The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  “It’s a considerable amount, perhaps enough to feed your men for some months to come. Loads of dry goods, and even some fresh fruit and vegetables from Florida. You can pick it up from the sheriff and take it back down south to your valley when you’re ready. Bring several supply trucks.”

  Tyce waited for the ask, but she said nothing further. “Well, thank you Mayor Holly. It’s a very welcome thing. We’ve been low on everything for some time now.”

  “No trouble at all, darlings. Bye now,” she said with her usual sweet smile.

  Tyce and Gunny stood and bade her farewell. The sheriff was waiting for them outside the door. He handed each a broom and a dustpan to sweep up the mud cakes they’d left behind.

  As they were about to go, Mayor Holly’s voice called out from inside her office, “Colonel, if it isn’t too much trouble, could you ask your man Mr. Blue to stop in sometime in the next two days? Thank you.”

  “Sure can do, ma’am. What’s up?” Tyce said.

  “I have need of his mountain man skills, if you don’t mind sharing him for a day or two.”

  “I’ll ask him to drop in,” Tyce said. Gunny and Tyce looked at each other, shrugged, and headed out to the waiting Humvees.

  “What’s that all about?” Gunny asked, once they were in their vehicle.

  “No idea, but a month’s worth of fresh chow is worth the big guy stopping by to shoot the breeze with our fair Mayor. The men have been eating stale MREs, and the locals don’t seem to appreciate us hunting the forests clean.”

  “Fresh fruit . . .” Gunny sighed. “Think about it, sir. Morale will go through the roof.”

  “Yeah, it can’t do any harm.” Tyce put on his helmet and gave a thumbs-up to the top turret gunner and the driver, and they sped off south toward the Omni Homestead Resort—their newest base.

  Denver, Colorado

  Other than their convoy, the streets of Denver were still mostly deserted. Fuel was in short supply, and anyone out driving had to go through numerous checkpoints and random roadblocks. The Russians made a big show of telling the citizens of Denver that they were free to move about, but few Coloradans had anywhere to go, and paying jobs were scarce. Most folks had been holed up in their houses out of fear since the Russian occupation began.

  Their convoy passed a large fleet of armored trucks speeding in the opposite direction and slowed as they passed a car engulfed in flames, a group of Russian soldiers standing nearby. Clark shuddered when he spotted several corpses sprawled out on the asphalt.

  As daylight rose and the convoy made its way into the center of the city, they saw a few brave souls venturing out to join a Russian food distribution line. When they spotted Clark’s trucks with its military escorts, some ducked into backstreets and alleys.

  They traveled past the gold-domed capitol building, which was flying both the Russian and American flags, past the boarded-up Denver Art Museum, and then pulled through iron gates and into a small alleyway behind a big two-story concrete masonry building. The Russian soldiers signaled for the truckers to dismount, and the leaders met a small group of other Russians who emerged from the building. The truckers were left on their own and again clustered around the big man named Clark. They each carefully fished out what remained of their cigarettes. Clark produced a lighter and passed it around.

  “What is this place?” asked one.

  “It says U.S. Mint on the front,” said Clark.

  The men smoked quietly for a minute, pondering the implications of their stop and enjoying the remainder of the only tobacco they’d had for days.

  “Did you guys catch who they pulled from the ADX?” Clark asked.

  “No. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t like the implications of what we’re doing. First the ADX, then here. You know, there’s some really sick bastards there,” said Clark.

  “Do you think it was mass murderers or something?”

  “No idea,” said Clark between drags, “but I’m not sure I like any of this.”

  “Well, I for one need the pay,” said one. “I have a family, and we gotta eat more than what the food lines are giving.”

  “What should we do?” said another.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not sticking around to find out,” said Clark.

  Just then, the doors to the Mint opened, and the soldiers came out.

  The truckers were given the command to load up, and several forklift operators began ferrying large, canvas-covered crates into the backs of their trucks. When they were done loading, forklifts included, the Russian soldiers jumped back into the trucks, and the convoy headed down the 16th Street Mall and then to Denver’s Union Station, where a large Amtrak train was waiting.

  The truckers dismounted and gathered together, watching as the prisoners were loaded and the forklifts went to work.

  “What’s next?” the men asked Clark.

  “I don’t know. But the soldiers in my truck had a mood change on the way over here,” said Clark.

  “Yeah? What do you think?”

  “I really don’t like the looks of that guy,” said Clark, pointing to the Russian officer wearing black leather gloves and octagonal glasses. “I’m not sticking around.”

  “They’ll stop you. Unless you’re abandoning your truck.”

  “First chance I get.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Omni Homestead Resort

  Virginia

  “Lieutenant Colonel Asher?”

  A Marine Sergeant poked his head into the 150th’s makeshift vehicle maintenance bay in what was usually a posh summer ballroom. Not immediately seeing his commander but spotting two soldiers and a Marine gathered around a Humvee, one side up on jacks, he stepped in and gingerly closed the antique cut-glass double French doors behind him and headed toward the vehicle.

  “Colonel Asher . . . sir, you in here?”

  “What’s up, Sergeant B?” came a muffled voice from underneath the Humvee. Two maintenance sleds rolled out from under and across the ornate patterned ballroom floor. The man recognized the grease-and-oil-covered figure as his boss.

  “Hey, sir, Staff Sergeant Adams sent me down. He says you’re needed up in the CP.” The command post, or CP, was the nerve center of any tactical unit. It held the radios, the maps, and a small staff of headquarters personnel who manned it all—including this messenger, Sergeant Berringer. Most were either radio operators or intelligence specialists. Berringer was the latter, and because of that, Tyce always liked getting his opinion on reconnaissance information and larger matters.

  “Okay, let me clean up. How urgent?”

  “He said ASAP, sir. It’s a landline call from somewhere far.”

  Tyce had been taking his time putting on his prosthetic leg, but at the news from Berringer, he picked up his pace.

  He tried not to sound too animated as he asked, “Who do you think it is, Devil Dog?” He used the Marine Corps nickname meaning brother warrior.

  “Sir, I try not to listen in on that kind of stuff.”

  “Yeah, Berringer.” Tyce rolled his eyes. “Talk me on target, Marine.”

  They both knew Berringer had the biggest ears in Tyce’s unit. A regiment on paper, it was only a fraction of the real combat formation officially referred to as the 150th West Virginia Cavalry regiment. It was a proud unit with a history as old as the nation. It had collected battle streamers from the American Revolution, for driving Confederate troops out of West Virginia as a part of the Union in the Civil War, and in modern day was reorganized as a RSTA unit: Reconnaissance, Surveillance, and Target Acquisition.

  “Well, sir, I didn’t take the call. But I’d imagine since they grabbed Sergeant René from second platoon, they were talking to someone in French.”

  “Huh?” said Tyce, dropping a socket wrench into a standing toolbox and wiping his hands on a grease rag. “Someone from France?”

  “Doubt it, sir,” said Berringer. “It’s past twenty-two hundred hours across the pond. My bet is C
anada.”

  “Got it. The French-speaking part of Canada.”

  “Sir . . .” said Berringer, pointing behind Tyce. A pool of oil was steadily expanding out from where Tyce and Gunny Dixon had just been working on the vehicle.

  “Shit!” Tyce sighed heavily, then looked at Gunny, who just shrugged and shook his head.

  “Berringer,” said Gunny, then pointed upward, giving him the silent order to get back to his post in the hotel’s tower. Gunny didn’t mind Tyce chatting up the men. They were glad to be in touch with their leader and more thankful he didn’t mind getting himself dirty. He just didn’t want them to start asking favors from the CO. Even the best troops sometimes got too familiar with the boss and started asking him for things.

  “Sir, you go do your thing. Just remember, there’s a reason we don’t let you officers screw around with the vehicles.”

  Tyce frowned at him and was about to say something, then decided not to take Gunny’s bait and just shook his head, mouthing the words “screw you.” But he was glad to see the Russian invasion hadn’t dampened the usual good-natured locker-room banter.

  “A complaining Marine is a happy Marine, Gunny.”

  “Yeah, it’s once they stop complaining that I know shit’s gone to hell in a handbasket,” Gunny said.

  “Roger that. You just let me know when that is. Meanwhile,” said Tyce, pointing at the growing oil slick with a smirk, “clean this shit up. I expect more from a Gunnery Sergeant of Marines.”

  “Me and the boys’ll close her up. You go do officer shit for a while, sir.”

  * * *

  Tyce had spent the morning patrolling with one of his units and the better part of the afternoon with his maintenance section, trapped under a few of the broken Humvees, trying to find out what he needed to somehow requisition once the opportunity presented itself. He’d found that his prosthetic leg bothered him less the more exercise he got and the busier he stayed. All this static sitting in a firm base really stiffened up his war injuries. Staying still for too long also gave him a more pronounced limp. This and the scar across his cheek embarrassed him to no end in front of the men. Both were earned in combat, but to Tyce, they were just more reminders of his physical limitations as their commander.

  Two months ago, Tyce had led the troops in defeating a contingent of Russian forces, temporarily seizing Yeager Airport in Charlestown in a successful gambit to evacuate the vice president and what remained of the Cabinet of the United States to Canada. The victory had been short lived. Funerals for fallen soldiers and Marines had followed. Somber affairs with readings from Biblical verse, Thoric scripture, and a Buddhist rite ceremony. Tyce had learned a lot more about the diversity of his troops, but also had been struck by the realization that everyone and everything under his command was worn out or breaking down in some form or fashion.

  Tyce could hear the sounds from the radio room and took a second to compose himself, catch his breath, and take a quick sip out of his resort-wear stainless steel coffee mug. He’d been careful to have his adjutant keep a ledger of what was “borrowed” from the hotel’s gift shop.

  Tyce walked in. “Who is it?”

  “Sir, it’s big-time. It’s the Governor-General of Canada,” said Adams.

  “Holy . . .” Tyce was so taken aback, he almost broke his own rule to try to limit his profanity. He went to the phone and picked it up. “This is Colonel Asher.”

  They had a fairly old and rudimentary encryption set up to try to stop the Russians from listening in on the phone lines and satellites they now owned: a piece of machinery that they’d grabbed from another unit’s devastated HQ. Canada had the same devices. Tyce just hoped the Russians didn’t. It made the calls sound high-pitched and tinny, like the other party was talking from inside a can.

  “Can you hear me, Colonel Asher? This is the Governor-General of Canada. I am standing here with your vice president. We wanted you to know that what we’re about to tell you is of the utmost importance to both of our governments. Do I have your attention?”

  “You do, uh, sir.” Tyce was at a loss as to what one was supposed to call the Governor-General of Canada.

  “Good. I’ll put him on, but know that Canada is here to support the United States.”

  Tyce waited a moment, then the vice president came on. “Colonel Asher. We have gotten word from a man in Colorado that the Russians have hijacked a train and are headed to your vicinity.”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Vice President.” Tyce couldn’t figure out what it had to do with him.

  “On board are some very dangerous chemicals.”

  For some reason, Tyce thought of bleach and drain cleaner. “Yes, Mr. Vice President. What is this all about?”

  “Have you heard of methylphosphonyl difluoride?”

  “No, Mr. Vice President.”

  “Well, frankly, neither had I. But we own a shit ton of the stuff. It’s supposed to have all been destroyed, but I now know we were still in the process of getting rid of it all when the Russians hijacked some.”

  “I’m following.”

  “Good. Now here’s the tricky part. All you need is some sodium fluoride and it becomes sarin or soman.”

  “The toothpaste stuff?” Tyce said.

  “Basically, and some other chemical compounds I can’t even pronounce. You’ve probably heard of sarin nerve gas, but soman gas is just as lethal . . .” The VP paused. “Yeah, I’m being told here by the Canadian specialist that soman can be even worse, you copy?”

  “So the Russians are bringing nerve gas through West Virginia.”

  Tyce looked around the room. The men were only hearing one side of the conversation, but it was shocking enough to keep everyone quietly focused on his every word.

  “It may be. We’re not one hundred percent sure just yet. We wanted to reach out to you, though, because we’re giving you a special mission. You’re the most organized force I have in the mountains. We need you to intercept—that means stop with everything in your power—that train. I am counting on you to use your best judgment. This stuff can cause a lot of deaths. Excruciating and painful deaths.”

  Before he could ask, the VP voiced Tyce’s next question. “You’re wondering why they’re using a train and not just flying or trucking the stuff. Might be the fear of Canadian air interdiction, might be they just don’t trust American truckers. We’re not sure of that, either. But they seem to have their reasons. Do you understand the mission?”

  “Intercept a Russian chemical train.”

  “Add, ‘don’t fuck it up,’ and that’s it. What questions do you have for me?”

  Tyce’s began rattling off concerns at a rapid pace. “I guess, when and where? This just sounds so unusual to me. I should also say I’m not set up for any of this kind of thing. Why are they coming through here? What do you want me to do with the stuff once I get it, if I can even get my hands on it? Where are they going with it and what do they intend to do with it?”

  “Colonel, I hear all that, and you and I have got some history. All I can say is I don’t have all the answers just yet. We’re still developing what we can. We’ll let you know more as soon as we know more, but I need you and your men, Lieutenant Colonel. Whatever the Russians are up to, it simply reeks of evil intent. You must not fail. Do you understand?”

  Tyce’s voice was slow and cautious. “I . . . I understand, Mr. Vice President.”

  “Good. I didn’t want to have to make it an order, and it sounds like you get the gravity of this thing, as I need you to. I’ll be in touch very shortly.” And the VP hung up.

  “You just got handed a whopper,” said Sergeant Berringer.

  “We just got handed a whopper,” said Tyce, staring off into space and lost in thought about the possible ramifications of his newest, oddest assignment.

  “With cheese,” said a feeble voice from the corner of the high tower’s communication room. It was retired Brigadier General Lawton Custis, the unit’s resident Sun-Tzu and Patton all rolled
into one. He had attached himself to their unit after he and his close friend Bill Degata fled Virginia. Lawton had been blinded by a tactical nuclear blast that demolished his town of Danville and everyone in it. He had no home or job, but he did have a head full of knowledge of history’s famous battles from Marathon to Waterloo in addition to his own practical experiences leading Airborne Rangers in the Gulf War and the first half of America’s wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Tyce hadn’t seen General Custis for a few days. He’d told Tyce after their last battle that he felt his age creeping up on him and was going to ask Bill to help him scrounge up some books, but Tyce and Victoria suspected there was something more. Tyce thought he might be struggling with losing his wife and home. Most of the men had no idea what was happening to their hometowns, but General Custis had watched it all go up in flames. Literally. He’d stared directly into the nuclear blast, and it had been the last thing he’d ever seen.

  Tyce couldn’t figure out which was worse: not knowing or seeing your town turn into a fireball. Regardless, Tyce felt like the 150th was the beneficiary. The General gave sage advice, which Tyce listened to and learned from. It seemed Custis also enjoyed doing something, even if that just mean helping Tyce navigate the same tricky terrain trodden by warriors of a thousand years ago. He sat down with the general and talked while Sergeant Berringer brewed up a fresh pot of coffee.

  CHAPTER 7

  Russian Pentagon

  Washington, D. C.

  “Here,” said General Kolikoff, looking at a map of western Virginia. He pointed to Hot Springs, Virginia. “There’s a hotel there”—he looked closely at the map—“looks like it’s called the . . . Omni Resort Hotel.”

  Kolikoff and his staff had spread out an array of maps and printouts produced by the SPETS-VTOR computer. It had been a real feat, plugging in all the variables for the mountain state of West Virginia and every known or suspected American insurgent movement, suspicious radio call, or attack on a Russian unit.