“So why doesn’t Canada intervene?” asked Tyce, “I mean direct military intervention. Shouldn’t Canada be right at our side in this? They need to demonstrate that they are truly our allies.”
“I can’t tell you everything, Tyce, but I can tell you they are doing their part. Just as Mexico is. I . . . that is, what remains of my cabinet all believe, as does their government, that it’s best for Canada to try to appear neutral, at least for the time being. Until we get a better idea of where they can really help. We don’t want a third army trooping around on our soil looking for Russians. We know for a fact, from intercepted . . .” The VP trailed off again when someone in the background stopped him again, then restarted. “Some sources suggest that they’d love for Canada to get directly involved. It would possibly turn a lot of Americans toward the Russian side, or at least muddy the waters on who is the invader. Can you imagine if the Canadians killed Americans? You know, if some civilians got caught up in the cross fire. Still, we’re talking about things months in the future, and possibly not until next spring.”
“If we even make it that long,” Tyce muttered. It was all news to Tyce, but he knew next to nothing about the big picture.
“Come again? Didn’t hear that last question, Colonel.”
“Uh.” Tyce realized too late that he’d spoken out loud. Gunny gave him a reproachful look that seemed to say comments like his were better left to the enlisted men. “I was just wondering how long?”
“Just get eyes on that train and tell me which way it’s heading. If it goes north, I may be able to get you some additional support. I trust you to get the job done. The nation—or perhaps I should say two nations—are counting on you.”
Tyce rubbed his bruised and possibly broken ribs. He could feel several of the bones there clicking as he breathed, each time sending sharp waves of pain across his chest. “Got it, Mr. Vice President. You can count on the 150th,” he said. He knew he wasn’t able to muster up anything near the bravado he imagined the vice president needed to hear.
CHAPTER 24
Russian Pentagon
Washington, D.C.
General Kolikoff looked Captain Shenkov up and down. Shenkov hadn’t said a word since the general had put him at attention and told him to wait for General Tympkin to arrive. He was a battle-hardened warrior, but Kolikoff felt he deserved no more leeway after his latest fiasco than any other officer under his command.
Kolikoff jumped in his seat a bit as two black-clad men entered his makeshift office and looked the room over before opening the door and admitting General Tympkin. Tympkin wasted no time. He came around and shooed Kolikoff out from behind his own desk, then sat down and indicated for both men to sit in front of him. It was an uncomfortable position, to be sitting adjacent to his captain, but Kolikoff knew it was coming. He was just as much if not more to blame for the failed ambush.
“We are missing one. Where is Agent Panther?”
“Major Stazia Van Andjörssen is still out on the battlefield. Her last report stated she had killed more than twenty U.S. soldiers, but even with all the American units’ locations tagged and sent by satellite to Captain Shenkov, the . . . uh . . . attack failed.” Kolikoff was good at shifting blame, but there was no way to avoid this one. He hoped to sound contrite. It was a cowardly act, but he had seen just how willing Tympkin was to rid himself of a recalcitrant or failing subordinate, and tonight he intended that wouldn’t happen to him.
“I take full responsibility, Comrade General,” Shenkov barked out, standing and saluting. Kolikoff was as much surprised at the outburst and acceptance of blame as he was the reaction of the two black-clad guards. Both leveled their AKs at Kolikoff and Shenkov and seemed very nearly about to pull the triggers.
“Now, you see”—Tympkin held up a hand of restraint—“that is the kind of accountability I like,” he said while staring at Kolikoff. “Now, for the first part of this conversation, I will speak, and you will listen. Am I clear?”
Both men nodded assent.
“Good. My train has been disabled but is continuing on to its destination and will fulfill its mission. You two have only one assignment now. Get my train to New York. Nothing else matters. Am I clear?”
Both men nodded, but to Kolikoff ’s further annoyance, Shenkov decided to speak. “General. Why do we not just load up everything onto a transport aircraft and be done with this train nonsense?”
“Ah, I am surprised no one else has had the balls to ask that question. There are three reasons. First, part of my special cargo is too heavy to send by one aircraft. Second, the chemicals are volatile. The third reason . . . one of my guests is afraid to fly.”
Kolikoff and Shenkov both looked at each other in surprise.
“Yes, and I need that man as much as I need my cargo.”
“Ah, so one of them is a chemist.” Shenkov nodded his head.
“No. One of them is an economist,” Tympkin said, “and he and my special cargo are more important than all the chemicals, guns, and riflemen under my command. Now get in touch with my train, and get to work.”
Both men jumped to attention as Tympkin walked out of the room, leaving them to figure out exactly how to tackle the order.
Morgantown, West Virginia
Victoria and Bill had been so busy arguing that they hadn’t heard the footsteps until it was too late. The door opened quietly, and an old woman and two kids had poked their faces in. The mood changed immediately, and Victoria and the men had simmered down, made introductions, and after hearing their story, offered up their cooked food. Victoria looked around at the new faces. All three gobbled down the corn and beans they had earlier hoped to make a meal out of.
“Mrs. Gess,” Victoria started.
“It’s Geis. Mable Geis, and this is Jan, and the little one there is August.”
Both kids looked up, but only briefly before diving back into the bowl of mixed vegetables. Victoria stared at both children while they ate. Something struck her as not quite right, and even under the circumstances, she could not deny her curiosity as a doctor.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“We are right next door. We saw you breaking into the school and needed to come over to warn you.”
Wynand gave a sour look to Bill, who in turn looked at Victoria.
“We appreciate you doing so. What do you know?” Victoria asked.
“There are Russians here . . .” she started, then helped young August to put the fork in his mouth. His skin was pale, and his hand shook. “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Geis said, “it’s been quite some time since we’ve had a square meal. The children and I have been too afraid to leave the house. You see, their father—that is, my son in-law—left over six days ago to go out and try to get some food. There were rumors of a Russian food distribution site being set up.”
“He hasn’t returned?” Victoria asked.
Mrs. Geis seemed reluctant to talk in front of the children. They couldn’t be older than four and five years old, but they now seemed engrossed in the food, so she continued, “Well, maybe he’s found some and just hasn’t been able to return. At least, that is what we have been praying every night.” She rubbed the girl’s back and helped the boy put the fork back to his mouth again.
“And their mother?”
“Do we have the time for this?” Wynand exclaimed.
Victoria waved him off angrily. She was exhausted and at her wit’s end, and Bill’s doubt in the mission had pushed her well beyond her limits.
“She . . . she finally had enough of the hunger, and yesterday she went out and flagged down a Russian patrol. She said it was better to throw herself on their mercy than to slowly starve to death. She’d learned the Russian word for emergency. She ran out into the street yelling—Avariynyy! Avariynyy! Avariynyy!” Mrs. Geis paused, swallowing. “We watched from the window as they picked her up . . . and then they, um, drove off.” Mrs. Geis spoke the last words reluctantly, and only after petting the youngest on the head.<
br />
“Ah . . .” Victoria got the gist. A young woman, desperate to feed her children. Mrs. Geis painted the picture of one of the very ugliest of truths in a war. A truth America had not been witnessed on its own soil for over a hundred and fifty years.
“Commander Remington,” Wynand interrupted abruptly, “may I have a word with you? In private.” He pointed to the hallway.
Victoria touched Mrs. Geis on the shoulder and followed Wynand out into the hallway. Bill Degata followed them both and shut the door behind them.
“Just what the fuck are you doing?” Wynand said.
“I’m doing my fucking job.” she hissed.
“Your job entails getting caught up in some local bullshit?”
“I have an oath,” she growled.
“Last time I checked, your oath says ‘do no harm,’ not ‘spend hours dealing with some fucked-up family and their fucked-up problems.’ You do know that behind every single-mother-fuckin’ door on this street there’s a similar God-damned story, don’t ya?”
Bill interjected, “We’re on a mission to get the general some meds, and maybe a prosthetic for Diaz. Nothing else.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Victoria’s snapped, her anger boiling over. “Aren’t you the same guy who said just an hour ago that this mission was a farce? Well, which is it, Bill? Or are you just the fair-weather friend of the general?”
“Okay, okay. I’ve heard enough from you two bickering about the God-damned general,” said Wynand. “We’re already on that mission, and I for one ain’t gonna stop until we get into that hospital and break into their medical supply.”
“So why exactly do you want to be in that medical supply room, Wynand?” Victoria was sorry for it, but it just burst out.
“So now my motives are in question?” Wynand asked.
The three seemed about to come to blows when the door opened and the general looked out. “Hey . . . you all going to eat these leftover beans?” He looked impossibly weak, but it was likely that their louder-than-intended conversation had stirred him awake, only to find himself in a room full of strangers.
Bill went over, held the general up by the arm, and walked him back to the cot, then fixed him a bowl of the remaining beans and corn.
“This sideshow is over,” Wynand said. “We leave within the hour, and we leave the general here. The old woman and the kids can look out for him while we go find some transpo and get that medicine. And that includes anything else they have that needs to be took. ’Cause I guaran-fuckin-tee that we need it all. As much as we can carry.” After that, Wynand stomped back into the room, slamming the door in Victoria’s face.
“And I guaran-fuckin-tee,” Victoria said, “that I have come ‘for the benefit of the sick,’ and that little boy has untreated congenital hypothyroidism. And that is my oath, you figlio di puttana! ”
Victoria felt betrayed by two people she had trusted, but nothing could make her forswear the duties of the oath she had taken as a doctor. She opened the door and walked back into the storage room, knowing what she had to do.
Victoria went over and held the boy August’s cheek in her hand, looking into his eyes while Mrs. Geis watched. Wynand had already stripped most of his gear from his pack, ostensibly to make room for more medicine when they got to the hospital, and Bill had made a cup of chicken broth for the general, who was lying back on the cot. His knees were skinned, but Mrs. Geis agreed to bandage him up with supplies from Victoria’s medical bag once they’d left.
“Did the kids have regular medical checkups?” Victoria asked Mrs. Geis. “I mean before the invasion.”
Wynand locked a new magazine into his M4 with a loud clack, shouldered the carbine, then brushed against Victoria on his way out the door in a not-so-subtle hint that he was now leaving.
“They did. That all stopped, though, as you said.”
Bill rose and pulled on his empty pack, grabbing his rifle. Mrs. Geis turned to him. “Do you have the key?” she asked. Bill held up the key to the Ford Mrs. Geis had loaned them. “Don’t worry too much about the car. I mean, if it gets dinged up or something. Until things settle down, we really don’t have anywhere we can go. Just remember the Russians own the city. If they see a car driving, they will stop you for sure.” Then she added, “God bless you and protect you.” She made the sign of the cross, and Victoria did the same.
Victoria bade her and the children well and quickly followed Bill out of the school and through Mrs. Geis’s yard and to her garage. The car was there waiting for them, just as she had promised. They all got in silently, and Wynand backed them up with the lights off. Then he drove off toward the center of Russian-occupied Morgantown.
CHAPTER 25
Tucker County High School
West Virginia
After the vice president hung up, Tyce looked at Stacey, then to Gunny. “We have a mole.”
Both of their eyes widened in looks of shock and surprise.
“You’re kidding, right, boss?” Gunny exclaimed.
Stacey remained silent, but her expression changed to one of genuine worry.
“Wish I were. No other explanation. I just have no idea who, or even how and where to start looking.”
“What makes you sure?”
“No other way the Russians could have known about our ambush plans at the Ohio.”
“Aerial surveillance, a disloyal local farmer with a cell phone, even satellite intel. They own all our satellites now. What makes you so sure?”
“I guess it’s more of a gut feeling. But I want to begin a search,” said Tyce.
“Sir, you know a mole hunt can tear a unit apart. It’s kind of like yelling sniper on the battlefield. It might just be some doofus with a rifle who got a single shot, but everyone feels that crosshair burning into their brain and goes to ground,” said Gunny.
Tyce shook his head. Nothing was working out. He felt like he was failing at even the most rudimentary tasks of being a leader. Shit, he couldn’t even protect his units from basic harm, let alone prevent the infiltration from some Russian plant. He sat down and started poring over some of the headquarters’ charts left on the command table.
“A mole hunt is very specific,” Stacey said, moving over beside him. “There’s a full counterintelligence procedure.”
“Jee-sus.” Gunny scratched at his day-old beard growth and stared at the ceiling.
“How long does it take?” Tyce asked Stacey.
“A lot longer than you’re thinking,” she said. “And I’ve never honchoed one before.”
“Do you know how to do it?” Tyce asked.
“I mean, theoretically, yes. I was in a unit where they—uh, we suspected a mole. So I understand how a search is to be executed.”
“How did that go?”
“Well . . . we never caught the son of a bitch.” The cuss-words were uncharacteristic and sounded almost foreign coming from Stacey. Tyce looked at her for a long second, then back to searching for the chart. She was a beautiful creature in an almost delicate way, so foul language sounded out of place with her character.
Whatever. Tyce was used to all forms of locker-room banter, and junior personnel often tried to mimic the speech patterns of their superiors. “Hmmm. Okay. See what you can come up with. I need to get the rest of the 150th refocused back on that train.” Tyce turned to Gunny. “Guns, we can’t use Comanche on this next mission. With the loss of Captain Blake and so many of their men killed or wounded, they’re gonna need some time to recover.”
“Probably a good while, I think, sir.”
“Yeah.” Tyce considered the time they’d need to bury their dead and continue to sort out the wounded. For now, his medical staff and even some of the local hospitals were going to have to suffice, but he was already feeling the effect of Victoria’s absence. Having a senior officer in charge of medicine gave the men confidence that they could go into harm’s way and, if anything happened, be patched up by the best. That notion was rapidly slipping away. Tyce ha
d yet to go back to the medical section and visit the men. More pressing was getting back on top of that train.
“Gunny, let’s use our LAV guys. They are fast and mobile, and we if we get them on the right roads, they could potentially get out ahead of the train and stop it. Can you make them ready within the hour?”
“Absolutely. Lieutenant Bryce is on alert already. If you only want a platoon, he can take one of the other two fresh platoons that weren’t with him at the river. But just where are they going?”
“We don’t know yet. I’ll want your intel section to see what you can come up with”—he pointed to Stacey, who nodded—“but we want Bryce out and looking. He’s the best reconnaissance leader we’ve got.”
“Besides you,” Stacey said sweetly.
“Got it, boss. Do you plan to go with them?” said Gunny.
“No. I’ll take your earlier advice and stay put to try to get our house in order. Otherwise, Bryce might return to find no unit waiting for him when he gets back. Besides, he doesn’t need his regimental commander breathing down his neck.”
Any more than I already have, Tyce thought. Maybe the men would do better if he just issued the orders and stayed out of their hair. No, can’t think like that. “You two got your assignments, go make it happen.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Stacey with a smile.
“Roger, sir.” Gunny grabbed his gear and started to leave. He turned back briefly at the door to see if there was anything further. He noticed Stacey had moved closer to Tyce and was standing right over him as he sat pouring over the diagrams of the 150th. He wrinkled his nose a bit but dashed off to get Bryce and his men ready for their assignment.
The Kill Box Page 19