“Go back to your car and wait for instructions,” said Uintergrin. His voice was so high-pitched that everyone in the operations car turned to stare at him. FBI Agent Hanson looked at him curiously, then turned and walked out.
Uintergrin’s brain was exploding with the overload of information and decisions he needed to make. He rubbed his head in his hands, then he said to no one in particular, “We have to get out of here.” He looked up and around him, wild eyed, “Somebody get this fucking train moving.”
* * *
“Grab two fire teams and collect up the Russian rockets. Get over to the clearing and find a spot to fire on the BTRs.”
“Got it, sir.” The cavalry staff sergeant stared at the knife that had been sticking out of Tyce’s chest the entire time Tyce spoke. Tyce felt like telling him, My eyes are up here, not on my chest, but figured humor was not in order at the moment. Maybe it was the meds the field medic had just jammed into his arm, but he was starting to feel A-OK.
The soldier ran off to execute his command, and Tyce, still hopping on one leg, watched the medic examining the knife.
“Sir, I don’t want to take this thing out of you. If it’s hit an artery and I pull it, you’re gonna be down for the count. How’s your breathing?”
“Well, it hurts every time I breathe, but . . .”
“Okay, well, you’re not coughing up blood, so it missed your lungs. Overall, I’d say you were extremely lucky. I’m going to tie your arm up to hold it immobile, then we’ll get the knife out of you when we have some more . . . ah, breathing room.”
“Got it. Thanks, ace.”
A voice from beyond the grave came out of the woods. “Hey, Iron Horse.” It was Gunny Dixon. Tyce watched, bracing himself against a tree, as Gunny emerged from the woods. His uniform was burned and his face was blackened, but for the most part, he looked okay. He smiled as he walked up, then frowned on seeing the knife. “For Christ’s sakes, what the hell?”
“As if we have time. How did you—”
Gunny interrupted. “Likewise, time for that later, sir. I got word about your plan to hit the BTRs. The men have already found the rockets and are headed over there now. We also found a Russian 82mm mortar and a bunch of ammo.”
“Jeez, okay. Maybe we need to start using Russian weapons. Easier to get ammo. Have the men turn the mortar on the fleeing infantry. I’m betting some of the men know how to shoot it. If the Russians start to cluster or look like they’re readying a counterattack, drop some mortars on them.”
* * *
The nose of the beaten-up blue pickup truck stuck out into Route 55. Stazia had the huge sniper rifle balanced on the hood now, with her father’s red handkerchief tied onto the stock. She’d finally pulled the dead man out of the passenger side. The corpse lay in a heap halfway across the road. Occasionally, a car passed by, swerving to avoid her car and the body, but the explosions, burning fires, and constant gunfire kept all but the truly foolish out of the way. They stared out the window at Stazia, but when their minds even partially caught up to the gory truth of what was taking place, they inevitably gunned it and sped off.
Stazia ignored it all. Civilians held no interest for her. Fighting men, on the other hand, and battle were exhilarating. Especially her role in battle. Killing anyone she wanted, being able to shift the tide of battle in one direction or another—that was positively breathtaking.
“There you are!” she murmured. Her intuition as to the best angle had proven right, once again. There among a cluster of trees was a man talking on a radio. He was about a kilometer away, but Stazia knew she was good for the shot. One arm was strapped to his chest in a sling, but his hobbling around was all the proof she needed. It was Colonel Asher.
“Mmmmmm.” She looked him up and down, appreciating his masculine form. It was pretty far, but she could still make out his features—his chiseled jaw and good looks. His helmet was off, and she could see his dirty-blond hair.
“Fucking idiot, taking your helmet off in battle again . . . especially when there’s still a sniper threat nearby. Of course, you don’t even know there is a sniper threat, do you?” She actually licked her lips as she balanced the rifle on the hood of the pickup and sighted in on Tyce’s head.
“So fucking delicious,” she said, swinging her butt back and forth while maintaining a tight aim on Tyce’s head. Her instinct and training told her that the tide of the battle had changed yet again. The Americans had driven Shenkov off the battlefield, and even though they looked to have taken some hits, they were starting to regain the upper hand. Stazia started running through the variables and found herself wondering what was going to happen once she pulled the trigger. How long would it take for the battle to shift again? She would, of course, move to another angle and see if she could make it last even longer. Then she’d watch with glee as the men tired themselves out even more, sweated, bled, maybe even cried for their losses or out of despair. All because of one lone phantom on the battlefield.
“Or, in my case . . . a chameleon,” she said, smiling even more and thinking of the origin of her code name. She loved when she stole men’s secrets and got into their minds. She loved it even more when she could do it right under their noses and watch them twist and turn. She began her breathing routine.
Odin . . . dva . . . tri . . .
Some crashing sounds nearby pulled her momentarily out of her concentration. She had gotten used to civilians racing around the area like scared rabbits, so she didn’t immediately look up. When she did, she saw a line of Russian Spetsnaz men hoofing it across Route 55, about fifty meters away from her. They spotted her and saw the rifle on the hood. A few stopped and stared. Then she saw him. Captain Shenkov was in a cluster of men about ten deep and getting ready to cross the road. She could see instant recognition in his face. She smirked, swung the rifle at him, and, without aiming, squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Tyce heard the first rocket go, only a few hundred meters away. The burst and brilliant white flash on a battlefield always reminded him of a thunderclap.
Like the Norse god Thor just briefly visited the battlefield, he thought. It was a familiar sound, as was the slackening of fire across an entire area after the shot. It took remarkable skill and experience not to look for the source of a rocket blast and take a peek.
And, just as quickly as it stopped, the gunfire picked up again. He heard a whoosh and a dull boom a little way off. The detonation was a sharp, smacking sound, and without looking, he registered the sound of a rocket striking naked metal. He also knew it meant the men had hit their target. If they’d have missed, it would have been another sound, a diluted kind of blast that meant they’d hit short or long and just blasted a big hole into the earth.
He heard the dull boom-boom-boom, then again, boom-boom-boom. It was the LAVs firing on the train. The clang-kang-bing! noises told him they were causing some damage. It was the sounds of LAV-25 cannon fire against metal, mixed in with the sounds of the train engine trying to get fired up and moving.
Then he heard the roar of a plane’s engines. The Russian bombers were coming in for another low pass. They seemed to have gotten the word that any juicy targets in and near the houses were the ones on which they should concentrate their efforts. They were making low passes with their twin 20mm with a murderous effect. Tyce had given orders for the surviving men to get out of the houses and come over to the woods. He had been watching and listening intently as more and more men arrived from the houses by the minute bringing gear and weapons. Hopefully by this point, the bombers’ runs were ineffectual. The best way to defeat enemy air support was to keep moving. He’d learned that from the Taliban in Afghanistan and was relearning the same lesson under fire from Russian air superiority.
The radioman had found his leg for him, about twenty meters away in the woods. It was a pretty mess, a tangle of metal hinges and fake rubber skin. There was no way to salvage it, but he stuck it into his waistband by the foot and grabbed the man’s s
houlder to help him hobble over to a cluster of logs. He called for another radioman so he could talk to the LAR guys, and pretty soon, the men started to set up a hasty command post around their wounded leader. Medics and corpsmen used his position as a rally point, bringing in wounded men from around the area.
The 82mm mortar arrived, and the men found two soldiers and a Marine who knew how to work it. Tyce started to give them some brief pointers, but they seemed distracted, just staring at the knife sticking out of his chest, so he left them to figure it out. In minutes, someone on the hasty observation post to the east had spotted the Russians on Route 55 near some civilian vehicles. They worked up a firing solution and began tossing a few rounds at them. Tyce listened to the calls for fire, then watched them shoot the mortar. Everything from the bipods to the sight were in Russian, but all mortars worked about the same. He had no doubt the rounds were inaccurate, but given time and a few “practice” rounds, the men would be plenty deadly.
“Hey!” Tyce heard shouting nearby. A sentry was yelling. “There’s a sheriff’s car coming toward us with his lights flashing.”
“What the hell?” Tyce said. The battlefield always brought new oddities.
Before he could address it, the radio operator reported, “Sir, the LAR guys say that one BTR looks to be a kill.” He handed Tyce the radio.
“Sir,” said Staff Sergeant Peters on the radio, “the rocket hit, and at first it didn’t look like a penetration. But it’s smoking badly now, and all three BTRs are retreating.”
As Tyce listened to the report, another rocket blasted. Boom-whoosh-crack!
“Nice shot, nice shot!” Staff Sergeant Peters said. “You got another one. That’s one BTR total K-kill, and one limping back toward the train. The third is firing furiously, but you’re in his head, he’s retreating, too.”
The sheriff’s vehicle pulled between the woods and the smashed houses. Tyce was about to yell for someone to stop the driver. He’d seen a ton of crazy stuff on the battlefield, but why in the hell a sheriff would think it was safe to roll in with his lights and siren on was a new one.
Then Blue stepped out. He had his rifle, and when he spotted Tyce waving at him furiously, he waved back and started walking his way.
“Run, Blue, run!” Tyce yelled.
Blue looked quizzical, but then every soldier and Marine in the area started yelling the same thing. Blue was stuck out in the open, the sirens and lights still going behind him. As they frantically waved and yelled at him to run, Blue realized there was some danger he couldn’t see and raced at breakneck speed, tumbling into the forest and crashing in a heap in the midst of the Marines and soldiers.
It was a good thing, too, because the next Russian Tu-95 seemed to have caught notice of the red and blue lights of a vehicle right in the middle of his designated target cluster. Maybe it was just too fun of a target for a young Russian tail gunner to pass up, but the sheriff’s car caught a full burst of air-delivered gunfire. Everyone watched as the car was torn completely to pieces by heavy-caliber, explosive-tipped cannon rounds.
Blue looked up from his spot in the dirt and smiled a foolish grin. “Hey, Colonel.”
CHAPTER 39
Strasburg, Virginia
Uintergrin was like a cornered rat. He scampered back and forth in the command post, clutching his hands to his head. He grabbed up several of the radio logbooks and flipped through them, as if looking for answers to his predicament written inside, then put them down again. The train lurched forward and halted, lurched again, then stopped hard and didn’t move any farther. When the sounds of the LAVs incoming fire rang out against the train’s engine, he hit the ground. A report came back from the front of the train: the engine was damaged beyond repair.
“Sir, the BTRs have taken catastrophic damage. They are returning now,” yelled a radio operator.
“Why . . . what do they return to? We are taking fire here, too, don’t they know that?” Uintergrin said.
“Sir, they report the American LAVs are advancing. He is out of ammunition and says he must retreat.”
“Tell him to hold position,” Uintergrin said, still lying on the floor.
“I will relay the message, Major.” The soldier stared for a moment down at Uintergrin, who seemed unable or unwilling to move off the floor. After a few tries with the radio, he said, “Major, he does not respond now. He is not answering on the radio.”
One of the NBC soldiers came into the car dressed in his full chemical suit. “General, the prisoners have taken some weapons and refuse to leave their railcar.” His appearance in the chemical suit at the height of the battle served to greatly increase the level of panic in the command post.
Another radio operator said, “Major, General Kolikoff is calling. He needs you to tell him what adjustments the aircraft need to make on their strafing runs.”
Uintergrin seemed unable to process this much information at once. He propped himself up slowly but remained on the floor. Suddenly, a terrific whoosh sounded outside. Everyone looked up and through the big café car’s window in time to see two jet fighters flying directly overheard. The sounds of a raking gunfire followed, then two thunderous booms.
* * *
Tyce looked up and saw two McDonnell Douglas F/A-18 Hornet jet fighters streak overhead. They were racing up the Shenandoah Valley at maximum speed. Directly above them, the jets, which were not more than a few hundred feet off the ground, launched laser-guided smart missiles. Everyone around Tyce could actually see the missiles take off from the Hornet’s wing pylons. They shrieked loudly, forging blazing white contrails, superseding the Hornet’s own speeds and making the jets look as if they were standing still in a matter of milliseconds.
“What the hell was that?” someone asked.
“At least they’re not shooting at us,” said another.
Tyce forced a painful shout. “They’re Royal Canadian Air Force.”
“How do you know?” said Gunny.
“I caught a glimpse of their wing markings. That, and I spoke to the VP before we left. When the train turned north, Canada said they’d help, apparently. Didn’t know how before, but now I do. That red maple leaf never looked so glorious,” said Tyce.
“Oh, Canada!” Gunny yelled up and into the wind. Others picked up the chant until it echoed among the men throughout the forest.
* * *
Stazia had a great angle to see the woods, but she couldn’t find Tyce anywhere amid the mix of soldiers and Marines running around. They had beaten Shenkov—or, as she thought of it, she had beaten Shenkov, given them an unexpected boost by shooting him as he retreated.
She knew there were going to be questions asked, but it was an instinctive, snap shot with her rifle. And it was worth it.
Deal with it later, she told herself. Something will present itself.
Shenkov’s men had taken the truck under fire, but she managed to limp it over to another location. There must’ve been a few hits to the engine or the radiator or something because there were now wisps of white smoke coming from under the hood. Whatever happened next, she was now on foot.
The Americans looked about ready to close the deal and move in. Two LAVs were maneuvering up to the train, the infantry had reestablished their heavy guns, and it sounded like they’d even gotten ahold of one of Shenkov’s mortars. They were dropping rounds on his retreating men. Stazia could still see a few of them slinking away into the bush.
They’re effectively out of the picture, she thought. Still, she didn’t like seeing the Americans win. Plus, she’d wanted to string the battle out at least a few more hours. And she definitely needed to leave this fight with one more head on her wall.
“Colonel Asher . . . where have you gone? Come out and play,” she said.
She scanned the rifle sight over the American machine gunners and rocket men. She could even see occasional puffs of white smoke—the mortar firing. All juicy targets. She contemplated taking one of them out. In a normal, conventional situa
tion, a sniper would jump at the chance of any of those targets. But they’d just replace any man she took out and keep fighting.
“Nah, not good enough,” she said.
Besides, telling General Kolikoff that she’d personally shot Colonel Tyce Asher might just be the bonus she needed. She’d get promoted, of course, but she could also probably ask for a new, better sniper rifle. That thought kept her busy as she scanned for signs of the American commander.
Time was ticking; the battle would probably only last another thirty minutes. She checked her ammo pouch and was shocked to see only five rounds left.
She made a decision, “Ah, fuck it.” She began her breathing and chose the mortar team leader. “I’ll find Colonel Charming later.”
Odin . . . dva . . . tri . . .
* * *
Tyce was actually watching the mortar team do their work when the shot came. He was proud of their efforts. A Marine named Sergeant Mascenick was running the tube, like clockwork, when his chest exploded like a red firework. Gore sprayed all over the rest of the team, and he fell lifeless to the ground.
It took a few seconds. No one reacted immediately. Then, as if someone had hit pause in a movie scene and resumed play, everyone hit the dirt.
Blue crawled over to Tyce. “Hey Colonel, it looks like we got ourselves another sniper.”
Tyce nodded at the big mountain man and sighed heavily, staring at the lifeless body of Mascenick and his men struggling to move the tube while staying low.
“Mind if I take a look?”
Tyce nodded again. “Don’t mind at all, Blue. Go to work on him and see what you can do.”
Blue slid his rifle over his shoulder and started crawling over toward the edge of the woods while Tyce low crawled in the opposite direction to help the men drag Mascenick’s lifeless body over to the medics. There would be nothing they could do for him, Tyce knew that. Tyce also knew it would give the mortar team enough peace of mind to keep fighting.
The Kill Box Page 28