The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  Victoria now shined the light into the brown eye and began moving the pen back and forth again. She stopped suddenly, pulled back, and narrowed her eyes at Stacey. Then she held the scope up and pointed the penlight directly into the blue eye, then back to the brown.

  “Petty Officer Von An . . . um . . .”

  “Van Andersson,” Stacey corrected in a blasé tone.

  “Yes.” Victoria wheeled the chair back, a hint of genuine concern coming over her face. “When were you first diagnosed with polycoria?”

  “Poly what?” Stacey said in shock. “I have heterochro-mia. Had it since birth.”

  “No, I said polycoria,” Victoria chided. It was never easy to give bad news to a patient, even one as petulant as Stacey. Victoria went with her usual pattern: just drop the hammer. “I’m guessing this is the first time, then. It’s a condition where you have more than one pupil in a single iris.”

  “I . . . I . . . what?” Stacey stammered.

  “People with heterochromatic eyes—as much as the boys might admire them—are much more prone to polycoria than others.”

  “What does that even mean?” Stacey said, trying to regain her composure.

  “It means you have a pathological condition of the eye. One where your brown eye has begun to develop a second pupillary opening. If we don’t correct it, it will get worse.”

  “Worse how?”

  Stacey sounded almost angry, but Victoria had seen all sorts of reactions and continued. “At first, and possibly even now, I’d imagine, you develop some sensitivity to light. At least in your brown eye. Eventually, if we do nothing, you will lose all sight in that eye.”

  “I . . . well, how long does that take?”

  “Years, maybe decades. There’s really is no time line to polycoria, but it’s best to correct it early in life. While at least some of the pupil can still be saved.”

  Stacey was silent a moment, and Victoria let her consider the ramifications.

  “Do you . . . I mean, what does the operation entail?” Stacey asked.

  “It’s very complicated.” Victoria pulled off the exam gloves and took out a patient form. She filled out the information from the exam, then handed the clipboard over to Stacey to fill in her personal data. “We’re absolutely not equipped for that kind of thing here. You’d have to go to a much bigger hospital. One with specialists. If we weren’t at war, I could recommend a few. Lord knows where all eye surgeons have gotten themselves off, too, though.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “For now”—Victoria took the clipboard back, stood, and opened the door—“nothing. Keep me informed, and I’ll track its progress. Or retrogression, as the case may be. I’ll see if I can contact someone I know back in D.C. when the time is right.”

  “Fine,” said Stacey, and she walked out, shutting the door hard behind her.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tucker County High School

  West Virginia

  The school’s speaker system crackled to life. “Iron Horse six, Iron Horse six, you’re needed in the radio room.”

  Tyce looked up at the speaker, then back to Staff Sergeant Diaz. Her face was still grey and sunken. Now lying on the makeshift hospital bed hooked up to the tubes, machines, and wires Victoria had scrounged up with some help from the hospital in Elkins, she was thin and already looked like she’d lost a great deal of weight.

  “Commander Remington says you’re in line for one of those prosthetic limbs,” said Tyce.

  “Now ya gotta learn to shoot with your left arm,” said Wynand, the unit’s country boy and certified scrounger. Through rumors and innuendos, most of the troops had come to believe he was a smuggler, moonshiner, or petty thief before the war began. His comment earned him a nasty look from Diaz.

  “What if we get you one of those claw thingies,” suggested Gunny smiling and holding up spread fingers like an eagle’s claw. His comment was the last straw. Diaz had had enough of the teasing, and she socked Gunny in his groin with the back of her hand—hard. It achieved the desired effect: Gunny doubled over, and the other two men’s faces cringed in sympathetic pain. In the process, though, Diaz’s wires came loose, and one of Victoria’s machines started beeping loudly.

  “Hey!” said Victoria from across the room. She hopped up from her desk and hustled over. She glared at Tyce, who was still chuckling at his friend’s misfortune but was obviously glad to see Diaz was regaining her strength . . . and her temper. “I’d say visiting hours are just about over. Che palle!” She barked in Italian slang for them to stop being a pain.

  “Agreed to whatever that means,” said Gunny, regaining his composure enough to poke fun at Victoria’s hand-me-down Italian. “And it sounds like you’re needed topside, too, sir.”

  “All right. Well, you just listen to the doctor’s orders, Diaz. That’s an order.”

  “I got it, sir. It’s all gonna be fine. Honestly, you jerks are more worried about it than I am. Did you ever find the piece of shrapnel that got my arm? I kinda wanna save it,” she said, her thick Bronx accent coming out.

  The other three got serious expressions on their faces. They still hadn’t told her her injury had been from a sniper, and not the bomb that burst near her SUV. They had left her thinking she’d lost her arm to shrapnel. Better a nameless, faceless piece of metal than a sniper against whom Diaz would most certainly seek revenge—and they knew her well enough to know she’d be on this crusade in a heartbeat. No, they’d tell her later. For now, they needed their best machine gunner to heal up and get back to what she did best: leading heavy gunners.

  “Uh, no. We weren’t looking for that kind of thing, Diaz. Maybe ask Commander Remington if she pulled anything out of your arm,” Gunny lied.

  “Oh . . . too bad. I wanted to make a necklace outta it, a good luck charm.” Her mood brightened, though she still looked weak from the blood loss and injury. “You know, if I own the piece of steel that has my name on it, at least I know there ain’t another one.”

  Everyone giggled, glad she was at least able to joke around a little.

  “I’ll see what the boys can find. We left the vehicles there, but we’ve been in touch with the farmer nearby,” Tyce lied.

  Victoria frowned at both Tyce and Gunny and started pushing them both toward the door. Once they were away from Diaz, Victoria pulled Tyce aside.

  Gunny noticed, but it looked like important boss talk so he nodded and said, “Sir, I’ll meet you in radio. I’ll let them know you’re on your way.” Then he left.

  “Thanks, Gunny.” Tyce he turned to Victoria. “What is it?”

  “It’s the general.” Victoria pulled him farther away from the patient beds so even her nurses couldn’t hear. “Look, I know you like having him around, getting his advice and all, but he’s getting sicker by the day.”

  “I know. I’ve heard him coughing a lot more. But what can we do? He’s been irradiated. I have no idea what you’re supposed to do for radiation exposure.”

  “I know, but I’ve seen him about twice a week for nausea and vomiting.”

  “Is it getting that much worse?”

  “Yes. And without the right kind of treatment, I don’t think he’ll make it to the end of the year. He’ll die a very slow and painful death, his organs failing one by one.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Well . . . there are a few things. They are by no means a guarantee. I have been giving him table salt, for the iodide, to see if we could save his thyroid. It doesn’t look like it’s working. I need a medicine called Prussian blue.” Victoria looked less than hopeful. “Then we need to put him on a cocktail of bisphosphonates, vitamin D, and calcitonin.”

  “Um, how do we do that?”

  “We need to send someone out to get that medicine. They only have those at the big hospitals.”

  “Well, Victoria, with this thing being handed down from the vice president, I don’t have anyone to spare for a mission like this. What happens if it doesn’t work? Or
they get captured?”

  “If it doesn’t work, we have to get an endocrine surgeon. Pull his thyroid out. And if that doesn’t work, bone marrow transplant.”

  “Victoria . . .” Tyce would do almost anything for his men, including the general, but he didn’t have the resources or the time to spare. “Look, none of my men would even have the slightest idea how to find that stuff, let alone whether it was even the right amount or whatever once they did. I’d bet even rooting around for that stuff would bring down significant heat. I’m sure the Russians have all that under lock and key, with a notice to tell comradski ‘whoever’ if we go looking for it.”

  “Yeah . . .” Victoria gave a hint of a smile. “I might have an idea, though. And it involves the general and I going out and getting access to the WVU hospital in Morgantown.”

  “What?” said Tyce incredulously. “It’s an occupied town. Don’t you remember, they captured it along with the airpor—”

  “Just shut up for a minute. Look, I can use his sickness and my credentials to gain access. Maybe track down a specialist to check over the general and pick up Diaz that prosthetic limb she needs. Then head over to the special meds department and pick up a bundle of the additional meds we need, including Prussian blue. Figurati, it’s done.”

  “Figu-what? Look, how do we even know the general is up to the task?”

  “Let’s go ask him. But he’s a warrior. He needs to get out for some air.”

  Tyce looked at Victoria dubiously as they went back to Diaz, who smiled as the two came back. She must’ve picked up part of their conversation about someone going on a special mission, and she seemed eager to sell herself for whatever got her out of the hospital the quickest. “Hey, look, Doc, I really think I need to be up and about more. You know, start training my left arm to be as good as my right was.” She flexed her left arm in a curling motion. “Least I know bicep and tricep day in the gym is gonna be a whole lot easier.” She laughed. Then, sensing Tyce was not happy with Victoria, she glanced between them. “What’s up, you two?”

  Just then, Stacey stepped into the room. Spotting Tyce, she walked over.

  “Hey, there you are,” she said, a little sugar apparent in her voice as she wagged her finger at him. “They sent me down to get you. You’re needed in the radio room.” Then she looked Diaz over. “What happened to you?” She pointed at Diaz’s arm.

  “Russian bomb. My arm got blown off over in Union Valley in that last mission.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Okay, I gotta go,” Tyce said, nodding to Victoria. “Present me with a plan, and as long as it works for everyone and there’s minimal risk, I’ll sign off on it. I’ll tell you right now, though, you’re taking someone else with you.”

  “We can fend for ourselves. But who did you have in mind?”

  Tyce thought for a moment. “Bill, for one. To help with the general. And Wynand.”

  Diaz started, “That piece of sh—”

  Tyce held up his hand to silence the debate, “Look, he knows the territory. He can shoot, and he’s quick on his feet. Resourceful. And he can get you guys out of a jam.”

  Diaz blurted out, “That hick gets to go, but I’m stuck strapped to this bed?”

  “Last I checked,” Tyce said, “it isn’t a discussion that involved you, Staff Sergeant. The good doctor here is not a gunslinger, and until you get healed up, you aren’t gonna be slinging much lead, either.” Tyce turned to Victoria. “He goes, and that’s final. Capisce?”

  Tyce left, and Victoria tried to explain to Diaz what was happening without raising her blood pressure. She didn’t have the faintest clue how to run a mission like this, and she was planning to ask Diaz for some tips. She knew she could be trusted to give her some good but tough advice on how to deal with the boys.

  * * *

  Stacey was waiting for Tyce in the corridor and fell in next to him. “What was that all about? Are we seriously so hard up that we have to get that Spanglish girl’s opinion on some mission?”

  “Huh!” Tyce exclaimed, but he didn’t have time to dig into the comment, “Let’s get up to the radio room.” Tyce had only known Stacey a short while and was surprised to hear such vitriol. He eyed her as they walked. “But, for the record, even in her condition I bet she’d whip most Russian Spetsnaz.”

  Stacey twisted up one side of her mouth. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  * * *

  Victoria waited until almost one in the morning, then poked her head out of the women’s sleeping area. In the command post, the voices of two Marines on radio watch drifted out into the deserted corridor. Wearing her uniform but barefoot, she tiptoed past, boots in one hand, miniature bottles of scotch in the other. She could see the light still on in Tyce’s room. She opened the door and peeked in. “What’s up, compagno?”

  A few hours later, Victoria’s watch beeped, and she turned and pivoted out of bed. Tyce didn’t move and appeared to be sleeping. She got up and looked at herself in his long, locker-style mirror. She tilted her chin up, made frowny faces, and grunted.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Tyce said. One sleep deprived eye squinted at her, the other remained shut.

  “Wondering how easy it is to be you. I figure if I just frown a bunch, grumble, and grimace at people, I could run this regiment, niente di grave. Simple.”

  “Is that right?” Tyce didn’t understand the Italian, but he knew when he was being made fun of.

  Victoria walked over and pulled Tyce’s swim leg off the wall, where it was hanging suspended from a captured Russian RPG-7, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The launcher still had the high-explosives warhead attached. Tyce didn’t really have a deep affinity for firearms like some of the gun-nut troopers, but he respected firearms, and especially the Russian RPG. Lord knew he’d had enough of them fired at him in both Iraq and Afghanistan.

  She contemplated the thing a moment. “Isn’t this thing dangerous to have inside a school?” She put her hands on her hips and looked back at Tyce, who was scratching at the scar on his cheek.

  It was an old wound now, but it still itched. The cold, damp mountain air was making all his old wounds act up. This one was from an insurgent’s razor-sharp knife across the cheek—the same man who dragged him down to the floor in a vicious hand-to-hand fight. By doing, so the insurgent had inadvertently saved Tyce’s life. As the man slashed at his face, Tyce quickly rolled him so the man would absorb the majority of a grenade’s blast. Tyce got a scar across his cheek and had his leg blown off.

  “You know, hon—”

  He stopped short, interrupting himself too late. He noticed Victoria narrow her eyes at him. Tyce saw it as a sweet term, but clearly their relationship hadn’t advanced enough to include the use of cute diminutives.

  “I ain’t your fuckin’ honey, honey,” she said. But then, realizing her quick temper had probably killed the mood, she flapped Tyce’s lobster-tail leg at him. “And if you can’t behave yourself, I’m going to boil this thing up in butter.”

  “Victoria.” Tyce smiled. “You’re such a snob.”

  “Well, what do you expect? I come from a good family.” The comment hung there a moment, the implication being Tyce did not. She tried to recover. “And family is important to me.”

  Tyce didn’t respond. Victoria’s Connecticut pedigree seemed to impress some, but Tyce was a little bit too much of a country boy to care about good breeding and cultured upbringing. In spite of her family, Tyce knew there was something about Victoria that just seemed to revel in first-rate verbal sparring.

  A New Englander’s attitude coupled with an Italian’s temperament, thought Tyce, and at times, such a firecracker.

  “You know what’s interesting, Tyce?” Victoria said, moving back and sitting on the edge of the bed. They’d been seeing each other secretly for several months, and he thought by now he’d be used to her switching from antagonizing to affection at the drop of a hat. He wasn’t. She reached up and traced his scar with her fin
gertip. “You never really talk about your home.”

  “That’s right,” he said smiling. “As far as you know, I’m married and have three kids.”

  She slapped him on the shoulder but was quick to point out, “You’ve never worn a ring. Or said you missed someone. Cretino!”

  “You never asked,” he said, and though he saw it coming, he didn’t duck in time before a pillow came smacking down on his head. He pulled the pillow aside and glanced around it to see if it was safe. Victoria was still sitting there, her arms under her breasts and squinting one eye at him.

  “If you’re married, I’ll fucking shoot you with that rocket.”

  Tyce laughed. “I suspect you would.”

  She flashed an impish smile. “Okay, it’s time for twenty questions.”

  “Oh, crap. Hon—uh, Victoria, I have to get some sleep. I have shit to do tomorrow.”

  “Oh, and I don’t?”

  It never worked when he tried to call her bluff. She could out-argue him any day of the week. “Like what?”

  “Don’t get me started, tipo. For starters, tomorrow is sick call.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean, for a supposedly tough, battle-hardened group of grunts, I sure have to nurse a lot of boo-boos and owies.”

  Tyce sighed. It was clear he wasn’t getting out of this. It was time for the Q & A he had figured was going to happen someday, “Okay, shoot. What are we gonna talk about at three a.m.?”

  She looked pensive. “How come you always clam up when I mention the war in Afghanistan and Iraq? You know I was there, too, with a lot of other tough ladies. Or is it just a Marine thing, and I’m too navy for you to share? I’ve seen it all. You know I spent a hell of a lot of time stitching up you Marines.”

  Tyce sighed again. So it was to going to be that kind of conversation. “Look, Victoria, what do you want to know? War is hell. I fought, I led men, I lost my leg. But it’s all duty, and I believe in us. This. America.” He gestured vaguely around him.

  She rubbed her finger on his scar again, “I know, I know. But sometimes you seem so sad. So distant. I know there’s other things troubling you.”