The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  He pointed to major roads that crossed north and south. “Did you know we lost another convoy of food last week? And I’m not talking about a couple of oranges or a few boxes of damn Chex Mix. This was a full supply column. Picked apart and picked clean by these rebels.” He took a moment to deliberately calm himself. “What does your SPETS-VTOR think of reducing this pocket of resistance?”

  “We must . . . expand our activities in the middle for certain, Comrade General. Gain freedom of movement from Baltimore to D.C. and down to Norfolk and Atlanta. The middle is, as you say, the key to all that. But the threat from the American Center is minimal.”

  “Yes, agreed. Farther west from there is Central Army’s responsibility, and not mine. But expand activities, you say? How? With what forces? I have committed all my forces everywhere else in my third of the U.S. Even your SPETS-VTOR did not predict this level of disruption outside the major population centers.”

  “I don’t know, General. I guess . . . I guess I would need to tweak the variables in the SPETS-VTOR computer to see if there was another solution,” said Kolikoff.

  Suddenly Tympkin smiled, as if the answer had come to him. “No need, Viktor. I have a solution already. Three solutions, actually.” He held up three fingers and winked.

  The hasty turn of mood was enough to make Kolikoff wonder if Tympkin might have a latent and significant personality disorder. Then again, he’d once watched Tympkin throw a man out of a helicopter at several thousand feet in the air. Kolikoff had little doubt that he worked for one of the world’s scariest and most-enabled megalomaniacs.

  What conniving is he up to in his spare time, and how can I steer clear of it? he thought to himself.

  “With a little help from your computer, the first and second solutions will clear the way. Then the third will mean we can crush the 10th Mountain and turn our attention to the growing problem in the southern states.” Tympkin didn’t explain further, instead turning toward the back of the room and holding wide his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Now, here are solutions one and two. My secret weapons.”

  Kolikoff had been so focused on his boss and the cryptic discussion that he had not noticed two shadowy figures who had edged in behind them. He turned and saw a woman and a man, both dressed in all-black camouflage uniforms. He recognized the male as Captain Shenkov, the highly trained Spetsnaz officer Tympkin used to solve tough and focused tactical problems. The woman was unfamiliar to him.

  “General Kolikoff, you already remember the wolf, our Captain Christov Shenkov. But I’d like you to meet Major Stazia Van Andjörssen, code name Panther. I believe her skills will be more than adequate for the mission I have for you. What’s more, she has already been operating in the Allegheny region.”

  The female gave a curt nod and stepped forward to salute. Kolikoff noticed she was quite pretty. He also noticed her eyes were two different colors.

  Gorgeous, was his first impression, but there is something sinister behind those eyes. He found himself staring at her. The eyes stared back, unblinking. Kolikoff looked away.

  “Stazia is one of our most polished products from the illustrious Directorate S. Her training with the SVR has been extensive,” he said, referring to the Russian foreign intelligence services. “Stazia, list some of your skills for General Kolikoff, please.”

  “Yes, Comrade General.” She came to attention. “I am rated category five in demolitions, two-tier in sabotage, and I’m a black belt in Systema,” she said. That impressed Kolikoff. Systema was the Russian special service’s secret martial arts program, dating back to the Cossacks. “And I am a fully trained sniper. But my main skills are infiltration and subversion.”

  “Tell him where you have been these past six years, Stazia.”

  “I have been here.”

  “Here?” said General Kolikoff, a little puzzled. “What is ‘here?’”

  “Here with the United States Navy.”

  “With the U.S. Navy?”

  “In the U.S. Navy, actually.”

  Seeing that Kolikoff was thoroughly impressed and appropriately confused, Tympkin grinned and dismissed both special operators from the room.

  Once they were gone, he queried Kolikoff, “You are curious about that one, no?” He smiled wickedly. “Our ace in the hole. Or one of them, I should say. Panther has been reporting on and sabotaging Naval forces from inside the U.S. Navy for quite some time. Born to a Finnish American mother and one of our deep cover agents stationed in South Africa. Her mom was the type, you know, bleeding heart trying to do good the world round. It was a cinch for her father to close the deal. I heard her mother never even knew he was an agent. With permission from her father, Stazia was turned very early in life by our SVR intelligence agency and given premier training in preparation for deep cover operations. She has been a sleeper agent for us, and so much more. She is irreplaceable. You will focus her and Christov on our West Virginia problems.”

  “What exactly will . . . Panther be doing for us?”

  “She has already begun, Viktor. She ran a successful test operation in West Virginia aimed directly at an insurgent band. She personally wiped out about a company of their men.”

  “Sir, I already have tasked several special forces units to find and kill the American insurgents—”

  “No, Viktor. She already found them. She will infiltrate directly into the enemy’s organization. She will be your eyes and ears on the ground.”

  Kolikoff was disturbed for being kept in the dark, but eager to get to work. “I can use both agents as I see fit?”

  “Yes, they are at your disposal. Use them wisely, especially Panther. By the way, her code name is actually named after the panther chameleon, a cold-blooded reptile evoking the careful, quiet, and adaptable hunter of the forest. It’s very appropriate. Don’t you think? She is a different breed, Viktor. Put her to good use.”

  “And Shenkov?”

  “He is now your special action man. When Panther finds the enemy’s lairs, you will use Shenkov to root them out. He can be merciless, I assure you.” Tympkin patted Kolikoff on the shoulder and prepared to leave. “Now, put some of the SPETS-VTOR computing power behind those two and get to work. You have seven days to crush or subdue the enemy network in West Virginia.”

  Kolikoff gulped. “Seven days, Comrade General?”

  “Yes. Seven. We will act decisively. Is there a problem?”

  “No . . . sir,” said Kolikoff, his eyes still wide with shock. “You mentioned a third solution?”

  “I did. The third solution is already in motion, but don’t you worry about that. It will solve many problems for us, later. Leave that part to me.” Tympkin didn’t seem interested in alleviating any of his subordinate’s shock. He turned and left the room, his four personal guards in tow.

  Kolikoff looked around the empty room. This third solution didn’t sound good to him. Whatever it was, Tympkin’s tone and hidden implications made it sound more malevolent than the other two. But right now, the thought of a deep spy, one who had actually enlisted in the U.S. Navy, made his stomach churn.

  Majors Pavel, Drugov, and Quico entered the room cautiously and sat in the back, chomping unabashedly on tacos from the new kiosk while watched their boss pacing the room.

  Infiltrators and spies . . . Kolikoff thought, then muttered an old phrase he’d been forced to memorize in secondary school many years before: “Give me an enemy at the gates, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate, through alleys and with sly whispers . . .” He raised his voice and wagged his finger in the air toward the majors as he finished what he remembered of the phrase, shocking the three into silence mid-bite.

  “Meet me in the SPETS-VTOR operators’ room in ten minutes,” Kolikoff said. “We have a new mission.” Kolikoff spat on the floor like he’d bitten into a chunk of something sour and pushed past the three men to leave the Pentagon and get some fresh air.

  United States Federal “ADX Supe
rmax” Penitentiary

  Florence, Colorado

  Six truck drivers wearing parkas and heavy denim Carhartt jackets stomped their feet on the snow-covered cement and slapped their hands against their arms in an attempt to ward off the biting cold. Giant halogen floodlights bathed them and everything around in a brilliant harsh blue light. The men, their eighteen-wheeler semis, the massive ADX Florence supermax federal penitentiary’s loading dock, and a Brink’s armored truck stood out in stark contrast to the black night. The ADX prison facility was well known as America’s strongest prison. It held high-profile convicts who posed too great a national security risk or had been designated too dangerous for an ordinary maximum-security prison. In short, the worst of the worst.

  The steadily falling sleet left a thin, icy film on the big rigs’ windshields, and for the third time that morning the men deliberated about who would clear it off. They’d been waiting for over an hour. No one knew when they would leave or even why the Russians had contracted them for the trip. The few things the Russians had told them: be prepared to go at a moment’s notice, be prepared to go anywhere we tell you, and don’t ask any questions. They were getting paid, and that was good enough.

  “Rock, paper, scissors?” said one. They all gathered around and played the game.

  The two losers grumbled openly but dutifully climbed up and went to work chiseling the frosted glass with heavy-duty scrapers. The remaining four huddled together and wondered what was coming next.

  One man lit up a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and immediately drew greedy stares from the rest. After the Russian takeover, cigarettes, like everything else, had become an exceedingly scarce commodity.

  “Hear ’bout them resistance fighters out east?” said the man with the cigarettes, jiggling the pack and staring inside. The last three stared back at him. He pondered saving them for himself, but after a moment’s consideration, he offered them up to the others. He figured it far better to share them with a few Americans he’d just met that morning rather than lose them to the two Russians who’d been riding beside him in his truck’s cab.

  “Yeah,” answered a man named Clark. He savored a long drag and hissed the smoke out between his teeth. “It’s not going to be enough.” The others stared at him. Clark seemed to realize good conversation was the likely price of the free cigarette, so he continued, “I hired onto another Russian troop convoy from Denver airport last week. Watched them offload. They kept coming in. Must’ve been four or five thousand men. All soldiers, you know, fighting types headed up into the mountains. Headed to Colorado Springs, Calumet, and the like. I hear there are still some big holdouts up there, too.”

  News was as scarce as cigarettes, but traded more freely. All the other news they heard was strictly controlled, so, like during World War I and World War II, a good chat was the best way to get real news. If one didn’t mind the occasional inaccuracy or embellishment.

  “Air Force Academy kids?”

  “Some,” said Clark. “Also regular air force guys from down at Peterson.”

  “What about the army guys in Fort Carson?”

  “I heard some Russian paratroopers rooted them out,” said another.

  “Most of them. A few army units went head-to-head with the Russians. They had us haul out a shit ton of wrecked gear at Fort Carson, and corpses . . .” said Clark.

  “Soldiers? Ours?”

  “Yeah. Ours and theirs. Mostly ours. Survivors went up into the mountains. Not sure how many were left,” said Clark.

  Everyone fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then the third man started, “Any idea where we’re going next? Or what we’re haulin’ . . .” but he trailed off quickly as the prison’s giant steel doors burst open and a swarm of Russian soldiers spilled out.

  The squad of soldiers had their AK-47s up and at the ready, pointed in all directions, including at the truckers. Another squad emerged from behind the first, this group led by a man with strangely shaped glasses and black leather gloves. He escorted three men wearing orange prison jumpsuits. They put the men into an armored car. Then the Russian officer waved his pistol at the drivers and barked, “Get in and prepare to move trucks!”

  The men quickly rubbed the lit tips of their cigarettes against snow-caked boots, stuck the remainder of the smokes into their pockets for later, and mounted up. Military escort vehicles slid to the front and back of the line of trucks. In minutes, Clark and the rest of the small convoy were on their way out past the three-strand barbed wire fence, through a sliding steel gate, over retractable vehicle barricades, and on toward Denver.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tucker County Courthouse

  Parsons, West Virginia

  Tyece and Gunny Dixon trooped up the wide, wooden stairs leading to Mayor Susanna Holly’s office in the Tucker County Courthouse. Visiting Mayor Holly was definitely not the highlight of Tyce’s weekly tour around the region. In fact, this week’s tour couldn’t have come at a worse time, what with everything that had happened that morning, but it had to be done. He usually checked in with police stations and fire departments, as well as several prominent citizens and leaders of the mountain counties. As the only representative of the former federal government in this neck of the woods, Tyce found that staying in touch with everyone kept him informed with goings-on as much as it gave his men a purpose for continuing to fight. A certitude that what they were doing was right and maybe reassured an uneasy populace.

  With no intelligence coming down from a higher headquarters, his unit was running blind. Any and all local tidbits helped them stay ahead of the Russians. Mayor Holly was one of the only elected officials who had not run off into the hills or simply disappeared, like many leaders in the Russian occupation zones. His visits to the mayor often left him wondering how much she was actually collecting information on him, but she was the mayor, and she represented the people. And he led the last remaining fighting group in her county and pretty much her whole state, and as such, he needed her help. So . . . he sucked it up and tried to get through the meeting with a minimum amount of friction.

  They spotted the sheriff, who looked like he’d been expecting them. A fat man with a big dip of tobacco stuck in his jaw. He opened the mayor’s door and, with an awkward sort of grin, ushered them in.

  “Did you and your boys forget to take off your muddy boots in the corridor again, Colonel?” said Mayor Susanna Holly before even turning around in her old wooden swivel chair. To Tyce, her syrupy sweet Southern drawl always seemed to mask a myriad of concealed motives.

  “We . . . uh, yes, I guess we were in such a hurry we forgot,” Tyce said.

  Mayor Holly pivoted around in her chair to face Tyce. Well into her forties, she cut quite a dignified figure. Shortish and lithe, with flaming red hair and bright blue eyes. She had all the grace and charm of a Southern belle, but behind it all was a cunning that left no one wondering how she’d risen in the ranks of her town’s politics. She was always well made up and looked the part of a professional politician, including a seemingly unending supply of designer suits perfectly tailored to show off her thin but tightly muscled body. Today it was a silvery pants-and-jacket combination with a wide-collared white blouse. Her perfect appearance always left Tyce feeling scuzzy about his own field-worn looks as a leader, yet also wondering how in the world she could possibly be getting dry cleaning done during a Russian occupation.

  “Good morning, Colonel.” She nodded to Tyce. “And good morning, Gunny.” She nodded to Tyce’s right-hand man and the senior enlisted noncommissioned officer for the 150th, Gunnery Sergeant Trey Dixon. Tyce rarely went anywhere without Gunny. He was the eyes and ears of the unit and usually had a good idea of what issues might be most detrimental to morale. He was younger than Tyce by several years, but they’d served together in combat, and Tyce and Gunny had an implicit trust of one another.

  “I see we do not have the prestigious Miss Doctor with us today?” she continued.

  “Commander Remington is attendi
ng to, ah, some medical matters for the unit,” Tyce said. He never brought Victoria to the meetings. She was usually too busy, and the two women—Victoria and Susannah—were like oil and water.

  “Yes.” She stared straight through Tyce with her penetrating blue eyes. “I hear you all took quite a sock in the mouth.”

  “Yes, unfortunately we were hit pretty hard.” Tyce didn’t need Mayor Holly reminding him of his failures, so he decided to skip straight to the point. “Ma’am, as you already know, this is not going to be a short occupation. If we want to get rid of the Russians, it’s all hands on deck.”

  “I resent the implication, Colonel,” she said dryly.

  Gunny Dixon, who was perpetually at odds with Mayor Holly’s wit, was quick to butt in, “I got nothing wrong with reminding the Honorable Mayor Holly that we’re the ones doing all the fighting.”

  “And the dying,” Mayor Holly said. Her face was impassive. She was a master of picking apart others’ defenses. Neither man had a response, which was probably her plan, so she continued, “I am deeply sorry to hear about your misfortunes, but as your military textbooks have no doubt taught you, fortunes in war change from day to day.” She gave a fleeting sorrowful look but quickly moved on, “To that point, today I may be the bearer of some of those changing fortunes. It seems a few friends of mine have recently come into possession of some extra materials. Some Russian groceries that were . . . let’s just say lost up in the mountains.”

  Tyce and Gunny looked surprised. It was rare that she offered them something for nothing, but feeding the 150th was a chore in and of itself. Any and all supplies were welcome.