* * *
Blue looked back up at the mayor’s window before he entered the sheriff ’s squad car. He couldn’t help but feel manipulated, but it wasn’t really manipulation if he agreed with the outcome. Was it? He just wished there was someone smarter than him there who he could ask for advice. The sheriff was silent as they started off for the capitol of West Virginia in Charleston.
The words “the ends don’t justify the means,” kept running through his head—or was it “the ends justify the means”? What was it his teacher had said all those years ago? Damned if he could remember. Snippets of learning came and went with Blue and, though he had tried to pay attention in school, he’d only been given Bs and Cs because well-meaning teachers thought his position as offensive tackle on the high school team was worth a little extra credit. He’d certainly had a glow about him in school, and though he was as honest as the day was long, he knew he got away with more than other kids. He also knew it was partially because of his openness, his no-nonsense honesty, that people seemed to love him all the more.
He didn’t understand people at all. So many people seemed to be so clever that he’d always found it best just to be quiet and listen. Eventually, the best decisions and most intelligent people seemed to step up and make things right—one of the reasons he was finding it so easy to be among the military men and women. Though they still succumbed to what he thought of as locker-room politics, they always came together and listened to their leaders when they needed to. Just like his football team.
But he had tried so hard to take his studies seriously. He knew it was all really important. He knew it because his mother would gush when he got a good grade, yet barely attended any of his games. His father, on the other hand, never made a single game. He worked most days until well past midnight. But when he heard of a good grade, he sometimes left Blue a note in his jacket pocket. It usually just said, “Good work, son,” or “Remember, learning keeps the lights burning,” or some other such phrase handed down in his family for generations. Though the maxim had apparently never been adhered to in any generation. Blue was just like his father, and his grandfather before them, in knowing that learning was vital, but seemingly never able to make it stick. So, like his father, once he left high school, he went and got a job.
Blue looked his Weatherby over. He pulled the bolt back and checked the chamber just enough to see some of the brass of the preloaded rounds in the dim light. Probably the most important lesson his father had given him was how to shoot. His dad had not only taught him to shoot and hunt at four years old but had counted on him killing several deer every winter after he turned six. Learning might keep the lights burning, but shooting put food on the table and didn’t demand hours of study just to memorize some pithy words from a hundred years ago.
The sheriff turned on the high beams, and Blue settled into his seat. The sheriff was clearly not going to speak, and though Blue had a lot of thoughts on his mind, he had no interest in discussing them with the sheriff, a man for whom he had little regard. He often read people based on his own observations and a keenly developed sixth sense of what they stood for. The military men and women he’d been around these past months scored high marks, and his gut told him that, except for one or two, they really cared for their duties to their nation and the defense of its people. His read on the sheriff was altogether the opposite.
CHAPTER 20
Outside Huntington, West Virginia
Captain Shenkov looked around him after dumping four 7.62mm magazines down on the Americans in what amounted to rage shooting—controlled rage shooting. He thought he’d hit two, maybe three of the U.S. soldiers. Hard to tell in the noise, but he could tell someone had redirected additional forces back into the line he had only moments earlier intended to penetrate with extreme violence.
He was not a junior officer. Quite the opposite, he was battle tested and exceptionally well trained. So, as he watched or sensed his men dropping around him and pulled out the third magazine, he already realized he’d lost the advantage. The moment in time was gone. It was simple arithmetic; his penetration force was now outnumbered. There would be no breaking through the enemy lines tonight. He fired on full auto, then dropped in a fourth magazine, remained standing, and poured fire onto the enemy at the origin of some enemy tracer fire or the audible shouts of an enemy leader repositioning his forces back in the line or the fleeting movements of an enemy tossing a dead comrade aside and jumping into his fighting hole. When the enemy got first one, then the other machine gun working again, Shenkov finally took a knee behind the rock and put in his last magazine, panting heavily.
It was a testament to Shenkov’s skill that he hadn’t been hit. His skill, plus some of the usual battlefield luck. But he also knew from experience that an enemy reoccupying a fighting line remained disoriented for the first few moments. It seemed counter to natural instincts, but when soldiers were moved from a section of the battlefield they’d gotten used to into a new section in the lines, they were often reluctant to shoot, even when being shot at. The risk of shooting one of their own guys and the challenge of orienting themselves quickly on which way was forward and which was back came only after many, many months of combat experience.
The fight had also seemed like hours, and in battlefield time, it had certainly felt so. In actuality, it had only been about two minutes. Time seemed radically extended. Adrenaline was one factor. Greatly heightened senses contributed to an overload of the brain, which many didn’t know was one of the primary functions of the adrenaline. It gave the brain the temporary ability to process more than two or three senses simultaneously. The body told the brain that death was all but imminent so all systems needed to cooperate or the living organism called the human body would cease to exist. Millions of years of evolution hadn’t quite caught up with the speed of bullets, but it certainly had learned to deal with and speed up trigger responses.
Shenkov felt the adrenaline wear off. He could control it to an extent, like most battlefield veterans, but he couldn’t prevent it switching off when his body sensed he was out of danger. That would come with even more years of fighting, he knew. He felt tired, and extremely thirsty. He reached for the canteen on his hip belt but felt only a wet mess. He looked down and noticed two rounds had passed cleanly though. He hadn’t registered even being hit.
The volume of fire was steadily picking up around him. The rock they had only momentarily earlier thought of as a rally point to drive a wedge in the American lines was now a shelter rock. The machine guns were raking the top and sides of it. He had to respect these American special forces NCOs; they must be excellent leaders.
Almost as good as mine, he thought. Just then, he realized that, in his low crouching position, he was staring directly into the stony dead face of his own favorite NCO, Starshina Smirnov.
Time to go, he thought, and he slung his rifle over his back and began a low crawl back up the hill, using the rock to shield him from fire.
* * *
“Hey, sir,” Sergeant Berringer yelled from the back of the building. “They’ve shifted forces successfully. I think he realized the hole in his lines about the time I did.”
“Yeah, but he probably wouldn’t have acted on it if you hadn’t confirmed it. Good work, Devil Dog. Keep your eyes peeled,” Tyce yelled back. He was waiting for the LAV commander, Lieutenant Bryce, to get back to him. He didn’t have to wait much longer.
Bryce’s voice came over the radio. “In position now, sir.”
“Okay.” Tyce held up a hand to one of the radio operators who had run over to ask if Tyce had any spare rifle magazines. “By my count, you have about another ten seconds. How many LAVs did you move?”
“I was only able to get mine into position. Red two is caught in a farmer’s barbed wire, and the other is still supporting Captain Blake’s men by filling in that hole in his lines.”
“Okay. Can you see that industrial site on the far side of the river?”
“Yes, si
r. I have it clearly in my thermal sights.”
“Good. Now, see that gas tower? The one right behind the river barge area. That’s about where they are starting their gun-runs.”
“Okay, got it, sir. By the way, I see a figure up there—”
Tyce heard the faint sounds of a helicopter’s rotor blades and interrupted, “Here he comes, Bryce! Get your gunner on that spot, and wait to fire until I tell you. I want to dust this asshole, but I want you to hit him over the land. If he goes down in the water, it won’t have as big an effect on the rest of the helicopters and demoralize the Russian infantry, and we’re going to try to hit three birds with one stone tonight.”
“Copy, sir. Hey! We have him. Just where you said, sir. He’s lights out and low to the ground, almost right over the water.”
“Copy, I have him now, too.” Tyce was using a pair of binoculars, which would normally be useless at night. He’d spent his whole life in Marine reconnaissance, so he’d learned binoculars could still be effective at night as long as you knew how to use the bursts of light and shadow that always accompanied a big firefight.
* * *
“So that’s where you’ve been hiding.” Stazia lined up on Colonel Tyce Asher. She was certain it was him. “Same strong jawline,” she said, zooming in for an even closer. She imagined she could see the faint scar on his cheek he’d earned fighting hand-to-hand in Iraq. He was one of the most experienced combat veterans she’d ever come to know.
All the more reason having him in her sights was so tantalizing. “Hmm, yummy.” His helmet was off, and he had a radio handset up to his ear and his carbine balanced in the elbow of his other arm. The building he was in was on fire, and even when she pulled away from the JIM HR she could see his outline against the flickering firelight.
It looked like he was directing something important. Maybe he had spotted the train. She hoped not. The general had said he was going to have it delayed or diverted. Protecting the train was still her primary mission. Her only real mission, even if her personal goal was toying with Shenkov and killing as many Americans as she felt was necessary to end the night’s battle in a draw.
Whatever Tyce was doing, he was essentially facing her, while the rest of the battle raged behind him. She held the sight on his forehead and started her breathing cycle: Odin . . . dva . . .
Her mind started to race. Father, is it time to finally kill this fucker?
She rubbed her fingers gently against the red handkerchief tied to her forward bipod and continued counting: . . . tri . . . chetyre . . .
Her trajectory, windage, and elevation were perfect. She’d proven that all night, against both the Americans and some of Shenkov’s forces. She’d already heard the general frantically trying to get another status report from Shenkov over their satellite radio, with no response. She took her aim off Tyce and looked back up the hill. Switching targets after counting was a no-no, but she had to look. Shenkov was now out of sight. She’d enjoyed watching him slither in the dirt as he crawled his way out of the predicament she had set up for him.
Her count had almost reached its zenith. She focused quickly back on Tyce.
. . . pyat’ . . . shest’. She held her breath a moment, then squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Tyce adjusted his rifle forward in excitement and held the radio tightly to his ear with his other hand. He didn’t need the binoculars anymore and had let them dangle around his neck as he watched the Russian Mi-8 attack helicopter approach with his naked eyes. His mind was rapidly calculating its speed and distance, trying to get the timing just right. Its guns and rockets were now blazing, making it plainly visible, though it was at his maximum range. Tyce heard the bullets zipping by and could see the miniature red trails of the rockets, and hear them, too, as they sizzled overhead and smacked into the hill behind him.
“Now, now! Fire now, Bryce!” Tyce yelled into the radio. Then bang, he was knocked violently back.
* * *
Stazia watched Tyce fall back. The size of the hole in the house’s wall was wide enough that she could still see his legs, though the rest of his body had fallen back and out of sight. She held her breath. She heard the crack-crack of a loud gun from across the river, then the flat blasts as the shots hit one of Shenkov’s helicopters.
“Ah, so that’s what you were up to.” She pulled her eye off the eyecup and watched the Russian Mi-8 burst into flames and spiral on its rotor blades’ axis as it fell rapidly out of the sky and smashed into the field near the house Tyce was in. Two, then three more times the helicopter exploded as fuel and ammo started to cook off. Showers of sparks flew in all directions as rockets and bullets caught fire.
She went back to look at Tyce. After a second more, she saw his legs moving. Then he was back in the window looking stunned, cradling his right arm against his body and pinning it against his knee.
“Ah, good. I still never miss, Colonel,” she said, and she made a pouty face and kissed in his direction. “Just one more to go.”
CHAPTER 21
Outside Huntington, West Virginia
“Sir . . . sir?” Tyce could hear the radio handset behind him where it landed after he flung it from his hand. He reached up and felt the leather strap that had once held his binoculars. One of the eyepieces and part of the frame still dangled there, though the most of it had burst into pieces when he’d been shot.
Did I just get shot?
Tyce felt his chest with his good hand. His other hand, the one that was holding the rifle, now buzzed and didn’t seem to want to move. He felt a hole in his body armor. The ceramic plate had dissipated the force from the shot that the binoculars’ metal housing hadn’t, but, like the binoculars, it had also burst into pieces. As it’s supposed to, Tyce thought. He’d seen many men hit by bullets, and if they were lucky, it was always the same. Their body armor was shattered and useless, but all because the armor had done its job. It was important to protect your front if you’d been hit because a second round didn’t need to penetrate the exact same spot. Pretty much any shot to the ceramic plate would now penetrate. The jacket needed to be discarded after one hit.
Holy shit, I got shot! Tyce scrambled back deeper to the safety of the room, making sure to stay concealed behind the wall. It was pretty stupid to stand up in the blown-out window, but he had not counted on anyone firing from the river side of the battlefield. As far as he knew, they still owned everything up to and including the river.
Tyce looked for his rifle and, finding it, instinctively put the buttstock up against his shoulder. Then he crawled over to the radio, snatched the handset, and quickly came back to the safety of the shadow of the wall.
“Bryce, do you copy?”
“Shit, there you are, sir. I have visibility on another helo. They’ve shifted tactics to try to avoid my LAV’s cannon fire, but my other vehicle got unstuck and has a vantage on the point he thinks they are going to approach from.”
“Good work. You time this next one and get me another kill.”
“You want this one on land, too, sir?”
“Doesn’t matter now. Drop him wherever you can best kill him. You’re now inside their heads, and Captain Blake has his rear flank free, so he can go back to concentrating on the Russians on the hill.” Tyce knew that was only partially true. There was certainly someone operating behind them, but so far, he hadn’t heard any reports of a sniper—besides his own experience. Tyce knew better than to poke his head up to look, but he now had to assume they had one or more sharpshooters. Not as deadly as the helicopters’ withering round-robin, but he’d need to inform Ned.
Tyce crawled over to Sergeant Berringer, who was still dutifully watching and reporting Russian movements to Ned’s radio operator. The man turned toward at Tyce when he came up, a look of battlefield glee across his face. He and the radioman had their helmets off, and they’d drawn a small sketch of the lines as best as they could see them on the floor in front of them.
“Hey sir, there haven�
�t been any fresh Russian attacks for a bit, and Captain Blake hasn’t been on the radio in a while. Maybe not a bad thing. I heard First Sergeant Hull on the admin-net yelling for their supply chief to bring up more ammo.”
“That’s a good thing. If he’s able to focus on logistics, it means he’s not just fighting from hole to hole anymore.”
“Maybe, sir. Unfortunately, the supply sergeant said he was out of ammo.” Sergeant Berringer glanced at the dangling leather and remnants of the binoculars still hanging around Tyce’s neck. “Everything good on that side, sir? Thought I heard a bang.”
“All good, Berringer.” Tyce heard the clatter of LAV cannon fire out in the front. Another loud bang and he could hear the whine of a second helicopter plummeting toward earth. Tyce and the men were looking out into the backyard and at barren trees on Ned’s hill, but the fireball from the helicopter exploding in the front yard lit up the hillside.
Tyce, still a little stunned, remembered the radio handset and picked it up in time to hear Bryce mid-broadcast: “. . . is down, and Red two reports he thinks he saw the other helos moving back north.”
“Copy. Good work, Bryce. Your LAV’s saved our asses today. Those helos were making mincemeat and forcing Captain Blake to fight in two directions.”
“Good to go, sir,” said Bryce over the radio.
Then someone spoke behind Tyce. “Sir.” It was one of the other NCOs, a Corporal Kendrick. “We need to get the fuck out of here.” He pointed up to the roof. The ceiling was still intact, but through the punctured and shattered ceiling drywall, he could see a bright red glow. The fire was burning though the rafters and would soon reach them—or worse, the house would collapse.
“Copy, we can’t do any more from here. Fold up shop and get to Ned’s lines immediately. Good work, boys, you all really kicked some ass tonight.”
The Kill Box Page 16