The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  The two had already fallen half a block behind Wynand and Bill, shuffling along past blacked-out houses in the seemingly deserted neighborhood.

  Parsons, West Virginia

  Georgia-Blue Templeton sat on a wooden bench outside the mayor’s office nervously thumbing his empty leather holster. He’d taken his own sweet time coming to see her, and then he’d been told to sit and wait. The newly acquired pistol, as well as his favorite Weatherby Mark V rifle, had been taken from him by the sheriff upon his entrance. Even before the Russian invasion, he hadn’t been to many places without it by his side. He felt particularly naked being here without it, and without any understanding of why he’d been summoned by the Honorable Susanna Holly.

  He’d been in this building, the Tucker County Courthouse, before, but not upstairs on the mayor’s floor. In fact, he’d really only been this close to an elected official once in his life. One year when he was young, his parents took him to the office of the mayor of their small town in rural Georgia. His dad had been in the Gulf War and had gotten out of the service before they could present him with a medal. It was forwarded to his town by the U.S. Army, and the mayor had awarded it to him in his office on behalf of the federal government. A living Medal of Honor recipient had been there to personally pin the medal on his dad. He remembered his parents and relatives talking about the man with reverence and respect. Ultimately, the other man seemed just like his father, solemn about most things and quietly confident. Whatever it was that made those men so stoic, Blue hadn’t wanted to follow in their footsteps. But he had still listened and absorbed every ounce of his father’s teaching on shooting and marksmanship.

  The sheriff walked out of the mayor’s office, and in passing, Blue he looked over. “You still here? How long ya been waitin’?”

  “Ah, since seven,” said Blue, rising when he was spoken to by the sheriff. He’d learned precision marksmanship from his father, but his mother had taught him his manners. She was a loving mother, but she kept a wooden spoon nearby and used to crack it on his and his sister’s backsides when they strayed too far.

  “Seven o’clock?” He looked shocked. “That’s nearly two hours ago.”

  “No, seven this morning.”

  “Cripes, man, are you simple or something?” The sheriff had seen Blue before and, probably because of his massive size, had always taken him for a bit of an oaf. “Why didn’t you say something?” he said, slowing his words down as if he were talking to a dimwit.

  “Everyone looked too busy runnin’ in and out. I didn’t want to bother nobody.”

  “Jeez, kid.” The sheriff stepped back and regarded him for a moment, then tapped his chin. “I’m pretty sure I know what this is about. I’ll let her know you’re still waiting.” He disappeared back inside. When he didn’t immediately return, Blue sat again and wondered what could be so important that they’d keep him waiting until the place was nearly deserted.

  CHAPTER 16

  Outside Huntington, West Virginia

  Stazia could plainly see the American machine gunner through her thermal sight. His whole body was clear, as were the red-hot blasts coming from his machine gun as he fired long bursts in the opposite direction from her and up the hill toward Captain Shenkov’s attacking force. The sound of the gunfire was loud, and because of the acoustics in the valley, she heard every shot three times as it echoed up and down the river and off the hills behind her. She moved the gunsight off the machine gunner and played it over to the Russian side and Shenkov’s troops. They were advancing by the minute, gaining ground in twos and threes and firing from behind the cover of trees and tossing grenades.

  A message came over her satellite comms system from the Russian Pentagon reminding her to turn on her beacon. She ignored it and went back to focusing her sights back on the gunner. She placed the crosshairs between his shoulder blades, made a last-second adjustment for distance and elevation, and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot was absolutely lost amid the noise from the raging gun battle. There was a millisecond pause as the rifle settled, then she saw the gunner. His back was now as red hot as his gun barrel, which lay unmanned on the lip of his fighting hole. The men to his left and right pulled his lifeless form down into the hole. Then, as one looked him over, the other jumped up to take over the gun. Stazia took aim at him now, this time deciding on a head shot.

  “So you need something bloodier to convince you to stay off that gun.” She aimed only briefly; then, confident now of her windage and elevation, she squeezed the trigger. The rifle jerked again, then settled, revealing to her that the second man had fallen across the machine gun. A red mist sprayed up in her sight from the man’s head. The third man remained down, not even daring to reach toward his fallen comrade.

  “Good. That settles that.” She looked into the JIM HR at the green left arrow. She followed the arrow, which put her basically on target for another machine gun nest she’d tagged earlier. “Nah, we’ll leave the rest of the guns alone for now. Hmmm . . . what next, Vlad?” She switched back and forth from the JIM HR to the RPR sniper rifle’s scope but let the JIM HR guide her view directly back to the stored targets.

  “Are you ready?” she asked the rifle. The massive gun battle raged across the river from her, lighting up everything around. Target acquisition in this confusion would have been nearly impossible if it weren’t for the advanced JIM HR.

  “How did those stupid boomers do it in Vietnam?” she asked herself, thinking about the snipers of an earlier era. It crossed her mind that they never would have taken her into their ranks back in those days. “Barely do these days . . .” she muttered to herself as she lined up a new target, this one a U.S. mortar team furiously hurling mortars. Captain Shenkov’s men were so close now, the Americans could practically throw them by hand.

  Stazia thought she recognized the mortar sergeant.

  I remember you, handsome boy, she thought. Dark hair, a swarthy Latin look. But that ridiculous moustache. Why do men always think a moustache makes them look sexy?

  It was hard to be sure, to even make out any facial features from this far away, but she was a skilled study of the human form. Born blessed with a mastery of reading faces and body language from across the room, as well as with zero empathy to hold her back.

  “Fuck him,” she said, and she squeezed the trigger. The man had been standing aside the mortar coaching his men, yelling out angles of deflection and generally hastening the younger men in getting accurate mortar fire out as quickly as possible. When he crumpled at the waist, Stazia could see the others pause and look over at their trusted boss. The others looked to be young, green troops, the type who would need encouragement from their leader’s example of bravery under fire. Now, they stopped, shocked and unsure, and watched their leader, sitting motionless on a mortar crate, as blood poured from his mouth.

  * * *

  Tyce was pinned in no-man’s-land. The incoming Russian gunfire was not aimed at him, but every shot that went even just an inch over Ned’s men’s heads still rained down the hill at a steep angle, kicking up dirt, rocks, and chunks of grass all around Tyce and his small group huddled in the drainage ditch. Behind them, the helicopters were raking Ned’s men with 12.7mm gunfire. As soon as one helicopter finished a gun-run and was taken under fire by small fire from the Americans, it raced off upriver, and another approached from a different angle. It was like a deadly round-robin: each pass seemed to lay waste to one of the fighting positions, and the Russians advanced down the hill even farther.

  “We can’t stay here!” yelled Tyce, looking at the men’s scared faces, illuminated by white-hot grenade explosions and tracer fire.

  “What do we do, sir?” yelled Sergeant Berringer.

  “Grab your shit and follow me. When the next helo starts to move off, we make a run for that house. Make sure you have the radios—we’re going to direct fire onto those helos. Now, go!” With a mighty heave, Tyce, ladened with gear, pulled himself up the bank of the ditch, crawled, th
en stood up clumsily and ran toward a lone two-story civilian house in a field. The men followed. Some were hesitant, but once they saw they were going to be left alone, the reluctant few found their courage and their speed.

  They raced in disorganized clumps, reaching the house just as the next Russian helicopter started its terrifying attack. As Tyce and the men crashed through the front door, they could hear the upper-story windows smashing to bits. The helicopter must have caught sight of them. A hail of bullets blasted through the upper-story floorboards and tore through the first-floor ceiling above, narrowly missing them all. Some of the men backpedaled, but it was unnecessary.

  “Upstairs, and throw up an antenna,” said Tyce.

  “Sir, that’s madness,” yelled one of the men. “They’ve taken out the upper story.”

  “Nah, lightning won’t strike twice. Follow me, we’re in a perfect spot to direct traffic,” said Tyce, running up the stairs. The house was situated in the middle of a spacious and formerly beautifully manicured lawn. Uphill were Ned’s men, below was the river and the Russian helicopters’ most likely spot of approach. At the top of the stairs, Tyce could see that huge chunks of the roof were gone and most of the windows had been turned into gaping holes. To make matters more interesting, apart of the rafters was on fire, and the blaze looked to be spreading fast.

  “Christ, sir, are you sure about this spot?” said Sergeant Berringer.

  “Yes, now listen to me. You are going to face toward Captain Blake’s men. Grab two radiomen and give him spot reports. You don’t realize it yet, but here we can see Blake’s whole line. You are going to be in a perfect position to advise him if any part of his line is weakening, if the Russians look about to break through one side or the other.”

  “How do I tell him where they’re coming in? It’s pitch black, they’re all turned around now, and I don’t even know his unit’s SOP.” he said, referring to the unit’s standard operating procedures.

  “Easy.” Tyce made a blade hand and pointed first left, then middle and right. “He knows his own lines, and he knows left, right, center. Start with that, and once he realizes you can see more of the battlefield than he can, you’ll figure out the rest. Got it?”

  “Got it, sir.” Sergeant Berringer seemed fully on board now. He grabbed two radio operators and pulled some night optics from a pack.

  Tyce grabbed another two radiomen and positioned himself by the holes that used to be windows. “And we’re going to guide the big guns on those LAV-25s onto those fucking helos.” Tyce looked out and up to the horizon. He didn’t even need optics; the battlefield’s massive gunfire and even the burning house they were now occupying illuminated the helicopters perfectly.

  CHAPTER 17

  Outside Morgantown, West Virginia

  The general tripped for the tenth time, but this time was different. This time, he didn’t catch himself, and he landed on his knees. Victoria lifted his feeble frame up, but she could tell he was now in great pain.

  Bill and Wynand looked back at them from the end of the block, where they were waiting just outside of the light from a streetlamp. When they saw Victoria put the general’s arm over her neck and try to help him hobble along, they realized it was worse than before and trotted back.

  “He can’t keep going like this,” Victoria said.

  “We can’t rest here,” said Wynand, looking around at the unwelcoming houses nearby. They had tried to remain unnoticed, sticking to lawns or sidewalks with fences or hedges in case of a patrol, but many of the house’s lights had gone out as soon as they passed. People were there, but they certainly didn’t want trouble.

  “Can’t we just leave him at one of these houses, go get the medicine, and come back?” said Bill.

  “If you think any of these folks want to get involved in our nonsense, you’re an idiot,” said Wynand. “They just want to be left alone to suffer in silence.”

  Victoria gave Wynand one of her enraged looks, though the effect was probably lost in the darkness. But before they could settle the debate, three pairs of headlights rounded the corner where Bill and Wynand had been standing just a minute before. They all dove into the bushes, Victoria falling in and pulling the general painfully through its needled branches.

  They waited, chests heaving, trying to silence their breaths. The general lay motionless, mostly inside the bush and suspended upright by several branches. When the three vehicles had passed, everyone remained silent a few moments longer before Victoria spoke.

  “You okay, General?” Victoria whispered out softly, still holding his hand in hers. He grunted, sounding utterly exhausted.

  “How far do you figure?” Bill asked from somewhere inside the bush.

  “We only made it ’bout a mile,” said Wynand.

  “We can’t go on like this,” Victoria said.

  “What do you suggest . . . ma’am,” Wynand asked sharply.

  “On the next block, there looks to be a big building. Looks like a school. Let’s get in there and rally up. Think things over a bit. I’m sure things will be a bit clearer when we catch our breath.”

  “And get me out of this infernal bush,” the general croaked out weakly.

  Parsons County Courthouse

  Finally, the sheriff returned, opened the mayor’s door, and beckoned Blue in. “Mayor Holly will see you now,” he said, half a smirk on his face. As soon as he let Blue in, he exited and closed the door behind him. Blue heard the clack of the lock as the sheriff turned his key and locked the mayor and Blue in together.

  The mayor’s office was actually in the next room over, but the door was open, and it was brightly lit. A sweet, Southern voice came from within. “Is that lil’ ol’ Mr. Blue?” she said, “Get on in here. I heard you been waiting outside a rather long spell. Is that true?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Blue as he walked into her office.

  Mayor Holly sat at her desk—looking tall, but Blue knew her to be an average-size woman, probably about five foot seven. She had bright red hair and was in her early forties. She was wearing a slick, designer civilian suit, the top of which was a vest that clung to her curves. She certainly looks dressed to kill, crossed Blue’s mind, though the suit looked out of place even in her own office with the current state of the country, especially since Blue had spent the last few months in the same set of civilian attire. He still wore faded jeans and a simple plaid shirt, now with a few buttons missing from the shirt and tears in the crotch and knees of his jeans.

  “Please, do have a seat,” the mayor said, gesturing to two couches in front of her desk. Blue sat, sinking deep into the cushions, but as a man of almost no words, he said nothing, and he didn’t move an inch once seated.

  Mayor Susanna Holly flashed a kittenish smile, then began slowly, as if choosing her words carefully for her specific audience. “Mr. Blue, thank you so much for coming at my behest. Did you bring that rifle of yours?”

  Blue nodded.

  “You strike me as a man who likes to get right down to business.” She stood up and walked around the desk, then sat down on the front edge. She was wearing a short skirt that matched her outfit. “Have you heard what’s happening with the governor of the great state of West Virginia?”

  Blue shook his head.

  “Hmmm . . . I suspect news of what the new government is up to is scarce.”

  Blue remained motionless.

  “Major—that is, Lieutenant Colonel Asher hasn’t told you all much about the politics, has he?”

  Blue shook his head again.

  “Well, I’m gonna explain something, and I’d like you to pay close attention. I think you are the kind of man who believes deeply in this democracy of ours. A government of the people, for the people.”

  “Mr. Lincoln said ‘of the people, by the people.’”

  “Ah, now. You see, you are the right man. And to think the sheriff wasn’t certain of your faculties.”

  “Of my what now, ma’am?”

  “Never mind.�
� Then her eyes softened into an odd sort of pleasant look that made Blue a little uncomfortable, and she continued, “You need to know something. While you and the colonel have been fighting the Russians, we folks in the duly elected governments have been trying to do what’s best for the people. You do believe in the people, don’t you, Mr. Blue?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. I suppose you wouldn’t be up in those hills, fighting the good fight, if you didn’t. So what would you say if I told you the governor of West Virginia isn’t the actual governor, but a Russian plant? One who stole the election. Do you remember the last line of what President Lincoln said?” Blue looked uncertain, so she continued, “That a government ‘of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’ That last part is possibly the most important.”

  Blue felt tense. He had an overly large sense of patriotism and of fair play, and the news of a Russian heist of his government, although possibly inevitable, struck him as just plain wrong.

  “Let me explain it a little further.” Susanna held up a chart of something Blue didn’t recognize. “You see this data here? These are all the edicts and orders coming from the governor’s off ice. Did you know we’ve pieced them all together, and we’ve seen something bad? Really bad. The governor is working to run off local leaders and replace them with his own, handpicked, Russian-sympathizing cronies. People who will further ruin our country and perhaps cast us inescapably into the abyss.”

  Blue looked puzzled but still didn’t speak.

  “You see, once those people are in place, he can do whatever he wants with the state. And for the most part, the people will obey. Then we’ll be no better than a Russian puppet state, and the Russian plan will be complete.”

  “How does that affect me and the boys of the 150th?” Blue asked.