The reams of data were indecipherable junk to most, but Kolikoff and his majors had become more attuned to the summations the SPETS-VTOR produced. The other various military staff officers who had taken up residence in the Russian-occupied Pentagon thought Kolikoff’s process looked more like fortune-telling than the intelligence analysis his staff was supposed to be producing. They began calling Kolikoff “Rasputin” and his staff “the mystics,” but since his calculations were often correct, they never said anything to their faces—and certainly not around General Tympkin.
“Sir, satellite and phone signal concentrations are not showing those areas as prime hotspots,” said Major Quico.
“I know,” said Kolikoff. “But I’m more convinced that the SPETS-VTOR computer is indicating something else unique at those spots, besides the most obvious calculations we see elsewhere. Something over here, and over here.” He pointed to several different concentration of red dots on the map in the western mountains of Virginia. “This George Washington Forest is the perfect place to hide a small unit. The SPETS-VTOR sees some possibilities in that data, and it provides lots of covered routes in and out. Perfect for a band of scared, remnant soldiers and their mountain men buddies. They would remain unnoticed, even from our aircraft. The second spot is here, at Hot Springs, Virginia, by that big hotel.”
“Would they really be living in a hotel, sir? It’s not well camouflaged, and not easily defended. Not like a good spot deep in the woods,” said Drugov.
“Unsure, but it certainly makes some sense, and the SPETS-VTOR calculates it as a possible location. It would give the Yankees a good place to rest, and there’s probably food stocks there for hotel guests. The third spot is here at Goshen, Virginia. There are lots of old Boy Scout camps there. They’d be able to make use of their facilities, it’s heavily wooded, and no one ever goes up there.”
Major Pavel pushed Quico out of the way and, to the general’s annoyance, crowded right up next to him. “Comrade General, these other printouts suggest something is being planned near Charleston. The SPETS-VTOR has analyzed radio and phone intercepts.” He circled his finger around the capitol of West Virginia.
“I’m aware of that, Pavel,” said the general, rolling his eyes. “But it’s the capital. There’s always going to be something happening there. There is often a lot of intelligence data near the big cities. Some of this will be insurgent activity. Just not the enemy 150th that we need to find and kill right now.”
Pavel sat back down in his chair and grimaced. The General sat forward and pulled out a notebook emblazoned with the Russian Air Force logo and held it up. “Look, something about the dates and times we’ve gotten from our air force spot reports make me think there’s more to the SPETS-VTOR data along the border.” He pointed back to the same few spots on the map.
“Can we task a UAV to go look at them?” asked Major Drugov.
“We could, but sending unmanned air vehicles over suspected enemy targets will make them jumpy. We’d need multiple passes at all these locations because they’d be camouflaged in the woods or in this hotel. They’ll spook and run. The enemy is watching the skies now, Drugov.”
“A satellite, then?” asked Quico.
“It’d be a good idea, but everything of that magnitude is being used by our army commanders fighting in New York State and in the Carolinas or out West,” said Kolikoff.
“What about getting the air force to do a moving target indicator sweep?” said Drugov hopefully.
“I thought our air force’s moving target detection stuff was unreliable up in the mountains. They’d need some holes in the woods or some valleys to look into,” said Pavel.
“Yes, you’re right. Unless . . .” Kolikoff trailed off wearily. He was tired of his majors’ speculations and the guesswork that went into intelligence analysis. He thought a minute more, then made a decision. “Okay, it’s time to start a fishing expedition. We don’t need to cast the net widely. The SPETS-VTOR has given us several locations, and I want to drop some hooks. We investigate these three locations: Washington Forest, Hot Springs, and Goshen. Call the air force and have them conduct moving target indicator sweeps of all three. My instincts tell me we’re close.”
“Something drastic, sir?” asked Pavel.
“Yes. I trust the SPETS-VTOR data on this, and I trust my gut. Call in the two Spetsnaz officers, Shenkov and, uh . . . that other one, Stazia Van Andjörssen. We must act now if we are to make Tympkin’s time line. Time to let loose the dogs of war.”
Omni Homestead Resort
Virginia
Gunny Dixon bent down by the Omni Resort’s pool and slapped the water a few times to catch his boss’s attention. Tyce had taken to swimming laps in the Olympic-length pool heated by hot springs very early every morning. It not only helped him wake up, it also kept the stiffness from his wounds to a minimum. Someone had tried to find the hotel pool staff, but to no avail. So Gunny designated a few of the troops “pool experts,” and they reopened it for the troop’s off-duty recreation and exercise. Thanks to these new experts, the troops reeked of chlorine all day and Tyce’s cheek scar became more pronounced from the excessive chlorine, but at least everyone was getting exercise.
One of the mechanics had found a heavy-duty 3D printer. After adding in some stainless steel screws and bolts, plus a modicum of engineering, the men had presented Tyce with a swim leg. The thing had black, half-moon and curved plates of lightweight but durable black plastic. It looked like a lobster’s tail as it extended behind him, pushing water then snapping back, but Tyce loved it—less for its function than for the men who had taken the time to make it for him.
“Sir, we have another request mast,” said Gunny.
“Damn, what’s wrong now, Gunny?” A ‘request mast’ was the right of every Marine to relate a grievance directly to their commander, but sometimes, it could be a pain in Tyce’s ass.
Tyce pulled himself up at the side of the pool, undid the lobster tail, and grabbed his prosthetic leg. He buckled it on in one practiced motion. He tried not to look at anyone when he pulled the leg on or off. He was still too self-conscious. He hated more when someone offered to help him. Somewhere inside, he knew they were doing it because they respected him, but it still turned him beet red out of embarrassment and frustration.
“I know you’re gonna be pissed, but it’s not just one Marine. It’s a platoon.”
“A whole platoon wants to request mast?” Tyce could stomach a few disgruntled men, but this had been picking up steadily, and a whole platoon that was angry enough at their own bosses to ask to bypass them and talk directly to Tyce was more than unusual.
“First, another batch of mail came in last night. The units handed it all out this morning.”
“Damn it, Gunny.”
Tyce bristled. He awkwardly pulled himself up to a standing position. He had to do a clumsy squat, which he’d adapted in physical therapy, but it got him to his feet without anyone’s assistance. Once he was eye level, he leaned in and gave Gunny a sharp look. “I thought I left standing orders to be informed when mail came in.”
Gunnery Sergeant Dixon stood his ground, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “I know, sir. But you also gave me specific guidance that if I couldn’t find you within a few hours of its arrival to distribute it. You said, and I quote, ‘Gunny, don’t ever let the mail sit more than two hours. Two fucking hours. Anything more, and we ruin morale.’ But then you went on that damn scouting mission yesterday morning playing Private Asher when you were needed back here doing officer stuff.”
Gunny was right, and Tyce knew it. He had been out patrolling with every unit in the 150th practically every day. They’d been fighting and hiding from Russians for many months, and he felt he had to show the men that he shared the dangers, but that also meant he sometimes shirked his duties as an officer. He stared at Gunny a moment, then sighed. “Yeah, you’re right, Gunny.” He put out his hand, and Gunny shook it. “I’m sorry I got on you. So what’s the issue?
”
He’d learned in his short career that admitting fault immediately was the only way to prevent the bad blood born of the close quarters required of fighting men. There was no loss of manliness in admitting when you were wrong, and it gave the troops a chance to live up to their own failures. A fighting organization had to remain honest. Many did not and succumbed to cults of personality in which no one confronted the boss when they made a bad decision, and then no one in the unit took ownership of their own failures.
Gunny softened his mood, too. “You have several squads, that amount to about a platoon’s worth, who have finally heard back from their spouses. The scuttlebutt among the enlisted is that some of the men’s wives are practically starving. They have no pay and are having to beg from neighbors.”
“Damn,” said Tyce, shaking his head. He picked up a towel and started to dry off. “I don’t have an answer, Gunny.”
“I know . . . and neither do I, sir. Our biggest dilemma is that we are perpetually getting smaller in numbers, and our enemy is bringing fresh troops ashore by the day. What we don’t lose in combat, we lose through men just wanting to go back home for a visit. Patriotism isn’t enough.”
Tyce pulled on his cammie pants. “Yeah. Though I’m not sure I agree with that last part, Gunny. There’s plenty enough patriotism and courage to go around here in the 150th. In fact, it’s probably harder to jump ship for a while, turning your back on your buddy and then going home to face a family who is scared to death and never really knows when you might die.”
“We live in a blackout, sir. Not enough comms with the outside world or even other organized resistance to know if we’re doing what’s right. Just where the Russians would want us. Far easier to understand defending your homestead than it is sticking around a rapidly deteriorating military unit.”
“Yes, but we can’t let the Russians know that. Remember in Iraq when the enemy kept us guessing? We never fully understood their shadow-government structure, or even their own remnant military who fought us from the shadows. I’m not sure we’ll know the larger picture of all this until the war is over.”
“It was the same for our grandparents in World War II. My great uncle said the only time he ever saw a map was when they prepared for the Iwo Jima landing. Even then, he said he didn’t understand at all what the symbols on the map meant.”
“He had a shitty officer. That’s something we’ve fixed in the 150th. You know that. Our weekly briefing to the commanders and NCOs gives them the straight picture. I even have the intel folks giving them what news we know around the world. I even told them France and Germany issued Russia an ultimatum—that should give them hope.”
“What about all the other countries?” Gunny shook his head. “And anyway, knowing what’s happening on the world stage doesn’t tell them what’s happening in their homes. With their families, their buddies, and their neighbors. There’s a greater comfort in those things than their boss standing up in a conference room and telling them that the French are promising to avenge us someday.”
Tyce scratched absently at his prosthetic leg. Victoria said it was called phantom limb syndrome when a person could still feel pain, itching, heat, and cold in the lost limb. The body might give, but the mind and heart didn’t let go so easily.
“Jesus, Gunny, there’s only so much we can do. What can we do? Desertions are going to keep going up.”
“I don’t know, sir. I have no clue what will cure this other than sending kids back home to check on loved ones and giving them enough time and resources to do it.”
“A leave chit I can do, but if it’s transportation or money you’re talking about, we’re running into a kind of bad area there.”
“Hell of a way to run a war,” Gunny said, and they both walked off to the hotel command center to see what new chaos the morning would bring.
CHAPTER 8
Omni Homestead Resort
Virginia
Captain Shenkov and three other Spetsnaz men crouched behind a fallen tree. The soldiers had their rifles in the crook of their shoulders and were scanning for signs of the Americans. Shenkov stared through his binoculars intently at the main tower of the Omni Homestead hotel. There was no activity to be seen, but it was still dark, predawn. His intelligence from Kolikoff suggested that besides an occasional patrol, the American partisans didn’t really get active until about six every morning.
Sleeping in, my little bunnies? thought Shenkov. The good life has made you complacent, hasn’t it?
“Wolf actual, Wolf actual, guns six and seven are placed and ready,” came a whisper over the radio set, slightly audible in the otherwise still forest.
Shenkov held out his hand to the radioman for the receiver, but his eyes remained fixed through the binoculars at the tower, “This is Wolf, I acknowledge. Teams Anna and Boris commence attack now,” said Shenkov. He loved that his call sign was short for steppe wolf, one of Russia’s most skilled nomadic hunters.
He pulled his AK-19 off the log, checked it over, and stood cautiously. Glancing back, he made a lifting gesture with his hand. Behind him, the forest came alive as forty-five camouflaged men stood slowly, almost in unison. Once they were up, Shenkov set off, and they all proceeded toward the Omni.
After about one hundred and fifty meters, they reached an open area, and Shenkov ordered his men to take a knee as he grabbed the radio. “Anna and Boris, this is Wolf. I am in range. Give status.”
“Anna is up,” came Team A’s response.
“Boris is up,” came Team B’s.
“Machine guns are now all up and ready.”
“Okay, I shall lead the attack. Stick to your attack zones, and do not fire into someone else’s zone. Attack now.” Without looking back, Shenkov personally began the attack on the Omni. As soon as he broke free from the woods, machine guns positioned at key locations commenced fire, and all hell broke loose.
In the periphery, Shenkov could see teams Boris and Anna running toward the hotel, rifles up, a few of them firing, laying down an additional base of fire at the many hotel windows where they perceived movement or a threat. Shenkov himself was the first to the hotel. He glanced back briefly to see the men closing the short open area between the woods and their respective assault positions. Once they made it up to the hotel’s brick wall, they stacked in groups of six and raced alongside the wall for protection. The machine guns were still going. Shattered glass and debris from upper-story windows rained down on them. Shenkov didn’t let up. He led his group directly to the front entrance of the tower, pulled the pins on two grenades, kicked the doors in with a violent bang, and tossed them inside, waited for the explosions, then was the first to enter. The men followed directly behind.
* * *
A mile away, Tyce stared through his own binos at the Omni Hotel. They hadn’t been really certain from which direction the Russians were going to come, so they’d picked a good spot with a lot of concealment on an embankment surrounded by woods. It worked, although at one point a long line of about sixty creeping Russians had gotten really close.
Hold your breath, Tyce thought at his men, but thankfully they were too well hidden, and there were too few of them to be noticed.
“Fuck,” cursed Gunny quietly once they were past. “Let’s not do that again.”
“No, let’s not,” said Tyce. “Did we get any word on the main body?”
“Yes, sir. They all made it safely to the new location.”
The voice of their newest addition piped up, “Maybe now you can finally tell me where that is,” said Stacey, poking her head up from her own camouflaged position. “Now that we know my intel sources are solid,” she added with a slight twist of her lips. The camouflage paint on her cheeks and neck did little to diminish her natural beauty or, of course, her alluring bicolored eyes.
Tyce was thankful when Stacey and two other sailors from Norfolk naval base had arrived and offered her services, including news of a Russian attack. The 150th had been lacking a decent
intelligence officer. With attrition and desertion in his ranks Tyce had welcomed the occasional military refugee, mostly remnants from other units that had been destroyed or disbanded. They brought news of the larger fight and sometimes critical intelligence about the Russians. They’d set up a procedure to check them out and bring them into the fold but found some were just deserters from other units. Often they ate some food, got some rest, then drifted off after a few days.
“Well, I don’t think I even know,” said Tyce. “Our lead LAV scouts got some last-minute details from some locals and switched it last night while everyone was busy trying to squeeze out of here in every vehicle we could get running.”
“And on foot,” Gunny reminded him. “We’ll have to wait until we get another radio call. Noon today is the scheduled time. We’ll listen in, and hopefully all the lost sheep will, too. We barely avoided a panicked exodus. I don’t think my pulse has returned to normal.”
“Yeah. It’s going to be a full day before we can hope to have everyone back together. I just hope the escape routes were diverse enough to throw off any airborne surveillance. Honestly, I was more worried in the hours it took to skedaddle than I have been in a long while.”
“Nothing to worry about now, chief,” said Stacey. The newcomer seemed completely composed. She stood and came over to Tyce, smiling broadly. “We live to fight another day.” She set her carbine against the log and took a long sip from her canteen.
“Hopefully. Either way, any chance we have is due in large part to your timely tip, Petty Officer Van Andersson.”
“It’s my job . . . sir,” she said, gently brushing some leaves off his shoulder. “It may be war, but we intel types still have our sources. I’m just glad we found your unit in time to warn you.”
Gunny walked over to the other two cautiously, still glancing back at the ongoing activities down at the resort. Occasionally they heard the report from a Russian rifle; they seemed to be searching all the rooms. Gunny pulled the magazine out of his rifle, checked it for the third time that morning, then popped it back in. “Right about now, they know they’ve missed us entirely.”
The Kill Box Page 8