The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  “Abso-frickin-lutely.”

  The chief saluted Tyce and raced off to brief the men.

  * * *

  Stazia looked across the river through her JIM HR, a set of high-speed, special operator thermal binoculars that linked via a data cable to her satellite radio and via a closed Wi-Fi network to her rifle’s sight system. Her hide position on the south side of the river offered a perfect view to the north and pretty much a three-sixty-degree arc of observation and fire around her. An industrial zone consisting of an open yard of two- and three-story-high piles of raw coal, warehouses, cranes, and gantries to load river barges skirted the south side of the river. The six-story-high bulk petroleum tower where she had established herself was set back some and wasn’t the tallest structure in the yard, nor the closest to the water, but she figured those attributes made it even less likely someone scanning from the northern side of the Ohio would suspect it for a sniper hide position.

  Stazia fully anticipated someone would be looking in her direction. Possibly already were, as she’d been observing the men from Tyce’s 150th since they’d arrived.

  She flicked a zoom switch to get a closer look at the thermal image of someone moving across the American ambush front line. A biggish man, strong and muscled. Stazia watched his broad back, brightly illuminated in orange and red hues as he stopped to check each position.

  That has to be the captain, what’s his name . . . the special forces officer, she thought.

  She’d stolen the JIM HR, highly specialized and accurate military-grade tech, from an SOF unit when she was in Norfolk helping to pave the way for the Russian invasion forces. She had been extremely busy in the forty-eight hours before the invasion, but when she’d tripped a motion sensor in the Navy SEAL compound’s armory where the JIM HR had been just lying out in the open, she helped herself. Of course, it was a fully locked and guarded armory, but she’d picked the locks and disabled the cameras in less than five minutes. Tripping the alarm was unfortunate, so when she was done, she just waited for the lackadaisical base response force and triggered her explosives as they entered, killing them all.

  Perk of the job, she thought as she fine-tuned the thermal’s gain for better resolution.

  She couldn’t be sure the figure was the special forces captain—the thermal image didn’t give quite a perfect definition at that distance—but she knew it wasn’t the lieutenant colonel. No, I’d recognize his gait. He tries to hide that limp. Nothing more than a slight body swivel, but I’d know it if that was him.

  She contemplated that thought for a minute, toying with it in her mind. Was she going to shoot Colonel Asher if he got in her crosshairs tonight? “Possibly,” she breathed in a whispered response to her own question. But I am running the show tonight. We’ll see how it goes.

  She went back to scanning the American fighting positions. She pressed a button at each fighting hole to log them as targets in the superexpensive binoculars’ microcomputer brain. Once she was finished, she checked the data cable up to her radio and uploaded the positions to the Russian satellites overhead.

  She turned briefly to watch as a civilian truck entered the yard behind her. Two men got out and went into a nearby building. If she’d had the time, she’d have killed them both. She preferred no witnesses. Now was not the time, though; she had other matters to attend to, so she’d just have to ensure they didn’t see her. Civilians on a battlefield could be such a nuisance.

  She pressed the backlight button a few times to check the upload progress while she tugged out her dad’s red hammer-and-sickle handkerchief and tied it around her forearm. She checked over her new rifle, a 6.5mm Creedmoor Ruger Precision Rifle, or RPR for short. Everyone turned RPR into Reaper, but Stazia always gave her guns her own nickname. It was a fairly advanced rifle, but its ballistic drop would challenge even her skills. She preferred a rifle with a flat trajectory, but the RPR was plenty deadly for tonight’s mission. She lay in a prone position behind the rifle and looked through the specialized but bulky night sights. The definition was not quite as good as her handheld device, but it would do.

  She adjusted the cheek pad to her satisfaction, then worked the bolt back and forward a few times. It slid easily, and she liked the way it locked snugly into the chamber. It wasn’t her favorite Russian-made Orsis T-5000—she was still mourning the loss of that beauty. She’d undergone the SVR special sniper academy training with the T-5000, and like most snipers, she felt an emotional attachment to precision firearms, which included naming them. She also felt a compelling need to avenge their loss.

  Not sure who I’ll exact vengeance on, she thought, but someone is going to pay for the loss of the T-5000. It’s okay, Vlad will do the trick. Vlad. It had a nice medieval ring to it.

  A barely audible click came from the binoculars. Stazia pressed the radio’s backlight again, and this time a full bar confirmed that the location data for the American units had been sent to the satellite.

  “Now, Vlad,” she whispered to her rifle, “we just have to wait.”

  * * *

  “Ten minutes to target,” the crew chief told Captain Shenkov over the helmet intercom. “The general sent a message reminding you to turn on your locator beacons.”

  Shenkov nodded to him and signaled for his senior enlisted man to unbuckle and come over to his seat near the open helicopter hatch. Even with the volume knob maxed on the intercom, it was nearly impossible to hear anyone over the rotor noise of the Mi-8 AMTSh-VN special-purpose assault helicopter and the wind roaring as they skimmed at treetop level over the mountainous terrain. Shenkov had ordered that the side hatches remain open, increasing the noise but also ensuring he had as many guns facing outboard as possible. There was a second reason he wanted them left open: the cold air would keep his men on edge. There would be no napping. Soon they would strike a hot LZ.

  “Starshina Smirnov.” A Russian Starshina was the equivalent of an American sergeant first class. Shenkov cupped his hands over the man’s ear so he could be heard. “I want you to break right once we touch down. Grab a few men and pull out your flashlights. Signal Teams Anna and Boris, and direct them toward me. It will be completely dark, so I want to personally vector them into the assault.”

  “Comrade Captain, should the pilots still light them up with the 12.7mm as we approach?”

  “Yes, then drop us in the zone and take off immediately to give us aerial fire support throughout the mission.”

  “Do we think the lady operative’s intelligence is accurate?”

  “We’ll know once we hit the ground.”

  “Where will she be during the battle?”

  “Who knows? Who cares. Look for her beacon,” he said, waving off the Starshina to go inspect the men a final time.

  Her damned intel on the Americans better be right, Shenkov thought, or it will be her final mistake. I’ve had it with her and all the SVR’s bullshit antics and posturing. It’s time for action and fighting, not all this crap espionage.

  A small red light above the cockpit door changed from red to green. It was time to attack. He flipped open and checked his mag pouches, pulled out a magazine, and locked it into his rifle right as the sounds of his and four other Mi-8’s 12.7mm cannons roared to life. It sounded like fabric ripping all around them, their red fire lighting up the night sky like Roman candles.

  * * *

  “They came from . . . behind,” yelled a bloody Marine sergeant as he crashed into Tyce’s command post. “They landed—”

  The sounds of cannon fire erupted once again, and before the kid could complete his sentence, rounds slammed all around their building.

  Boom-boom-boom!

  Tyce and others hit the ground, but the newly arrived wounded Marine wasn’t so lucky. He was caught in the doorway, and the light from inside cast his silhouette as a perfect target. Ten or twelve of the heavy-caliber bullets blasted the door, the window, and a good portion of the wall to splinters. Tyce looked up. Anything recognizable as his Marine had va
nished amid the hailstorm of bullets—as had the wall, and part of the roof.

  Through the huge hole in the metal siding, Tyce could see the helicopter that had fired on them. It was only two or three football fields away, holding in a low hover and orbiting in a rapid drift to the west and over the Ohio River.

  “Everyone stay low, it’s still searching for targets in our area,” Tyce yelled, hoping his men weren’t too deaf from the rocket attack to hear him. “Okay, men. We’re out the back door in groups of four. Grab any maps and radios we need. Then hoof it over to Captain Blake’s positions.”

  “What then, sir?” someone asked.

  “Then you get in the line and fight.” Tyce said

  CHAPTER 14

  Outside Huntington, West Virginia

  “Get me a radio!” Tyce called out to the small pack of men who had made it out with him from their now-decimated headquarters. Tyce and twenty others were caught in a drainage ditch in the no-man’s-land below Ned’s hill. They couldn’t go back; the helicopters were destroying every building in sight. They couldn’t go forward; Ned’s positions were awash with gunfire.

  One of the men crawled over to Tyce and handed him a tactical radio. The woods were lit up with the constant streams of red and green tracer fire. Tyce could tell which came from Ned’s men. Their tracer fire came in clusters, the men fighting from their pre-dug positions but now turned around one eighty degrees to face uphill. The Russian helicopters’ attack runs started at the river and made passes directly above Tyce, aimed at what was now Ned’s back side. They peppered the hill with 12.7mm cannon as Ned tried to focus up the hill. He was getting hit from two sides.

  The noise of the battle was an awful din. The heavy, brass casings from the attacking Russian helicopters fell around Tyce and the men as they swooped over, adding to the chaos and confusion.

  “Comanche six, this is Iron Horse six, can you gimme a SIT-REP,” Tyce asked, using the military shorthand for “situation report” to communicate quickly and trying to sound as casual and calm as possible.

  The voice of First Sergeant Hull came over the radio. “Iron Horse, we’re fightin’.”

  “I copy, what do you need?” It was a dumb question, and Tyce instantly regretted it, as Tyce had little to offer them. But it was born out of many days when he had had the upper hand and could issue an order or two to get someone out of a jam.

  Ned’s voice came back. “Iron Horse, this is a pretty hairy SIT. I’ve got what probably amounts to a company of Russians who tried to infiltrate directly to my rear—”

  The transmission cut short for a second as two machine guns went off somewhere directly adjacent to Ned, blanking out the radio completely. In an acoustic anomaly, a fraction of a second later, Tyce heard those same guns echoing from off the hill.

  “Fortunately, I had sentries and flankers out. We lost them all, down to the man, but we got the company turned around in time.” Ned paused as the gunfire picked up again, then said, “It’s not very helpful that those helos keep sliding up and down the Ohio, raking my positions. Every time they do, my guys go to ground, and the Russians creep in a little closer.”

  “I got it Ned. Break, break.” Tyce switched to a new conversation. “Lieutenant Bryce, you up on this net?”

  “I copy, sir,” came Bryce’s voice.

  “Good. Listen, I’ll make it quick. I need you to suppress those helos to get some of the pressure off Captain Blake.”

  “I can, sir, but that whooshing sound you heard earlier was rockets off one of those helos. They must’ve spotted one of my LAVs, and they’re not responding on the radio. I’m down to three vics.”

  Only three vehicles left, Tyce thought, shaking his head. Out loud, he said, “Copy. Do what you can, but do it now.”

  “On it, Iron Horse,” said the LAV man, and seconds later Tyce heard the growl of an LAV engine as the big, armored beasts tried to reposition to get better views of the sky.

  CHAPTER 15

  Outside Morgantown, West Virginia

  Wynand slapped the dashboard a few times, then turned to Victoria and Bill. “It’s got gas, but there’s something wrong with the engine.”

  “Can you get it started again?” asked Victoria hopefully. She looked outside the window into the dark. A few houses had lights, but otherwise the neighborhood was completely quiet.

  “Nah, that’s it. We’ve drained most of the battery, and even if the starter wasn’t making that noise, we’d only get maybe another few blocks before it conked out. At least parked here we’re out of the way—”

  “Of Russian patrols,” Bill finished for Wynand.

  “So we hoof it,” said Victoria as more a statement than a question.

  The three exited the Bronco and looked around. They hefted their packs from the Bronco’s hatchback. Wynand strapped on his pistol belt, and Victoria looked over her rifle, then went to help the general out of the truck. He swung one leg at a time and stood weakly. Victoria could see him forcing a smile in the darkness.

  “Which way?” asked Victoria.

  Wynand pointed vaguely west. “Thataway. About four more miles. Five if we keep to the back roads, like we done.”

  “Any more bridges to cross? Choke points?” she asked.

  “Nope, but we can’t cross near the airport. That’s sure to be in Russian hands and patrolled heavily.”

  Bill pulled Victoria aside and whispered, “The general can’t make it that far. Especially if we’re dodging Russians.”

  “I can hear you,” General Custis said in an overly loud whisper. “Remember: blind guy hearing, it’s better than y’all’s. Bill, stop making trouble. You guys just get going in the right direction. I’ll be fine.”

  Victoria looked at him, his silver hair glistening white in the moonlight. He appeared gaunt and not up to the task of walking. Bill shrugged and stared off in the direction Wynand had indicated. Victoria made sure the general was moving, then caught up with Bill as they walked slowly through the Morgantown suburb.

  “He’s made of some tough stuff, miss,” Bill said quietly when he sensed her beside him. “He’s been through three wars, but I’m not sure how far he can go”

  “Two, I thought.”

  “Three. Iraq for the first go around, then Iraq part deux, then Afghanistan. I’d even say four, if you include this one.”

  “Well, this is the first one where he was exposed to a nuclear blast.”

  “Yeah, but you gotta know him like I know him. He’s a stubborn old goat, and he’ll keep on going until he collapses. Nothin’ you can tell him unless we force him.”

  “So we just go until he collapses?”

  “As his official wet nurse . . . I dunno. I just know we should stop soon.”

  Victoria grimaced, then fell back to walk beside the general, who was following the sound of Wynand’s footfalls. Wynand seemed uninterested in the general’s plight and walked faster to catch up to Bill, leaving Victoria to guide the general.

  “You okay, sir?”

  “I’m fine. It’s not my legs that hurt, you know. It’s this damn stomach. Feel like a nest of hornets decided to take up residence in my intestines.”

  “Did you take that Maalox I gave you?”

  “Yep. Can’t you give me something for the diarrhea, though? I don’t want to have to stop the crew for another .. . potty break.” The general grimaced at his own grim joke.

  “Sir, you know I can’t do that. You gotta keep passing all that stuff out of your system.” Victoria glanced at the general as they walked. His face was impassive. He seemed to be focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. “Is there still bleeding? You know, when you—”

  “Yes, I know, Doc. No. Not anymore. Just diarrhea. But the sores on my arms are worse.”

  “How much?”

  “Since we started driving, it feels like pressure under my shirt sleeves.”

  “They must be full of pus again. I’ll need to drain them. You need to keep drinking water. Until we can
get you the potassium iodide or some Prussian blue, you’re going to remain dehydrated.”

  Victoria shouldered her rifle and gave the general one arm to lean on. She could feel how light he had become. He had probably lost more than seventy pounds since he’d gotten sick, and even though he held on to her tightly, she kept him in tow without much effort.

  “I wanted to say thank you. You know, for going the extra mile, I mean.”

  “Of course. I’d do it for any of the men,” she said, trying to sound cheery but professional.

  They’d only walked four blocks, and already his feet were dragging. “Well, I’m glad we get to talk a bit, because I agree with one thing you just said, and I need to tell you something.” He paused for a minute. He was starting to get out of breath, but seemed gearing up to tell Victoria something that was weighing heavily on him. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I know that I am taking you away from what really matters. And what you just said confirms it in my mind. You see, I am pretty good with strategy and tactics, but matters of the heart are not my forte.”

  “What are you saying, sir? Because I’m not liking where I think you’re going with this.”

  “I know, but I also know that you need to be with the men. Tyce’s men. They’ll get into some real situations, and they need your skilled hand. Right now, you’re wasting precious hours messing around with my medical concerns when you have a whole troop counting on you. This mission is robbing the boys of the most competent field medic they got.”

  “This is the mission, General. And I happen to know you are very valuable to the unit, too.”

  “Pretty sure your doctoring is more valuable than my tedious tidbits from ancient history.”

  “Ha. Tyce calls your advice ‘wisdom from Yoda.’ ” She smiled a moment, but the gravity of the general’s words was clear. “They’ll be fine. The rest of the medics are a great crew. Some of us deployed together to Afghanistan, and a few were in Iraq. They’ve got things covered. Besides, what could they get into in just one night?”