The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  One of the staff held the door open for him to an antechamber off the main room that they were using as a hybrid command center for intelligence and special operations. Kolikoff walked in to see Captain Shenkov and two of his men lost in their own chatter, dressed in dirty field gear and uniforms and still armed. They’d been busy trying to track down every lead on the enemy 150th’s whereabouts, including shaking down everyone in a ten-mile radius of the Omni, but to no avail. Shenkov had his muddy boots up on the desk. He started laughing at a crude joke one of his men cracked. Stazia sat at the opposite side of the room from Shenkov with her back turned and was typing on one of the SPETS-VTOR terminals. She looked like she could have been one of the Pentagon’s former occupants just going about routine navy paperwork.

  Maybe she even worked here, thought Kolikoff, and a chill went up his spine. He made a mental note to try to find a file on her.

  Kolikoff walked around the room. He pulled the keyboard roughly away from Stazia and unplugged it from the computer. “Need to know only, agent Panther,” he said. Then he walked over to his seat at the head of the table and started arranging his files. Without looking at Shenkov, he snapped his fingers and pointed downward. Shenkov and his men went silent, and Shenkov dropped his boots off the desk. He began to wipe some of the mud away, but it mostly just smeared across the desk’s surface.

  Kolikoff folded his hands on the table and looked up. “What good information do you have on your target?”

  Shenkov was the first to speak up. “Not good news, but I do have something we’ve learned from the hunt.”

  “Yes, what is it?” Kolikoff had been spending twenty-hour days in his office, and his usually glum mood had grown even more so in the past days.

  “We know the 150th Cavalry unit has moved back into West Virginia. Our sources place them somewhere in the northeast. We conducted an interrogation of some locals, and we believe they are operating out of a school. Maybe a high—”

  “False!” interrupted Stazia.

  Kolikoff shifted his gaze over to Stazia, but it was hard to maintain eye contact with her. “You have something for us?”

  “Yes. They are in, or near, the capitol of West Virginia.”

  “Not according to my sources,” said Shenkov.

  Kolikoff quickly flipped through his SPETS-VTOR printouts and pulled out some data. “We did have some intelligence about schools. The computer placed a fairly high probability that the 150th would avoid big towns and gave a sixty-six percent chance they’d use a university or a school as a firm base. The only higher probability was that’d they’d use a coal mine or a mining shaft of some sort as a base of operations.” Kolikoff paused for a second. “The data seems pretty good, Staz—er, Major Andjörssen. Why do you suggest otherwise?”

  Shenkov interrupted before she could answer. “General, I am growing tired of SVR’s input on tactical field problems. The SVR needs to go back to stealing computer data tapes and sleeping with politicians.”

  Stazia’s face twisted into a snarl, but quickly faded as she gained control of her anger and said, “They will ambush General Tympkin’s train tonight.”

  “What train?” said Kolikoff and Shenkov, almost in unison.

  “General Tympkin has a train entering West Virginia tonight. It carries a top-secret cargo.” She seemed to enjoy the fact that she knew something even Kolikoff didn’t. “I just assumed you knew,” she said, again the corner of her mouth curled up slightly. Shenkov looked so angry that she suspected that if she had been male, he most certainly would have gotten up and hit her.

  Now it made sense, Kolikoff thought. The reason for Tympkin’s order to hurry it up, and why he only gave me seven days to pin down the 150th.

  “How the hell could you know this information?” said Shenkov.

  “As you mentioned, the SVR is quite capable of gathering intelligence, and all of it without having to drop our panties. Or maybe worse . . . attack the wrong objective,” she said.

  Kolikoff didn’t have time for what seemed to be a dangerous rivalry between his two top special forces agents. In any case, none of this intelligence, even if correct, changed the fact that he had less than forty-eight hours to stop the 150th. At least now he understood his objective better, though know there was the mystery of what Tympkin’s train was all about. “Do we know where they will spring their ambush from?” Kolikoff said, holding a hand up to Shenkov, who had risen from his chair.

  “Yes,” Stazia responded. “Near Charleston and west of Huntington. Right on the tracks where it joins the river.”

  “At what time will they ambush?” asked Kolikoff. He again motioned for Shenkov to sit.

  “Early evening. Sometime after dark. That’s the limit of my intelligence,” said Stazia.

  Shenkov sat back down slowly but still looked unhinged. It was hard for Kolikoff to blame him. He was a field soldier and had clearly never spent much time around a headquarters. Fits of adrenaline were quite literally in his blood; as a member of the Russian Spetsgruppa V, known as Vympel, the elite of the elite, aggression had been rewarded and encouraged all his career.

  No matter, thought Kolikoff. We need all kinds if we’re going to smash this band of hillbillies.

  “Okay. Both of you listen up.” Kolikoff checked his watch. “At zero eight hundred hours. We will send you both as an intercept force. I want you to hit them so hard that they cannot interfere with the train and it gets through damned West Virginia. I will get you what air support I can muster.”

  “We couldn’t possibly make it there in time,” said Shenkov. “I wasted many hours even coming out of the hills to be here for this meeting.”

  “Shenkov, don’t be thick. I will have you airlifted,” said Kolikoff.

  “My men?” he asked.

  “The beauty of vertical lift, Comrade Shenkov. We’ll have them picked up en route. Radio ahead and have them prepare. They can leave their gear and vehicles in a safe spot. Take only what is necessary for an overnight ambush.” He turned to Stazia, who seemed more than a little pleased to see Shenkov belittled by their boss. “Major, Captain Shenkov will be the on-scene commander. That means, for the purposes of this mission, you will fall under his authority. You are to be a support element and will provide some sniping and overwatch.”

  Stazia whipped her head to look at Kolikoff, her blue and brown eyes flashing her annoyance and her smile vanishing.

  Kolikoff saw her expression and fired back, “Are my instructions clear? You will be Shenkov’s eyes and ears. I expect you to provide him timely intelligence and target acquisition. Acknowledge the order, Major.”

  This general knows what he’s doing, Stazia thought. Her mood dropped off, and she said in a dutiful tone, “I acknowledge and will obey, Comrade General.” She straightened up and saluted him.

  Kolikoff nodded, then went over to one of the big gear boxes piled up in the corner of the room. He returned with six smallish devices. “These just arrived. They are the new dual-purpose satellite comms devices and ID beacons. With an unrestricted line of sight to the sky, we’ll know your position, and you can communicate just like texting on a cell phone. I need you to take them and use them.” Both officers picked up a device from the table and looked at it suspiciously. “Don’t worry, the enemy sensors cannot see them. They are specially coded to communicate with our satellites and for your night vision devices so that our aircraft can distinguish you from the enemy, and you from one another.” Kolikoff turned to face Shenkov. “Now, you. Acknowledge the orders, Captain.”

  Shenkov stood and saluted crisply. “Acknowledged. We will succeed, Comrade General.”

  “Good.” Kolikoff sighed. He hated to bully subordinates, but he had been at this game a lot longer than these kids, and though they were both clearly quite competent in their own domains, he knew a few tricks they had yet to learn. “We have no time to waste. Get moving. I’ll expect to hear the tactical satellite radio nets alive with the two of you cross talking to accomplish this mis
sion.”

  They both turned to leave, but Kolikoff stopped Stazia. “Major, what do you need to be successful? What plans to get to the objective?”

  “None, Comrade General. I will drive there myself.”

  “How will you make it?”

  “The same way I came here—completely incognito, and in my own way.” Seeing a look of doubt cross the general’s face, she added, “Do not worry, General, I will be at the objective early and ready for action.”

  The general nodded and went back to his SPETS-VTOR as Stazia made her way out. Yes, I suspect you will, Kolikoff thought, and when you return, I will have to find out how you know what you know. He thumbed his chin. And remember to keep you as far away from my SPETS-VTOR as possible.

  CHAPTER 13

  Outside Huntington, West Virginia

  Tyce looked over the terrain through his binoculars. It was a near-perfect ambush position. Practically textbook. Ned’s men were still finalizing their positions but were mostly arrayed in a tight fighting line below the ridge of a low hill, overlooking the river and facing due south. They could see the train tracks in full view while still remaining in the relatively dense wood line.

  The train’s full length will be in view. I guess, depending on their speed, we’ll have plenty of time to pick our targets. There’s direct fire dominance and good protection from observation. There’s even some overhead protection, Tyce thought, evaluating the spot’s strengths point by point. The woods were still barren from winter but provided thick cover. The men had set up deep enough to be partially obscured, but not so deep as to block their own fire, about five, maybe six meters in.

  He looked up at the sky with some uncertainty. He never thought he’d live to see a day when he couldn’t trust the sky. All his career, he’d fought under the auspices of U.S. aviation dominance. Not so anymore. He had seen precious few U.S. aircraft since the war began, and basically none in support of his operations. Most of what he had seen or his men had reported was moving extremely fast, and extremely low. Some of these phantom sightings were presumed to be remnants of the U.S. Air Force, but he would be getting no help from them tonight.

  Well, since the Russians won’t be expecting us—he lowered his binoculars to once again survey the terrain—even after we attack, I doubt they can get any air response forces here in less than a few hours. I don’t intend to stick around long enough to find out.

  Tyce reached down to pet Trigger, who had come panting up beside him. A second later, a Marine NCO came up behind Trigger and said, “He always knows how to find you, sir.” Tyce waited and let the man catch his breath. Then the NCO finished, “That NBC guy just arrived. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” said Tyce, shouldering his rifle and looking back to the small warehouse and boat repair shop near Ned’s positions that they’d turned into a temporary HQ.

  “Are you ready, Trigger?”

  The dog looked up at him, but his tail wasn’t wagging. Trigger had more time in combat than most of the men in the unit. He could smell the stress and feel the adrenaline, and he knew that when all his human buddies were working as fervently as this, things were about to go down. He raced in front of Tyce and the NCO as they wound their way back down the hill, looking into every shadow, his ears twitching forward and back as he listened intently to the forest.

  * * *

  A new unit from the 150th, Tyce’s own Marine 4th Light Armored Reconnaissance, had arrived; their lieutenant and his men were awaiting a briefing directly from Tyce. Ned’s forces had been the first here and, as the primary ambush force, had chosen the terrain. The LAR guys were there to support Ned but had stopped to fill up their LAV-25s, which looked a lot like tanks with wheels and had formidable 25mm cannons on their turrets.

  “How are your pigs, Lieutenant Bryce?” asked Tyce.

  “LAVs are topped off for fuel, sir, and we have four uploads. Two HE and AT apiece,” said the young, fair-haired kid from Nebraska. The HE stood for high explosive and the AT stood for anti-tank. The gunners in the unit were trained to know when to use high explosives and when to use anti-tank against their enemy: ATs for enemy armor, and HEs for soft-skinned vehicles or people, as the need arose.

  “Okay, look.” Tyce had drawn a simplified map of the battle plan on a chalkboard in the repair shop’s office. “The river valley narrows and squeezes the train tracks up close to the edge of the Ohio River and the steep hills on the south side.” He used his Marine Corps K-BAR combat knife as a pointer to direct their attention to each spot. “The range isn’t optimal—about five hundred meters. Close to maximum range for most small arms, but well within killing range for machine guns and your own 25 mike-mike. You will set up two LAVs on either side of Captain Blake’s forces and provide fire support as he directs. Questions?”

  “Sir, did we plant any explosives on the tracks to stop the train?”

  “We didn’t. We got here just about forty-five minutes before you did. But a few well-placed rockets on the engine will halt the train just fine. Get with Captain Ned Blake and see if he can use you to help kick off the ambush, too. I’m pretty sure you could make mincemeat of that train if you need too.”

  “Ah, I’d rather you didn’t,” said a voice from the sidelines. An army chief warrant officer stepped up to the chalkboard. It was the NBC specialist Tyce was expecting. “If that train is carrying what you all said it was carrying, one round through any of their containment vessels will expose the whole area to one of the worst chemical disasters this country has ever seen.”

  Tyce nodded. “We’ll get the word out to everyone ASAP. We can still aim to cripple the engine and then take under fire any troops that disembark into the open. If they fire from inside the cars, they won’t be very effective against us in the dug-in positions. Then we’ll keep them pinned and maneuver over there to take them out with our small arms.” Seeing the chief was dissatisfied, Tyce quickly added, “Ned’s men are precision marksmen. I’ve seen them in action. If I tell them not to hit the cars, they won’t hit the cars. Lieutenant Bryce’s LAV gunners can reach out and hit a moving car at one thousand four hundred meters with their stabilized 25mm chain gun. Don’t worry.”

  “Uh, so what happens if we hit one of the chemical drums?” Lieutenant Bryce asked.

  “Best case, everyone in everyone in this valley, including us and every town downwind for sixty or so miles, dies,” said the chief. “Worst case, the Ohio River from here to Cincinnati and on to St. Louis remains poisoned for the next ten years and kills about a hundred thousand people through terribly painful deaths.”

  Tyce scowled at Bryce. “So don’t hit the cars, Lieutenant.”

  Owing to the fact that Tyce came up in the ranks in the same type of unit, he trusted Lieutenant Bryce as much as he trusted Ned, but the lieutenant’s dumb question seemed to give the newest addition to the 150th some concerns. Tyce dismissed Bryce and the 4th LAR men and turned to the chief.

  He shook the man’s hand, “Hey, Lieutenant Colonel Asher. I’m in charge of this lash-up we call the 150th.”

  “Got it, sir. Chief Warrant Officer William Wheeler.”

  “Okay, listen, Chief. Once we secure this train, I am going to need your help in identifying and moving those chemicals out of here. Did you bring any gear?”

  “Sir, I was only able to grab two NBC suits when your men practically kidnapped me. They didn’t tell me much. Your man Sergeant Berringer said it was all top secret, hush-hush. But I’ll advise you that moving anything is going to be extremely risky. Especially because we don’t know if the Russians rigged it, or what kind of storage containers they’re using.”

  “Are you familiar with the chemicals they might have gotten from Dugway? That’s where we understand the Russians stole the chem, or bio, or whatever it is.”

  “I am. The NBC and chem-weapon field is a pretty tight community. If it’s packaged in the standard polyethylene barrels that Dugway uses, we’re looking at stuff that needs special chem suits, forkli
fts, hazmat spill kits. I’d need more than just me and my NBC suit.”

  Tyce frowned, and his voice deepened “Look, Chief, I have a train full of angry Russians who want to do who knows what the hell with a load of very poisonous shit if we don’t stop them. If I coulda picked a beautiful summer day with zero breezes and a truckload of you and your brother chem dudes to help, I woulda ordered that up on a menu. But me and my men are going to stop this train. That means here, and that means now. I’m not risking the chance that it gets past us and does whatever evil work the Russians have in store for it. We’re in a war for our country, and as far as we know, they intend to do exactly what you laid out in your worst-case scenario.”

  “Got it, sir. Sorry.” The chief’s mood changed instantly; he was senior and old school enough to recognize Tyce’s words as a subtle but professional ass chewing. “I am just used to working with near-perfect conditions, and now I understand better what you and your men have probably been through while my unit and I have mostly been home with our families trying to figure out what hit our beloved U.S. of A. I’m fully onboard, sir. Do you have any of your own gear?”

  “I have one company of special ops soldiers, and a platoon of vehicle-mounted recon Marines. Each has the standard-issue Sheridan MOPP suit. That’s one thing no kid in the unit forgot on our hasty gear list,” Tyce said, referencing the military’s version of a biohazard suit.

  “Got it, sir. When your men kill the engine and neutralize the Russians, I promise to do my best to advise and assist you on how to get that stuff away from here.”

  “Good, because my guess is we’ll have two hours from when we kick off the ambush before the Russians will get a reactionary force out of Charleston or elsewhere, and I aim to be long gone by the time they show up.

  “Do I have your permission to go give some tips to the men?”