum.
"Here. Thirty," the Major grunted. "And if you were to find any more aircrews alive—"
"Aye, I'll lead them somewhere safe," the Stalker grinned. "Pleasure doin' business, Major."
And that was all it took to get rid of that man.
It could have been worse.
"S-sorry, Major," one of the soldiers whispered. Was it Sgt. Shveiko? "Right as the Captain—um, these guys surrounded us. A-and we kinda panicked."
"They had us hand over our weapons and everything valuable, before—"
"Yes, yes, I got the idea," Alex held up a hand to shut them up. "You'll report somewhere quieter."
Not that he wanted to take it lying down.
But he wasn't about to pick a fight unarmed, when they had a—
"Huge luck, Major Degtyarev," Sokolov interrupted the thought, patting his shoulder.
He had a tall, grizzled man with him, sporting a big, faded tattoo on his neck.
"You wanted a quiet room, eh?" the stranger asked. No. Wait. The Barkeep?! He couldn't recognize the bastard. "You can use the warehouse behind my bar. How about that?"
"Much appreciated," Alex nodded, getting ready to leave.
The soldiers also jumped as if they had been sitting on needles.
And at least a dozen pairs of eyes followed them out.
"You're SBU, Major Degtyarev, aren't you?" the Barkeep grunted when they finally left all that behind. Alex froze, letting one of the rescued airmen bump into him.
Did he remember him from that rescue mission all those years ago?!
Sokolov's eyes widened, too.
"Knew he was a spy," he sighed, but his expression softened. "I only guessed the side wrong."
"Yeah. He managed to erase his name from the database, but the serial number of his Krinkov gave him away," the man noted. Oh. So he didn't actually remember, but—
To have access to that kind of information was even more terrifying.
"H-how?" Alex stuttered, but the Barkeep would only smirk.
Until they entered the room with the promised quiet.
"In the Zone, knowing is everything," he claimed, locking the door behind them. "I couldn't run this establishment if I didn't know everything about my guests."
The Major was bracing for more extortion, but—
What he got was two AKs and a bunch of airmen's gear instead.
"The stuff those 'rescuers' took from your men," the Barkeep grunted. "You can have it back for free, as a token of my goodwill. I'll also keep my mouth about your employer. But before I go—"
He pulled out a dossier from an unassuming shelf.
Rather than handing it over, he dropped it on a table in the middle.
A photo fell out of it, showing the Duga in black and white.
"That kid who's been here, and the Hero of Kyiv," he said. "They disabled the Brain Scorcher, but these men," he opened the dossier, showing a new photo. "I suspect they're trying to fix it."
The second picture was in full color, but the men in it all appeared white.
Winter Camo. No identifiers—
Other than a thick circle with a vertical line across.
"Wait, isn't this the emblem of the CNPP maintenance crew?" he let it slip as the realization hit.
"That's how I remember it, too," the Barkeep grunted. "But nowadays, we only refer to them as The Monolith. I don't know if they have anything to do with the original crew, but—"
He pulled out a third photo with them carrying something heavy towards the Duga.
A tank? Something was swimming inside it. What the hell?
"When did they take this shot?" Alex asked, his mind going into overdrive.
His host turned the picture around, checking some handwritten scribbles on the back.
"This morning at five. Fifteen hours ago."