The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  * * *

  Stazia could see the entire hillside now without her thermal optics. It made it a lot easier to find the one target she’d been looking for.

  There you are. It was Captain Blake. He was so well illuminated in the scope’s reticle by the downed helicopter that she didn’t even need her count. Not so special now, are you?

  Bang!

  * * *

  Tyce and the men hastened to grab rifle magazines, water bottles, and radio parts. Tyce looked around once more as they got ready to leave, and none too soon. The room was definitely starting to get hot, and the glow emanated from up in the attic through the rocket and bullet holes to light every room like a dozen lightbulbs.

  “Sir, what about that train?” one of the men asked. “I’m hearing that someones spotted it.”

  “Holy shit.” In all the action, Tyce had nearly forgotten about the train. Since they were the ones ambushed by the Russians, instead of the other way around, he lost track and just assumed that the Russians had probably taken the extra time while the Americans were pinned down to divert or halt it.

  “Sir, I’m getting two reports at once. One from Comanche that says Captain Blake is hit, the other from Lieutenant Bryce’s men. They just reported that they can see a train now racing by on the other side of the river. He hasn’t had time to report it on your tactical net yet.”

  Tyce was puzzled by the first radio call, but he didn’t have time to figure out what they meant, and any second the building would collapse around them. He had practically just spoken to Captain Blake, so he was sure it was an erroneous report. More important, the train might be speeding by. The entire reason for their mission might slip though his fingers if he didn’t act now.

  Tyce knew he had seconds to act. He yanked the rucksack radio set off his back and called Bryce. “Dragoons, Dragoons, interrogative: Do you tally the train?” He was unable to conceal his emotions on the radio. His chest was pounding from pain and adrenaline. He was almost certain he’d actually heard a few of his ribs breaking from the impact of the bullet.

  “That’s affirm, sir. Was just about to tell you,” said Bryce. “What do you want me to do?”

  There was absolutely zero possibility that anyone other than the LAVs could do anything about the train over six hundred meters away and already speeding off into the distance.

  “Can you see the engine?”

  “Engine’s already past, sir.”

  Tyce remembered the NBC Chief Warrant Officer Wheeler’s words—then immediately chose to ignore them. He had to make a decision. “Fire,” he said.

  They had been thoroughly surprised, ambushed, and had taken casualties, but Tyce couldn’t forget their primary and stated purpose. And that was to stop the train and seize their cargo. Since that was nearly impossible now, they had to slow it down, even if it meant causing the nightmare scenario of a gas or chemical leak. He had to at least try to delay the Russians from reaching their goal, whatever that ultimately was.

  “Pick a car and hit him with a burst. No more than a burst. Aim for the rail wheels if you can.”

  “Copy, sir,” came the response, but Tyce could already hear the thump-thump-thump of an LAV firing. He knew he’d possibly just signed a death warrant for hundreds, possibly thousands of civilians—anyone who was anywhere near the speeding train, as well as those up the tracks on the way to the train’s destination.

  “Holy hell. What have I done?” Tyce whispered to himself.

  One of the radio operators held out a radio handset. “Sir, Captain Blake is confirmed dead. Shot.”

  Tyce shook his head at the man, shoving him hard toward the exit. No time to deal with that now. They needed to get out of the building—fast. He took three deep but labored breaths, then sprinted out into the field with the last of his three men, with the additional sensation that there was now a sniper’s crosshairs square on his back. Behind him, they all heard a crack, and the sounds of wood ripped asunder. He felt the blast of hot air at his back as the house collapsed in on itself.

  CHAPTER 22

  Outside Huntington, West Virginia

  Tyce made it up to the top of the hill and into the open pasture there just in time to see one of the SF platoon’s leaders, Lieutenant Shmalcs, in the middle of issuing orders to a pack of NCOs. “Then I want you to spread load the rest of the ammo out to the squads.”

  Tyce had already been over to visit Ned’s departed remains and say a few words to wish his friend a safe journey. His duty now was to the living, and it wasn’t going to be any easier. But he had choked back emotions for so long that he was able to remain stoic. He listened to the hasty field briefing without interrupting.

  One of the sergeants spoke up. “What about the dead men’s ammo, can we grab that, too?”

  “Goes without saying, troop. Grab it and move on. They won’t be needing it in Valhalla,” said Lieutenant Shmalcs.

  The men had been kneeling around their lieutenant, all of them looking completely fatigued by combat. Tyce was encouraged just by their faces and the fact that after such a hellish battle, they all seemed ready for more. Some were reloading magazines, some sucked down MRE rations from foil packets or drank water as they’d listened, but all, as if of one mind, stood and trooped off to carry out the instructions. It was impressive to see, and Tyce was in awe of their esprit de corps—especially because he was certain by now everyone had gotten word that they’d lost their popular commander.

  “How’d we do, Lieutenant?” Tyce said the words, even though they sounded stupid. He was pretty sure he knew how they did: a Pyrrhic victory. Tyce had been actually afraid to ask him that. He hated voicing objective questions, such as requesting casualty counts from his subordinates during a firefight, and the like. It made him sound callous, out of touch with the men directly in the battle and just plain administrative. Unfortunately, it was all part of leadership. He couldn’t make decisions without knowing how his units were faring.

  Shmalcs turned, brightening at the sight of the colonel. “Hey, sir. helluva a fight. More intense than I think I’ve ever been in, and that includes actions on my deployment in Syria against ISIS.” Tyce knew of Shmalcs as a real warrior type but had forgotten he’d been deployed into combat once before. The lieutenant continued, “But we did good, sir. We hit them so hard, they retreated. The last command we got from Captain Blake was to pursue without mercy. The men went on a rampage. By the time I made it up here, the last Russian helicopter was already on the horizon, but the NCOs from my platoon got a good piece of them as they were trying to skedaddle. Killed about five as they were loading onto their helo. One of my men even capped a guy as they were lifting off. They said it was sick watching him fall off the bird at about two hundred feet.” Tyce could tell Shmalcs was probably masking the loss of his captain with some bravado, but the pride in his men was genuine.

  Tyce squared up on Lieutenant Shmalcs and switched from a friendly tone to pure business. The next order was going to be hard, but he knew it had to be done immediately. “Okay. I have an order for you. You’re now in command of your company. Company C, the Comanches of the 19th Special Forces, are now yours. At least until I can get in touch with your battalion. Turn your platoon over to your platoon sergeant and assume command.”

  The man nodded. It was clear he had already thought about it. He was the next most senior officer in Comanches.

  “Your second order is to get your men back safely to base. Once you have everyone back and you are on top of things, come give me a solid report on what we need to do to get Comanche back on their feet and back into the action. We’ll hold a ceremony to honor your boss and all our fallen heroes when we can catch a breather. You copy?”

  Lieutenant Shmalcs looked neither eager nor downtrodden at the orders; he was now all business. “I copy, sir. Comanche will get the job done.”

  And there it was. Tyce had now personally witnessed a man becoming a little more callous to the happenings of a battlefield. Therein lies the nic
kname, he thought. They called a grunt a grunt because after enough scar tissue built up, all it ever really came down to was enduring, grunting, and moving on to fight another day. Will society be able to deprogram them all when it’s over? he wondered. The population at large were probably going to need just as much mental care as his men. Probably more. At least the men had their compatriots to fall back on, to commiserate with.

  First Sergeant Hull walked into the pasture and hastened over to them. “The guys said I could find you here. Without your Gunny here, I didn’t have anyone to report casualty figures to on the radio.” The mood among the men changed instantly. While there was a certain warrior’s bravado in describing a battle, getting the casualty counts was like the specter of death sweeping his scythe.

  Hull pulled out a notepad and went through the tally. “Fifty-six wounded.”

  Tyce’s jaw clenched. He had known the figures would be high. As Shmalcs had said, it had been a helluva fight, but that number was almost half of Comanche company.

  Hull continued. “Twenty-six fallen angels”—the euphemism didn’t do much to blunt the blow—“and still counting.” Hull closed his notebook and looked up to both officers.

  Inwardly, Tyce was greatly disturbed by the high numbers and the loss of Ned Blake. It basically meant the whole SF company was now combat ineffective. Almost three-quarters of their men killed or wounded, and they’d lost their leader. In any normal outfit even going back to World War II, those figures would be enough to pull the unit for rest and refit, and to try to get them replacements. He didn’t really have either to give them.

  He owned the numbers, though. Just like he owned the failure that had become of their mission. No one besides him had probably reconciled it that way yet, but he knew they would soon enough. He had been the one who had hastened them into combat with very little planning. It was a gamble, he had known it would be, but the battlefield calculus had never included being ambushed. He just hadn’t seen that coming.

  The Russians had somehow gotten inside his operational loop. He had a lot to reconcile, but it was now clear to him that either the Russians were in his radio nets, or he had a mole.

  The last possibility disturbed him the most.

  An NCO hurried up to the three men clustered at the edge of the bald hilltop. “There you are, sir. That chief warrant officer from the NBC group was looking for you. He says one of his chemical alarms is going off. He said everyone still back in the valley needs to put their chem suits on immediately. I told everyone I could see as I ran up here.”

  Tyce was already feeling the lowest he’d felt in a long while and hadn’t realized he could sink lower. This latest report crushed his spirits far beyond despair. He nodded to the man and walked off to help Shmalcs and Bryce get their men back to the command post.

  * * *

  Major Uintergrin had heard the alarms they’d rigged up go off all over the train and was calmly putting on his specialty NBC suit. He hadn’t heard the incoming gunfire directed at them, but he had seen a house on fire across the river as the train had raced along and could still hear the squealing of something metal toward the back part of the train. He pulled on the rubber gloves, then his over-pants and top.

  A man dressed in one of the disposable chem-bio suits issued to the soldiers clumsily saluted. Then a muffled voice came from behind his mask. “Sir, we have a leak.”

  Uintergrin held his special face mask and hood in his hands as he stared at the man. He contemplated chewing him out for stating the obvious and coming into the forward cars in his chem-bio suit, but he decided against it. This man was stationed in the prisoner car in front of the chemical car and would likely not have been exposed since the train was still moving, although they’d slowed considerably. He pulled on the mask and hood, letting his anger and impatience subside. Then he responded loudly through the plastic. “Follow me.”

  He led the man through the compartments toward the back of the train to a car they had rigged up as their chemical chamber. As they proceeded past the prisoner car, he saw the trio of “guests” kicked back on a couch watching TV. They were an unlikely mix, but he was glad to see they were all wearing NBC suits. The one he called the traitor looked as if he wanted to get up and talk to him, but fortunately the guards had followed protocol, and four men stood over them, their rifles at the ready. They might be guests of the general, but the men also knew Uintergrin had emphasized the other two cargoes as more valuable.

  When Uintergrin made it to the chemical car’s airlock, the first thing he noticed was the containment door was wide open, and outside air was rushing into the car as the train sped along. His spotted his two chemical officers inside. Both were working frantically to move a chemical barrel by hand. The barrel was very obviously split, and its contents were sloshing all over the men and the floor.

  When they saw the major approaching, they stopped and put the barrel down like two chastened dogs caught leaving a mess on the carpet.

  “Give me a report,” Uintergrin yelled. He had to shout to be heard over the suit’s synthetic barrier and the noise of air rushing in through the train’s open side hatches.

  The men were some of Uintergrin’s own, handpicked and well trained. They were very familiar with communicating while in their suits and stepped almost right up to Uintergrin’s face so they could be understood.

  One began, “We have two barrels hit. Looks like shrapnel from American gunfire. The contents are completely compromised.”

  “Were they A or B barrels?”

  “Both A barrels, sir.”

  “Thank God for small miracles,” said Uintergrin.

  “But we have four casualties. Some of the guards got a report from the engineer that the last car’s wheels were damaged.”

  “What happened?”

  “They came into the room without suits to try to assess the extent of the damage. We warned them, but they said they had specific orders from you to keep the train rolling through a possible American ambush—‘as fast as possible, and no matter what.’ ” The man pointed to a corner near the open side door. Two men were curled up against the open doorframe. Their faces were dark blue, and their bulging eyes were stained bright red from burst blood vessels.

  “Yes, those were my orders,” Uintergrin said. “What about the damaged car?”

  “We’re treating it as exposed. We believe the other two men stationed there must’ve been badly exposed also. They came through while we were busy here, and we think they managed to disconnect the jammed emergency brake on the last railcar, but they have yet to come back forward. We assumed they died back there, but we were too busy trying to detect the leaks and get them sealed.”

  “Why did you not seal the barrels with the specialty tape?”

  They both shook their heads. “We’ve been trying, sir. The barrel sides are slick. They’re too wet now for the tape to adhere.”

  The other said, “The tape is only supposed to be used on an aerosol leak, and these barrels were cracked too low down the sides. They were leaking liquid.”

  The first continued, “We called to the men off watch to hasten the full cleanup kits, but they haven’t arrived from the storage section up front yet. We were waiting for you to see what protocol you wanted to employ.”

  Both men held up their wet gloves and pointed to a multitude of pieces of repair tape they’d stuck all across the barrels in their attempts to seal the barrel’s contents. None of it was containing the liquid.

  “Good work. Glad to see my men actually doing their duty. Dump them. And the bodies.”

  The men looked at each other. “Out the hatch, sir?”

  “Yes. Both barrels. We can then begin the process of spraying down the remaining barrels with the liquid foam.”

  “Do you wish for us to wait for a spot outside any American towns or villages? The A barrels alone will still cause many deaths.”

  “No. Throw it all out. That includes the cleanup materials, too. Besides, if the Americans k
now enough about our train to shoot at it, then they already know what our cargo is. They can deal with the consequences of their own actions. We have a mission, and we continue without hesitation. Once the cleanup kits arrive, thoroughly wash down the entire compartment.”

  “We will need to clear the rest of the barrels out to do so. Should we move them back to the treasure car to complete the cleanup?”

  Uintergrin thought for a moment. Because the treasure car was behind the chemical car, a large amount of aerosol component A would most likely have spread there. The chemical was persistent, and if not decontaminated properly, protocol dictated that everything in and to the rear of the chemical car be considered completely contaminated.

  There’s no way we can decontaminate all that stuff. We can sort that out in New York, he thought. “No, decontaminate the barrels one by one and move them forward one car once they are cleaned. Let the prisoners share the danger for a change. They have suckled on the Russian teat for free, and now they can bear some of the burden of our invasion. If your decontaminations are thorough enough, they will be in no grave danger.”

  “Understood, Comrade Major.” Both men saluted sloppily, chemicals flying off their gloves as they did so. Then they hastened to roll the barrels over to the side hatch.

  Uintergrin remained long enough to help them roll the first barrel over and out the side. He could see the lights of some village as they sped past, but a bunch of crops or some cattle and farmers really didn’t concern him. Then he went to the decon station at the front of the car and began the laborious process of decontaminating his suit.

  For now, the back of the train will remain thoroughly contaminated. But as long as we keep moving, the front cars will remain free from contamination. The air will sweep the airborne particles out as the men clean up, he thought.

  They would go through the correct procedures of washing down, but everyone in the rear three cars would have to remain in their NBC suits for the remainder of the trip. It would slow things down considerably, but it was a hazard he had considered.