The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  “Well, I’m glad you asked,” she said, her eyes narrowing and a half smile curling up one side of her mouth. “Do you know where the 150th comes from?”

  Blue sat and pondered. He thought he knew, but the question seemed too complicated, and the mayor seemed to talk in riddles. “Not really, ma’am.”

  “They come from the West Virginia National Guard, sweetie.” She paused, letting it sink in, but when Blue again said nothing, she went on, “That means he gives the orders. He can recall the 150th at any time of his choosing.”

  “They don’t have to obey him iff ’n he gives them an illegal order.”

  “Ah, you’re right. Did you read that somewhere?” she said, leaning in slightly and waved a finger at him, like he was a kid caught stealing a piece of candy.

  Blue blushed openly. “Naw, it was in a movie.”

  “Well, you are right. So here’s a question for you: What happens if his order to the 150th, to Colonel Asher, is legal? What happens if he recalls the regiment and tells them to just go home?”

  “Well, they’d keep fightin’ I reckon’.”

  “Some might . . . but what about the men who are homesick? The ones who want to check in on their families. Or maybe there are a few who are just plum tuckered out from all the fighting.” Susanna sat farther back on her desk in a natural-seeming motion, but as she did so, the slit in her skirt parted, revealing more leg than Blue had seen in a long while.

  “Them boys ain’t gonna quit, Mrs. Mayor,” Blue said with a frown, but at the same time, he thought back to the discussions he’d overheard Tyce and the Gunny having. He knew some men had already deserted, and he knew their surreptitious departures had dampened the combat morale of the remaining men, and affected Tyce quite a great deal.

  “First of all, it’s Miss Holly, but I know what you’re thinking.” Her cherry-red lips slowly transformed into a devastating smile, like a spider might if it were all but certain of what it had caught in a carefully spun web. “Because I know those boys . . . I mean, our boys have a lot of good fight in ’em. They are holding the line against one of the most despicable enemies we’ve seen since the British tried to wipe us off the face of the map. They’ll fight to the end, no one’s questioning that.” She sounded strong, patriotic, and supportive of the “boys,” and it made Blue feel proud to be a part of Tyce’s unit. “But you and I both know the unit will slowly break down, one squad, one platoon, and one company at a time. Guess what’s worse? I know something that will hasten the demise of the 150th.”

  Mayor Susanna used big words, but he understood, and her bright blue eyes bored deeply into his as she continued. “What if the governor asked Tyce for a position report? You know, started to make it look like he wanted to be more in charge of all his forces fighting around the state and asked Tyce where he was on a daily basis. Couldn’t he easily slip a note to the Russians on his—I mean, all y’all’s whereabouts. No one would even know. Just one day, after many men had already departed in desertion, the Russians would show up on your doorstep right when you least expect it.”

  Blue thought hard about what the mayor had just said. Even if the governor didn’t straight-up rat them out to the Russians but just ordered them to disband, or to simply take a break from fighting and take some much-needed leave to check on their families, it would tear the unit apart piece by excruciating piece. Blue had stayed clear of all that kind of leadership stuff, but this talk made sense. Especially the way Mayor Holly described it. He knew enough about morale and discipline, having watched the 150th under the careful direction of its leaders, to know that what she said was true.

  “Why don’t you tell the colonel about all this?” Blue asked, realizing he was just a small piece of the larger machine and thinking it was odd she would approach him about it.

  She seemed prepared for the question. “He can’t disobey an order. You know that, honey,” she admonished as if it were obvious. “He has to keep the faith with the military system. That means strict obedience to orders. But a civilian, one acting in good faith, could do more. You see, you and I are unrestrained.”

  As if sensing Blue’s inner turmoil, Susanna’s voice sweetened once more to calm reason, but now with had a flirty edge. “I have a little mission for you. A secret mission,” she said, now in a conspiratorial whisper. “One you mustn’t tell our fair colonel about. A mission that demands the utmost secrecy and a man of your . . . shooting talents.”

  Mayor Holly sat back on the desk farther, placing her hands on her knees. Whether by accident or careful planning, her skirt opened slightly more. Susanna watched closely where Blue’s uncontrolled gaze went.

  Again, the pretty red lips smiled brightly, this time almost triumphantly. “Do you think you can do a special mission for West Virginia, for the nation? Or maybe,” she said, running both hands slowly up the sides of her skirt and over her hips, “could I convince you to find it in your heart to do this little ol’ favor just for me, Mr. Blue?” The sound of her hands against the silk and her soft voice made Blue’s heart jump in a way he hadn’t really felt since head cheerleader Cindy Harper had tricked him into following her inside the band rehearsal room that one day after football practice.

  CHAPTER 18

  Outside Huntington, West Virginia

  Captain Shenkov grabbed the radio out of its operator’s hands while the man was trying to take a report. “I said pour fire onto that area. Crush it. The last report said that side of the line is weakening. I personally witnessed your men getting within ten feet of the enemy line on that last push before they fell back. That’s where we make our breakthrough, that’s where we begin the slaughter, and we do it now!”

  He didn’t wait for an answer from Team Boris’s commander, shoving the radio handset back at the operator and grabbing the other radio handset for the helicopters’ radio net. “What the hell was that last pass?” he yelled. “I saw the impacts of your cannon fire, and they’re all going wide. I need concentrated fire at the point I designated.”

  This time, the radio came alive. The helicopter pilot sounded stressed, but defensive. “Captain, we cannot attack from a lower angle. There may be electrical wire hazards, and we are already taking heavy small-arms fire on each pass.”

  “Don’t talk to me about small-arms fire, you horse’s ass. Get your Goddamned noses into it! The enemy lines are breaking.” Shenkov threw the radio receiver back at the radioman, striking him in the face. He stood up and gestured for the man to follow, then, without a word, raced off. The small contingent he kept around him as his own personal riflemen and bodyguards followed him back to the front lines.

  * * *

  Stazia had now racked up a dozen American kills. All small unit leaders, all at critical moments of the fighting. She was careful not to keep one zone under fire for too long and instead switched to other parts of the battlefield. If she didn’t, eventually someone would figure out that they had a sniper working them over from behind.

  “Well, what the fuck is this?” she said. Through her rifle sight, she could see eight or nine figures loosely hunched behind a huge boulder up on the Russian side of the hill. One or two new men arrived every few seconds. It looked like the Russians had found one of the weak points in the lines, partly aided by the fact that Stazia had killed several of the young leaders who had stepped up, heroically, but tragically, to reman machine guns or to rally the men. Each time they did, she had taken out the leader or even their assistant, and the American rally had stalled.

  Stazia played with the focus and gain on the JIM HR optic. Yes, she was sure of it. Aha, finally our Russian Wolf steps out of the shadows. Are you ready, Vlad? She centered the rifle directly onto the head of the figure she was certain was Captain Shenkov.

  She touched the trigger ever so lightly and said, “Bang! You asshole.”

  * * *

  “Captain, it is General Kolikoff on the radio. He demands you make a report personally. I tried to tell him—”

  Ping-zing, two
bullets ricocheted off the rocks. One of the American units at their flanks had noticed the Russians gathering there, but the slow rate of fire was enough to let Shenkov know it was probably just one or maybe two men firing into the shadows. They had a few moments yet before the Americans would notice he had infiltrated right up next to their lines and was about to bring a whole platoon up.

  “Give it to me,” he said, taking the radio receiver. “General, can you hear me?”

  “I hear you . . .” came a staticky voice. It was weak and barely audible, but Shenkov could make it out. “I need a progress report, immediately. General Tympkin . . .” The rest of the transmission was washed away.

  “God damn this,” Shenkov said aloud, balancing the radio receiver against his shoulder and ear. He put his rifle on the rock, pulled the magazine, and switched it to a fresh one. No telling how many he’d fired; he’d lost count while getting his boys this close. Inspiring them to advance in the face of sustained enemy fire was a hell of a feat, even for an elite Spetsnaz unit. After all, he knew the enemy was the just-as-elite American special forces. That was what was going to make today’s triumph so great, and perhaps the only reason he’d actually stopped to talk to the general. Otherwise, he would have just blown it off until the battle was concluded.

  “General, if you can hear me, my report is as follows: we are at the enemy lines, time now. I am assaulting their middle. Their ranks will break any moment. I will call when I am mopping up.”

  He was about to hand the radio back and commence the final push when the radio came back to life. “I hear—” Screech. Static broke the satellite transmission, but it quickly came back—“Do not let”—squeak—“with that train.” Then the line went dead.

  Ten more men had shown up while Shenkov was speaking over the radio. He half turned to face the senior man, his able Starshina Smirnov glad for his arrival. “Refresh your rifle magazines. Grenadiers commence the assault. I want two or three sustained volleys of grenades against that bunker, and that one over there.” He pointed to where the bursts of rifle fire silhouetted two adjacent American fighting positions. Tracer fire and the echoes of rifle shots continued. Farther away, machine guns blazed, but for the moment his frontage was very lightly defended.

  “Ten more men coming, sir, should we wait for them to make it up here?”

  “No, the time is now.”

  As he said the words, the radioman next to him fell back, his helmeted head crashing into a rock with a thud. At first it looked like he had just misread his footing, but then another man above them and partially behind the rock gave a gasp, dropped his rifle, and clutched at his throat, gurgling loudly.

  * * *

  Stazia switched to the man next to Shenkov and squeezed the trigger again. The rifle let off a report, and the man went down. It looked like it was Starshina Smirnov, but she wasn’t certain until she watched with glee as Shenkov dropped down to his knees.

  “Now you know someone has your ass. Not so bold now, are you? You asshole.” Then she fired again, killing another rifleman whose head was still visible above the rock. Much to her annoyance, Shenkov didn’t run or go to ground, but instead brazenly stood, shouldered his rifle, and leaned up and over the boulder to fire off an entire magazine. Then he reloaded and fired another down at the U.S. Army troops.

  Her angle on Shenkov and what remained of his assault men was greater than the Americans, so what looked like cover from the Americans at the base of the slope was still well within her view—the second reason she’d chosen this vantage point, that she could see both sides clearly. She also knew in the noise of the battle, no one would ever be the wiser. After all, being under the fire of one sniper is a real situation, but being under fire from multiple sources at the same time is just a battle.

  That’s when a real sniper can get some work done, she thought. Then aloud, she said, “This is not your fight, you bastard, it’s mine. You don’t break through the Americans unless I want you to.” Another shot, and another Russian went down. Stazia smiled from ear to ear.

  CHAPTER 19

  Morgantown, West Virginia

  Wynand’s hand was wrapped up in his jacket. He quietly smashed the glass window of the school, then deftly undid the lock and pushed it up. He looked down below at Bill, who had him boosted up onto his shoulders. “We’re in.”

  “I know,” said Bill with clear sarcasm. “I’ve got glass all over my head. Do you think you can climb in?”

  Wynand didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the sill firmly and uncomfortably jumped from Bill’s shoulders, then hoisted himself up and in through the window. Victoria half dragged and half carried the general over to the front stairs. Bill came to help, noisily complaining as he brushed the broken glass out of his hair and rubbed his shoulders.

  “Bill, shush,” Victoria said as they both put the general’s arms over their shoulders and waited for Wynand to come around and unlock the door.

  “Do you think he’ll make it?” Bill asked matter-of-factly. Whether it was his culture or just his nature, Bill Degata had a way of cutting right to the point.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, surely you have some sort of diagnosis.”

  “It’s not that easy. Radiation exposure is complicated.”

  “Wait a minute. You don’t know, do you? You don’t know anything about radiation.”

  “I . . . I do. I mean. Well, it’s not my specialty, but I know the basics.”

  “So we could have made it all this way just to have the general die once we get to the hospital.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Victoria, you could have saved us a trip. One where we still might get captured. One that probably shortened the general’s life even more.”

  “Stop it, Bill. You’re going to upset him.”

  Bill shifted his body, and the general’s now limp head wagged from side to side. “He ain’t hearing none of this. He’s out cold. Has been for some time.”

  “Bill . . . it’s true I’m not a nuclear medicine doctor, but I know the fundamentals. We learn basic decon in the military.”

  “Look, if I find out this mission was just your chance to try to prove your worth—or worse, you just want to save the general because your boyfriend Colonel Asher needs him around—I’m going to kill you.”

  Victoria was rocked back by his harsh words. She’d only known Bill Degata a few months but had never heard him speak like this. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe he just loved the general too much to see his life wasted for what might be a frivolous mission. Either way, she wasn’t going to let the comment go.

  “Look, we’ll speak about this more later, but I am risking my life, and you two volunteered, so maybe your perspective will change once you get some sleep.”

  They saw Wynand’s shape through the glass on the door. He pushed the bar and let them both in.

  “Hey. There’s no heat on, cold as hell, but I found a windowless janitor’s room with a sink and hot water. At least we can turn the light on in there without being seen from outside.”

  Victoria was always surprised at Wynand’s quick thinking and street smarts, but she also knew his past. He’d been a moonshiner, running booze across state lines for many years, committing petty crimes and generally staying one step ahead of the law. True to his nature, he was resourceful—probably the main reason Tyce had recommended he come along. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that given half an opportunity or a chance for profit, he’d sell them all down the river. He seemed like a man with no loyalties.

  He probably wants to steal some medicine and sell it, she thought, then instantly chided herself for her doubt as he led them to a storeroom and kitchen of sorts. Stocked with canned food, pots and pans, and a small, vented gas grill. Maybe it was out of fear, maybe hope that someday the school would reopen, but it spoke volumes of the locals that no one had looted the school. At least it was nice to see that some things remained sacrosanct, even in a bitter insurgency against a Russian occup
ier.

  That is, until we came along and smashed the windows and stole the food, she thought.

  She couldn’t help that with her Italian upbringing, she often saw the negatives in people and circumstances. While many were eternal optimists, she was a decidedly glass-half-empty person.

  Wynand popped open a can of corn and another of string beans and started the propane grill. In minutes, he had them both simmering. Both Victoria and Bill heard their stomachs rumble. They had skipped breakfast because they were too busy getting ready and, once on the road, none had had time to eat the rations they’d packed. Hunger and fatigue were settling in and, as Victoria laid the general out on the janitor’s cot, she began to feel the effects of the stress.

  “Do you think we can make it by foot?” she asked Wynand.

  “No,” he said, not looking up from stirring the beans.

  “I think we need to talk about whether we should even be on this mission right now,” Bill said, his metal folding chair creaking as he stood up. “I think the lady doctor has been having us along for a pointless ride.”

  Victoria bristled at the comment, but she had developed a thick skin. She’d had to. She was smart and she was beautiful, and so she’d been verbally assaulted all her life. Whether it was other doctors assuming she was an idiot because of her appearance, or would-be boyfriends who assumed she was a nerd because she was a doctor. She held back her famous temper and instinct to lash out. For the moment.

  “Bill, you of all people know how strong the general is. You’ve known him longer than the rest of us—”

  “So I have more reason not to trust people who might not have his best interests at heart,” Bill interrupted.

  Wynand stopped stirring the food and held up his hands to silence the other two.

  Outside in the hallway, they distinctly heard the sounds of several sets of footsteps—quiet footsteps that were closing in on the doorway to the room. No one breathed a word or moved a muscle. Just outside the door, the footsteps stopped.