The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  The guys on the crane were finishing up but looked to be behaving much the same as him, each hoping that concentrating on the task at hand would be enough to satisfy the Russians and that they would be left alone once the job was done. That’s what they’d been promised, but the operator was starting to wonder if it was just a lie.

  The crane men slowly lowered the last of the four cargoes they’d off-loaded that morning from the army loading dock. This time it was five special polymer barrels balanced on a wooden pallet. As the barrels touched down from the crane, the forklift operator increased the engine’s revolutions per minute and drove forward, expertly loading and lifting the barrels. He then pivoted and swiftly drove back toward the depot and the awaiting Amtrak passenger train the Russians had apparently commandeered for some nefarious purpose. But he didn’t get far before loud shouts came from behind him.

  “Stoyat’! Halt, Americanski!” yelled a soldier.

  He realized he’d moved out way too fast and came to an immediate stop. Too quick a stop, as it turned out. The polymer drums teetered precariously for a moment, their sloshing liquid cargo making them dance in tiny erratic circles on the wooden pallet as they bumped against one another. Apparently, the crane guys hadn’t bothered to strap them down, such was their haste . . . and their fear. His eyes widened in horror that one might fall and burst open. If so much as one drop of their enormously toxic contents was released, he knew it would be instant death for him and everyone nearby. He had loaded and unloaded many such caustic and poisonous items before, but always wearing a hazmat suit, not PJs and a jacket.

  After a moment, and to his relief, the barrels stopped their gyrations and settled themselves.

  He’d been so focused on getting the job done as quickly as possible and not looking at the soldiers that he’d forgotten the unspoken procedure they’d developed for moving the barrels, vats, and crates that morning: wait for the Russian soldier.

  The soldier panted up beside him, gave him a reproachful look, then stepped onto the pallet. This Russian soldier wasn’t nearly as scary as the others. His look made the operator believe he didn’t want to hurt him. It gave him hope that if he played by their rules, he just might survive this ordeal after all.

  “Slow now . . . move slow, American,” said the Russian, who now sat down on a barrel and stabilized the others with his legs.

  The operator put the forklift into forward drive and continued toward the rail depot, much more slowly this time and keeping an eye on the soldier and the barrels. Even though it was literally below freezing, he felt a cold sweat break out on his brow and run down his back, soaking into his cotton pajama bottoms. It all felt like he was living in a nightmare. He chanced a glance at the soldier’s AK-47 rifle and noticed what he believed were grenades strapped to the man’s belt. He began to shiver, more from fright than the cold. The operator was young and had never before encountered imminent fear of death, and this new experience was beginning to slowly overwhelm him.

  He drove the remaining fifty meters to the depot and up the loading ramp, then hoisted the barrels through the side door of the train’s luggage car. In the relative darkness, he noticed the bespectacled Russian officer was standing there, watching him. A hand gloved in black leather rested on the grip of his holstered pistol.

  He had just laid the barrels down gently inside the train when he heard the pop-pop of gunfire behind him. Unable to control himself, practically at his wits end, he twisted around in the seat just in time to see both crane operators tumble face forward off the warehouse loading dock. Each man had obviously been shot in the back of the head.

  “Vy duraki! You fools!” yelled the officer in Russian.

  The operator didn’t understand the words, but this was the same scary Russian officer who had slapped him and had also been there when he and his roommates were dragged from their beds. That was when he’d first noticed the officer’s weird wire glasses. He had held a printed list and asked for him by name. He coolly confirmed his ID badge and credentials, then hustled all of them here to the restricted army biological storage area. The operator wasn’t inclined to think the officer was saying anything that could be good for him.

  “Now you must drag the bodies here to the train. Remember, leave no trace,” said the officer, again in Russian.

  The operator still couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but it sounded even worse. Angrier, this time. The operator began to tremble uncontrollably, all but certain that he would be next. He could hear himself whining and crying, though it all felt like an out-of-body experience. He’d understood when he’d taken this job working at the top-secret Dugway military chemical facility that there were risks. The risks of being exposed to some of the world’s deadliest and most caustic chemical and biological compounds. But he had been trained and prepared for those hazards, and the pay was good. Exceptional pay commensurate with the exceptional hazards, but he was still just a civilian in a backwoods part of the country, not a trained soldier. He’d never counted on this.

  “Pristreli etogo pridurka! Shoot this fool,” said the officer in Russian to the nearest soldier.

  It was the way the words were spoken that sent the operator into convulsions. He fell out of the forklift and onto the loading dock, wailing, utterly lost in panic. The Russian soldier pulled his rifle around but hesitated, looking back at his officer, a tinge of mercy on his face.

  “Tvoyu mat’. Davay bez svideteley! Damn you. No witnesses!” The officer drew his pistol anyway and approached the whimpering man.

  * * *

  Major Uintergrin of the Russian 27th Chem-Bio Brigade did not suffer fools or cowards lightly. He’d been given a mission of the utmost importance, and he knew it was life or death. Including his own death, if he didn’t succeed. Or so his ultimate commander, General Grigor Tympkin, had told him and his colonel personally and pointedly. There had been no resistance getting the train, or really from anyone here in the sparsely populated western U.S., for that matter. Things were peaceful and looked to be returning somewhat to normal, albeit with Russian governors. But according to his information, things on the U.S. East Coast were not going quite as well.

  “You must succeed, or the success of the entire invasion might be in question,” Tympkin had told them.

  No, to accomplish the mission, a few of these idiot Americans must die, he thought. There was no time for hesitation or reflection. He needed to be as tough as his infantry counterparts. He walked over to the forklift operator, raised his pistol, and shot him in the head.

  CHAPTER 3

  Russian Occupation Zone

  Union, West Virginia

  Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel Tyce Asher looked over what remained of his demolished convoy, and his heart sank to its lowest level ever. The sun was rising now, and he could clearly see the blackened, bullet-and-shrapnel-riddled remains of pickups and SUVs. He picked his way slowly over the carnage. When he spotted a machine gun or rifle near a destroyed vehicle, he called out to one of his personnel to come retrieve it lest it fall into the wrong hands. In most cases so far, the fires from explosions and burning fuel had cooked off ammo in the chambers of their weapons, rendering them useless, but he didn’t want whoever was coming to assess the damage to get any intel from their wrecked convoy.

  “Sir.” He heard a shout from two Marines a few yards ahead. “I have a dead body over here.”

  Tyce had told the troops to inform him immediately if anyone found human remains. He raced over to the area as quickly as he could. Pulling up next to the man, he looked down at the broken and burned mess that had once been one of his soldiers or Marines. He couldn’t tell which.

  “Hey Marine, let’s use the term fallen angel,” Tyce said, quietly.

  He was well aware of the effect of calling out “dead bodies,” but he also realized, probably too late, that his reprimand had just served to make the Marine feel worse. But like a sniper attack, he now saw everyone popping their heads up from where they were searching
to take a look. A few wandered over. Most just wanted to help, but there was also a morbid curiosity to see if it was anyone they knew.

  Not good for morale, thought Tyce, but neither was getting smoked by Russian jets.

  Tyce heard a barking from way up near the front of the convoy. It was Trigger, the unit’s trained Belgian Malinois military working dog. The only thing that was even somewhat lifting his dark spirits now was the loyal pooch. Trigger had been with the unit for years. He’d even experienced combat in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Tyce couldn’t be certain how the convoy was hit, but he’d seen enough of his own forces’ air strikes on Taliban and Iraqi insurgents to be pretty sure this was a coordinated Russian air attack. The worst part about it was the reminder that skies were no longer friendly. He’d grown up during a period of military service when they been taught that in just about every kind of U.S. conflict, they could count on owning the skies. The initial Russian surprise attacks had all but neutralized this advantage, at least as far as Tyce knew. He’d gotten a few reports from his men on long-range patrols of aerial dogfights, but the reported outcomes had always seemed to end in a draw. It seemed that whatever American aviation was left was scarce, and the pilots had likely been ordered not to lose any aircraft. If only he could be as cautious. Fleeing when things looked grim wasn’t in the cards for ground pounders.

  Trigger’s barking grew nearer and, in a flash, the dog sprinted his way around a few vehicles and found Tyce. He grabbed at Tyce’s pocket and tugged a few times. Hard.

  “Not now, Trigger,” Tyce said, assuming the dog was going for the treats he kept there for times when Trigger was being a good boy.

  He stared into the truck at the charred remains of two troops. His stomach churned, and his mind went through a flurry of thoughts. He reached in and felt across the man’s neck. The man’s throat was still hot from being burned alive, and parts of his skin collapsed under Tyce’s touch, like a sooty log. It was terrible work, but it had to be done. Then, finding what he wanted, Tyce tugged upward on the metal chain. Reaching into his side pouch with his other hand, he pulled out a Leatherman tool and used it to clip the metal dog tag from around the fallen trooper’s neck.

  As he put the tag in his drop pouch, Trigger licked his hand, but Tyce batted him away and went back to work trying to find the second man’s dog tag. A few Marines gathered nearby offered to do the work, but Tyce felt compelled to do the deed.

  Once finished, he looked at both tags. Yep, he knew these men.

  Shit . . . good men, he thought. At least, they were good men, before I ordered them onto this mission.

  He tilted his head back and swallowed the emotions welling up inside. After all, he had personally ordered this mission. A pretty simple one, at least he thought it would be, to try and buy some meat and grain from farmers in the more rural parts of West Virginia and to get as much ammo as possible from a list of hardware and gun stores they’d compiled. Tyce nodded to the men waiting that they could now go to work pulling their fallen warriors out of the vehicle and looking for equipment. He walked off the road into the tall grass, lost in thought for a moment. Trigger followed him, barking and growling at him.

  Navy Commander Victoria Remington appeared by his side. “Tyce . . . this is not your fault,” she whispered when she was certain the men wouldn’t overhear her.

  Victoria was the unit’s medical officer. A card-carrying Navy surgeon, she’d fled the D.C. area when the Russians invaded, looking to link up with the resistance—any resistance. She’d found Tyce and his mix-and-match outfit, most of them the remnant of the West Virginia National Guard 150th Cavalry Regiment. She brought two Navy ambulance Humvees with her, packed with supplies, drugs, and even a portable X-ray machine. She and her two corpsmen, kind of like nurses or surgical assistants all rolled into one, had proven their worth time and again.

  “They knew the risks, and they did it all for the right reasons,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah,” he grunted, trying to conceal his emotions. Her discretion was, of course, always appreciated. As was her sympathy with Tyce’s seemingly perpetual penitence at any loss or injury among his troops. He was a fine leader, but he knew he took losses too personally. “Was this mission worth the risks?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Tyce knelt down and petted the more than usually agitated Trigger. Holding the dog’s head in his hands, he stroked his muzzle, which seemed to calm him a bit. “Find the wounded. There will be wounded. They may be unconscious, but my instincts tell me some must have survived.”

  Victoria looked at him dubiously but said nothing.

  “The bombing patterns are uneven. They missed several vehicles altogether. Then your folks can go to work. Okay?” he said sounding hopeful. “I mean, you know, within the limits of your equipment.”

  What Victoria didn’t bring from the naval hospital in D.C. she’d managed to scrounge up in the past few months. It wasn’t a full surgery, by any means, but it was the best they could do. The Russians had locked down every major hospital and now controlled any and all drugs and pharmaceuticals. A prudent move that allowed them to control any mass casualties, and thereby literally stave off any organized resistance’s ability to care for their wounded.

  She looked up into Tyce’s face. It was somber, and his eyes were full of sadness. “Tyce, you need to stop your . . .” She halted before she finished the sentence. She bent down with Tyce and started petting Trigger, who kept pulling his head away.

  “I know, I know,” Tyce said. He held a jumpy Trigger steady by his collar and changed the topic. “I’m pretty sure he understands as well as we do what happened here.” Now wasn’t the time or place for her empathy and understanding, as much as he probably needed it.

  “Dogs are very perceptive,” said Victoria. She tried to pet Trigger, but the dog broke free from Tyce and ran a few feet away. His ears back, he turned and looked at the two, splayed his forelegs, then returned and licked Victoria’s hand, his ears back. “He’s covered in soot. He’s going to need a bath when we get back.”

  Victoria was an oddity to Tyce. Normally she was a very volatile and outspoken woman. Angry and loud at the drop of a hat. Yet he’d also experienced a deeply compassionate side to her. A mood she seemed to reserve for the operating table and the few intimate moments they’d shared without the knowledge of the unit. Any appearance of impropriety would be enough to stir some controversy in the unit, and Tyce just could not afford that. So they remained platonic and aloof, at least publicly. Still, it had happened. And Tyce was not unfeeling or uncaring, and he hoped they would share more time together.

  Trigger ran forward, then back to the pair. He nipped Tyce when he held out his hand to pet him again.

  “Ow! Damn it, Trigger,” Tyce scolded the dog, who immediately dropped flat to the ground, his ears back and his eyes up. He stayed put, glancing sadly from Tyce to Victoria.

  “Even Trigger’s pissed with me,” said Tyce. The last words came like a hiccup from deep in his throat as emotions got the better of him.

  Thoughts he did not need right now swept through his mind. They were just more reasons he doubted his fitness to lead his men.

  A better man would not so easily succumb to emotion, he thought. He would remain focused on the mission and not let himself get so easily distracted.

  “Tyce . . .” Victoria reached to put her arm on his shoulder, then held back. “He’s just agitated,” she said. “He probably recognizes the scent of some of these guys.”

  “He couldn’t possibly. Not even Staff Sergeant Diaz. Not amid all this ash and smoke,” Tyce said, reaching out for Trigger once more, but at the mention of Diaz, the dog turned and raced away at top speed.

  Tyce and Victoria stood, shaking their head at the dog as he ran off, and the two walked back toward the vehicle column. Everywhere they saw bomb craters and vehicles shredded by shrapnel or reduced to smoking hulks. Some were just metal shells, with only the engine or chassis discernable
. They passed a few men searching through the high grass, sometimes calling out when they found a fallen comrade. Some of the fallen troops were found scattered through the field, caught in the open and sliced to bits by the bomb bursts, even though there were several likely spots that could have provided them some cover from the bomb’s shrapnel—low ground, rocky outcroppings.

  “Why did they run from cover?” asked Victoria.

  “I don’t know, Victoria. I know those . . . knew these men well. Some were experienced war vets, guys I served with in Iraq and Afghanistan. But I guess panic can do strange things to people.”

  The pair checked another destroyed vehicle and assisted the men in looking through the wreckage. Tyce collected the three dog tags and nodded to the men as they gathered up the remains.

  “You all didn’t train much to deal with Russian air attack,” said Victoria, looking toward the front of the convoy where several vehicles were still burning. They could hear Trigger barking from up near them, and they walked slowly toward the front, surveying the damage as they went.

  “Yeah, pretty much. Unless something drove them out of good cover, even in the face of Russian aircraft,” said Tyce. His mind started thinking over other possible scenarios, and he glanced up at the hills around them.

  “Hey, sir! Over here,” came a voice from the lead vehicles. “It’s Diaz . . . ah, I mean a fallen angel.”

  At the same time, several of Victoria’s nurses rushed up to her to let her know a few grievously wounded and unconscious men had been found.

  “Shit. This is going to be a long morning,” Tyce said, and they parted ways. Tyce headed to the front and Victoria back to check over the wounded.

  Once at the front of the former convoy, the soldier pointed Tyce inside the vehicle. Trigger was once again by his side, yapping and nipping at Tyce’s pocket. Tyce looked through the broken window and into the front passenger side of the shrapnel-pockmarked SUV. What was inside horrified him. It was Staff Sergeant Diaz. She lay in a heap atop the driver. Her face was a ghastly grey-white and frozen in a death gaze: eyes open and sallow, mouth agape, cheeks rigid. Her right arm was a mess of gore and blood just below the shoulder. Blood had sprayed all over the vehicle, covering the seats, the ceiling, and what was left of the spiderwebbed safety windows. Some of it must have come from the driver, but most was probably from Diaz’s arm. Tyce glanced at the driver. He was mostly buried under Diaz, but he could see a giant chunk of shrapnel sticking out of his temple.