The Kill Box

by H. Ripley Rawlings

  * * *

  Staff Sergeant Peters watched the Canadian jets fly up the valley. He was trying to maneuver his LAVs against the train while the remaining BTRs attempted to slow his progress. When the Canadian jets appeared, both BTRs turned and fled, one limping slowly behind the other. Peters gazed up for a second to watch the sky show. The Canadian missiles easily caught the first low-flying bomber completely by surprise. Two missiles slammed into it, one hitting the wing and the other the tail. The big aircraft nosed down and crashed somewhere out of sight. A plume of red and yellow flame burst into the sky, followed by a column of dark smoke.

  The fighter jets then streaked directly upward, made an Immelmann maneuver, and faced the other three bombers, who were awaiting their turn to enter the valley to begin their strafing run. Till now, they had been operating with impunity. When the attack jets came, they scattered like gazelle fleeing the savannah when lions appear.

  Peters was just appreciating the comfortable feeling of his side owning the skies again, like the old days, when a bullet penetrated his crew helmet and passed cleanly though both sides of his head. His body went limp, and he fell straight down into his turret.

  For a second, the gunner thought his boss had just come down to help him work the gun, but then he saw splattered brain matter oozing from the man’s helmet. He turned and retched over the side of the turret.

  * * *

  Stazia resented it, but she figured it was finally time to report to her superiors. I’m having too much fun, but it’s time to call the boss. Her latest spot was only two hundred meters from the train. Here she could watch the Americans take their trophy, then report all the gory details of Shenkov’s latest failure back to General Kolikoff.

  It’s always better to be the first to report, she said, recalling one of her father’s favorite axioms. He who checks in with HQ first controls the story. She also knew Shenkov’s troops’ account might damage her carefully sculpted reputation with the top brass.

  Without her encrypted satellite beacon, she had to rely on her backup radio. She unlocked her Pelican case and carefully removed a civilian cell phone. The phone number was one that the Russian Pentagon would recognize, even though it wasn’t her regular device. She tapped out the message:

  SHENKOV’S MEN ROUTED. AMERICAN FORCES HAVE SEIZED THE TRAIN. I HAVE PERSONALLY KILLED TEN MEN, BUT I CANNOT PREVENT INEVITABLE MISSION FAILURE. REQUEST ORDERS.

  It was disgusting to her to have to toady to her command, but there really was no other way. It was this or let Shenkov’s troops tell HQ that she had been discovered on the battlefield and had shot Shenkov.

  DO NOT COMPROMISE YOURSELF. CONTINUE REPORTING. WHAT IS SHENKOV’S SITUATION AND DISPOSITION?

  Hmmm, they seem in the dark and greedy for information. Good—means no one else has reported in, and their eyes in the sky are gone.

  She’d watched the Tu-95s getting hit, and she knew there was probably one or more UAVs up. But when the command was truly in the dark, they grasped at any reports given. Then a moment later:

  DO AMERICAN’S HAVE PRISONERS FROM TRAIN?

  Ah, so they were more worried about the train. Excellent. Okay, let’s give them what they want.

  She typed in her response:

  AFFFIRM. RUSSIAN OFFICERS AND SEVERAL OTHERS.

  The next response was delayed. They must be thinking things over, perhaps how to salvage something from this fiasco. She looked through her rifle scope across the battlefield, still hoping she might spot Tyce.

  If I can’t make you a notch on my bedpost, I sure as fuck am gonna make you a notch on my rifle.

  She scanned the train, impatiently waiting for a response, and watched the procession of Russian POWs being loaded into Humvees and into the backs of civilian pickup trucks.

  “Sucks to be those guys,” she whispered into her red talisman handkerchief.

  * * *

  Georgia-Blue caught something out of the corner of his eye that his brain didn’t like. Kind of like when he was hunting mountain lion. The mountain lion was one of the hardest species to hunt. Like their tiny, house-trained relatives, they went where their whimsy took them. Their camouflage patterns, even the way they slunk across a field or mountain forest, was so in tune with their natural surroundings that often a hunter could lie in wait a whole day and not see them, only to pick up to go and see the great cat’s fresh paw prints mere meters away. So Blue relied on an instinct he’d earned the hard way. He didn’t usually hunt a cat for sport, just in competition for resources. How many times had he been as hungry as the cat, or hungrier, and found that one of the beasts had moved into his area? Then it was all about survival. Whomever won that struggle got to eat in the evening. And the loser either went home hungry or not at all. Blue had spent half his life hungry and struggling, and the other half prowling around to keep things that way.

  It was just a shadow of a movement, a cluster of foliage that moved counter to the wind. Blue had taken his time getting into his position. Unlike what a civilian imagines about a sniper, much of the time getting into a good location involves melding with the environment and taking in what the nature there was trying to tell you. Watching and understanding the eternal, flowing patterns of the day on that specific ground.

  His eyes remained fixed on the spot, and he waited patiently.

  * * *

  The Canadian jets had never gotten in touch with Tyce over the radios—too difficult to find their frequency, and Tyce hadn’t thought to bring a ultra–high frequency radio, the kind they would be talking on. Still, their arrival had been very much welcome. They had driven the Russian bombers away and even taken out a high-flying drone no one had seen until the thing fell like a duck shot out of the sky by a hunter.

  The LAVs had done most of the rest of the work, covering the ground to the train and blasting every Russian still left guarding the objective. The cavalrymen and Marines of the 150th set up a perimeter to ensure the Russian Spetsnaz or the limping BTRs didn’t try to mount a counterattack, but the reports said they were long gone.

  Tyce and Gunny had extracted their Humvee and driven over to the train, where the LAV men had taken a line of prisoners. Most were men in NBC suits, but there were a few regular soldiers, too. What took him by surprise was what he’d been asked to come over and resolve a situation. There was a standoff of sorts happening at the café car. Tyce hopped out of the Humvee with Gunny assisting him, and they went over to an NCO in charge, a Marine sergeant from Lieutenant Bryce’s LAVs who was still whopping mad at the loss of both his platoon commander and sergeant and wanted to shoot everyone inside.

  “He’s in there, sir. Refuses to come out. He’s got a pistol, but I’m pretty sure I could kick his ass in a few seconds. Thing is, he speaks perfect English.”

  “Okay, hold fast.” Tyce looked down the train. A line of Russian prisoners was being led off toward some nearby construction trailers. It was the safest place to take stock of them. Since they had not really expected to take prisoners, it was a hell of a hassle, but Tyce had ordered them to be treated exactly in accordance with the Geneva Conventions. Probably why the LAR sergeant hadn’t just rooted the men out of the café car.

  The train’s engine was smoking, but the rest of the train looked relatively intact. He hoped to hell nothing had spilled. As of yet, no one had taken ill. Gunny had issued the orders to use chemical sniffers they’d gotten from Chief Wheeler, and no one had to be reminded to stay close to their NBC suits.

  Gunny helped Tyce hop over to the train car’s entrance and called out into the open doorway. “Hey, you in there. What’s the word?” He tried to mask the sounds of pain evident in his voice.

  “Are you the commander?” came an American voice.

  “I am. To whom am I speaking?” It sounded silly, speaking so formally, but the words just came out.

  “My name is George Benson. I am a civilian captured by the Russians. I have their major here, under my control. I was worried someone might shoot me by mist
ake if I came out. But I offer the prisoner as proof.”

  Tyce had had enough, and blood loss was making him angry. He fearlessly hopped up the steps, using his right arm on the railings. Gunny stood directly behind him, ostensibly to provide fire support, but mostly to prop him up if he fell. Once inside, Tyce took a moment to get his breath and take in the sights. The train car was mostly intact. Maps hung over the walls, and Russian radios had been abandoned in their place. Russian weapons and equipment lay in disarray. Tyce couldn’t help it, but his first thoughts were what to do with this windfall of ammo, grenades, and food. Gunny came in close behind him, propping him up.

  Tyce now fixed his gaze on the man. He was older, mid-sixties, and clean-shaven but wearing an ill-fitting shirt and pants. He held a pistol against a Russian soldier’s head. The Russian wore the rank of a major and had his hands behind his head. Tyce recognized the collar tabs of a chemical officer. He was shivering and only looked up when Tyce spoke.

  “FBI Agent Hanson?” Tyce pulled his pistol and trained it on the man. Hanson was completely shocked. Hearing his name was clearly not what he was expecting. Tyce could see him wrestling with thoughts of turning the pistol and shooting Tyce. The lines of Marine and soldiers trooping by outside the big picture windows were probably enough to dissuade him, but being confronted by two obviously battle-hardened, battle-scarred troops was what really halted him in his tracks. Both Tyce and Gunny looked like death warmed over, Tyce knew, and there was a completely no-nonsense aspect to them that said they might not mind just gunning him down in cold blood.

  Hanson dropped his pistol. “You got me.” He raised his hands over his head.

  Whatever had just happened here, Tyce didn’t care for theatrics. Tyce called for the LAV sergeant to come in and take charge, “Tag these idiots, zip-tie them, and put tape over their mouths. There’s nothing we need to hear from either a traitor or a coward. And I’m really not sure which one is the more detestable.”

  Then he turned back to his prisoners. “You, sir, are under arrest. You will remain in my custody until such time as I can put you back where you belong—the strongest and worst jail I can find.”

  Hanson seemed about to protest, but Tyce cocked the hammer back on his pistol and aimed it squarely at his head. “Give me an excuse, asshole. It’s been a long day, and no one likes a traitor.”

  The man gulped and remained silent. Tyce turned his attention to the major, still cowering on the floor in front of Agent Hanson. “And you, Major, are under arrest for violating the Geneva Convention on chemical weapons. You will stand a fair trial when we can find the time and the place. But I should warn you, I will bring every citizen exposed to your fucked-up chemicals from here all the way back to Huntington to kick your fat ass.” Tyce knew the major didn’t understand, but it felt good to say it anyways.

  As Tyce and Gunny brought the two men outside at gunpoint, one of the 150th soldiers came over to them. “Hey, sir. We captured two more. Both Americans, and they fit the profile of those scumbags we got from your description.”

  “Okay. Let’s bring them over here and put them in the back of my Humvee. Those three Americans and the Russian major are going to be our guests for a while.”

  * * *

  Stazia’s phone buzzed in her breast pocket ruining her concentration. Really . . . now?

  URGENT MISSION UPDATE. KILL ALL AMERICAN POWS. KILL MAJOR UINTERGRIN, RUSSIAN COMMANDER ON TRAIN.

  DO NOT ALLOW THEM TO TALK.

  Stazia didn’t know all the details wrapped up in this whole train endeavor, but she knew that by cleaning up their mess, she would come out smelling like a rose.

  Suits me fine, she thought, looking up and down the length of the train and contemplated how she was going to accomplish everything with only three bullets left.

  * * *

  Blue saw it. A small movement. Someone was looking at a cell phone. Behind it was a figure, well concealed in the woods not far from the train. It was a pretty long shot, but he was good for it. He could see the outline of the rifle barrel. Oddly, the shape looked familiar—and feminine.

  A woman? he thought. That didn’t sit well with him, not at all.

  Ever since he’d shot the governor, he’d had a lump stuck in his throat. One that wouldn’t go away. All the killing in recent months seemed to be taking a toll on him. At first it had been easy; all the troops around him were doing it. Now he was hearing his mother’s voice. The same disappointed voice she would use when he’d done something bad. Like the time he’d taken the Lord’s name in vain. On a Sunday. Something hurt inside in a way he really didn’t understand.

  I know, Momma, he thought to himself. I ain’t forgot the Good Book. But this is different. She’s aiming to hurt my friends.

  * * *

  Bang! the first American civilian went down. A nerdy, skinny kid. Normally, Stazia would slow down, enjoy the thrill of watching the target’s look of surprise at being shot. It was usually priceless. But right now, it was all business. Had to be.

  The prisoners were all clumped together near a Humvee. All of them, except the Russian major, were wearing civilian clothes with orange hazmat pants, which stood out amid the sea of U.S. troops in camouflage uniforms. Identifying the targets was not a challenge, though her vision was bothering her. Just a twinge, but her one, brown eye had started watering and was overly sensitive to the bright light. Am I getting tired? Can’t be, just have to concentrate even harder.

  Bang! Down went a stuffy looking man with glasses.

  For a brief second, she felt a little sick to her stomach. None of these kills mattered much to her, but it was physically painful to shoot them. Was it because they were prisoners? Because they were civilians? Or because they were tied up and presented no challenge?

  Nah, she thought, they just don’t matter to me. The problem is they don’t affect the battle one way or the other. But now, here was a different thought. Was it coming from her father’s red handkerchief? She felt like it was. What’s that? Only one round left, Papa? Oh! You’re right. Crap. And still two targets left.

  She could see the Russian major and the tall, well-built civilian man. They were both near a Humvee, too, but a little farther from the others. Near some Marines she’d not really scanned yet. She took in the target area. Then she caught sight of Tyce. She recognized him by the drastic limp. He was in a crouch, crawling rapidly over toward the remaining two prisoners.

  You look foolish, Colonel, like a crab scurrying on the beach. She could see him yelling something. She noted the knife sticking out of his chest, but her gaze lingered, admiring the shape of his backside as he moved. Yes, just shoot him, and it would be all good. One round left, and it’s meant for him.

  There was the mission to consider. But that was unattainable now, anyhow, with only one bullet left. Or was it?

  What should I do, Papochka? She tapped the remaining bullet against her teeth. Then seeming to hear an answer, she loaded the big round into the chamber of her sniper rifle. Yes, you are right, that opportunity can only arise with patience. Give them a moment and watch how they move about. It will be a matter of perfect timing though. The new rifle is powerful, and I certainly am good enough for that. Suddenly, her spirits were lifted. She watched intently and began her breathing.

  * * *

  Tyce recognized sniper fire almost as instinctively as his snipers did, just in a different way. He’d been under sniper fire so many times himself, he knew what the single shot ringing out across the battlefield sounded like, even amid all the others. But his instincts were born from the Marine SOP and his own battle drills to his men. It was a grim thing, being under sniper fire. By the time you found out there was a sniper, it meant one of your compatriots was already dead. A sniper rarely missed their first shot. The actions were always the same: accept the fact that the sniper had killed someone, but also accept the fact that it wasn’t you, or you’d already be gone and running your fingers over the wheat fields in Elysium.

 
The next steps were simple. Move immediately. Get out of the kill zone. Head to whichever side you knew shielded you from the sniper’s field of view. Then, last, call out the danger, start to send a large volume of fire, and try to advance. Tyce always thought snipers were either cowards or cold blooded at heart, and when they took heavy fire or were confronted by advancing forces, they usually broke and ran. The only other methods of response were calling in a precision artillery strike or guiding an air-delivered bomb directly onto their forehead.

  The latter SOP didn’t apply in this case. Tyce had prisoners to concern him, civilians he’d placed out in the open. And someone was taking them out, one at a time. He didn’t know why, he didn’t care, but he had taken them prisoner, so they were his duty to pull from danger. Even if he despised them, and who they were, they were his responsibility. So Tyce threw his normal procedure out the window and made a new one up on the fly. He high crawled toward them, yelling at them to get behind the Humvee. The first two took bullets to their chests, and Tyce knew they were goners, but he could still save the other two.

  * * *

  Blue watched the chaos this sniper was causing. But it just wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right, and he knew it. And with that certainty, he felt the awful weakness pass out of his system.

  Momma, some things ain’t right in the Book but still gotta be done.

  Blue aimed at the female Russian sniper and squeezed the trigger. Bang!

  * * *

  Tyce thought he heard two gunshots. He knew one sniper was to his right, and he’d been expecting another shot from that direction. Maybe the one off to his left was an echo. What surprised him though, a mere two meters in front of him, the Russian major’s head exploded out its right side, and Agent Hanson doubled over, a bullet tearing into his chest.

  Tyce stopped crawling and stared for a heartbeat at the gory scene. The major crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes, then lay in a heap, motionless. Hanson gasped, looked straight into Tyce’s eyes as both arms instinctively reached up and held onto the gaping chest wound. Bone and muscle had been torn apart.