It was enough. Hanson was a goner. There was nothing more he could do. Tyce managed to roll over the tracks and out of the way, but only by enduring excruciating pain as each roll drove the knife deeper. He lay himself flat against a trestle and listened to three more loud, gasping breaths coming from Hanson. Then nothing more.
Tyce forced himself to remain unemotional. He’d witnessed a lot worse on the battlefield, but though he could slow his heart rate and steady his nerves, he really never got used to the many in-your-face experiences that war threw at him.
Two snipers? thought Tyce.
“Boys,” he yelled, “who’s got the shots? I got one at our five o’clock from the tracks. About two hundred meters.”
“Same!” came a shout.
“Everyone, light his ass up!” Tyce yelled.
It started slowly, a steady pop-pop from the men who felt they were out of the danger zone. Then a few more. Pretty soon, Tyce and the men with him inside the kill box felt there was enough lead going downrange at the sniper that they could get up and take better cover.
Before Tyce could attempt to move on his own, Gunny was on him and half dragging, half running with Tyce’s arm over his shoulder. Tyce turned and sprayed a few rounds from his carbine with his one good arm as they went. Gunny jumped up, then yanked Tyce aboard the train, and they both collapsed into the dining car.
“Well,” Gunny panted, “saving an officer under sniper fire. That ought to at least be a Silver Star.”
Tyce was weak from the pain, but it was times like this that he appreciated how really experienced men did what Gunny had just done—inject a little humor. A sick, battlefield sense of humor. Tyce laughed hard, winced in pain, and crawled to the window, where he propped himself up on his missing leg and started pumping rounds in the direction of the sniper. The metal sides of the train were probably not bulletproof, but it wasn’t over until it was over. Gunny grunted loudly but came right up to join his commander.
In between firing, Tyce yelled, “I might be able to do a Navy Commendation Medal. If you can scare up some tequila.” They both laughed, quite literally in the face of danger, and continued laying down a base of fire as the men maneuvered toward the sniper.
* * *
General Kolikoff looked at General Tympkin and shook his head. There were no further communications from Stazia.
“I will try her later on her other device.”
“Okay, Viktor,” said General Tympkin. His eyes had changed from his usual look of self-assurance to one of uncertainty. “This is a grave setback. Very grave, Viktor.”
Kolikoff nodded but stayed silent. What came next was not clear to him. He’d never seen Tympkin look distressed. He always seemed to have plans within plans, but that look had vanished. Tympkin must have sensed it himself, and not wishing to display weakness in front of his subordinates, he turned and quickly walked away.
Kolikoff was left to clean up. He knew that even a case of America’s best bourbon was not going to be enough to placate his old pal Colonel Barbarov and the rest of the 184th Guards Heavy Bomber Regiment for the unexpected—and grossly unacceptable—losses.
* * *
The firing even on the far end of the battlefield had died down to zero. The Marines and soldiers had thoroughly blasted the area and were now combing the trees to find the sniper’s body. Tyce had given orders for the remainder of the men to consolidate a perimeter and pack up as quickly as they could. “Do whatever it takes and prepare to move out,” Tyce said.
A few volunteers were found, and they approached the open chemical railcar with caution. They captured two Russian soldiers, still alert and at their posts. It took some coaxing, but once they explained to them that Major Uintergrin was dead, they seemed more than willing to turn the volatile chemicals over to the Americans. After a few Marlboro cigarettes and some coffee, they even began helping the Americans by explaining the chemical cargoes, their inventory, and their further safe handling.
Somehow, the American rail engineers had survived the whole ordeal. They offered up that there was a whole rail depot ahead of them in the nearby town of Winchester, and if anyone could get them up there, they could be back in a half hour with a new engine. As long as the first one could roll, they could tie the second up to it and push it all the way back to wherever Tyce needed it. It hadn’t taken more than a few minutes to get one of the rail workers in a pickup and the other working over the damaged engine to unhook its gears and basically stick it in neutral.
Gunny sat down next to Tyce and picked grit and black ash out of his hair and off his face. A ridiculous trifle of vanity after a battle, especially after what he and Tyce had been through. The smudged dirt covering Gunny’s face and his raggedy uniform made his attempts to clean up look all the more humorous to Tyce. But then again, Tyce knew he looked a mess himself—leaning against a captured train, still missing his prosthetic leg, a Russian knife sticking out of his chest. The two leaders of the 150th were a hell of a sight, and as men hastened to the assignments given to them, they all slowed down to stare at Tyce and Gunny. Every one of them down to the last man gave them both either a loud Marine “Oorah,” an army “Hooah,” or a navy “Hoorah” before going back about their business.
“We’ve got some shit to do,” said Gunny.
“Yup,” said Tyce, tiredly. His wounds, the pain meds, and the loss of adrenaline were catching up to him. He looked at his watch. He didn’t fully know the Russian Bear’s reaction times, but he knew a battlefield. He figured they had maybe two hours before the Russians sent additional forces, and he didn’t want to stick around.
Down a few cars, they heard someone shouting. “Hey, is the colonel around?” Someone else answered yes and directed them to the café car. Two men in NBC suits ran over to Gunny and Tyce. They took in the scene, stared for a second at Tyce’s knife wound, then said, “Hey, sir. You’re gonna want to come see this.” Their voices were muffled from the masks.
“What is it?” said Tyce.
The soldiers looked at each other, then said, “You really better come with us. Put on your suits, though.”
Ten minutes later, Tyce and Gunny were in NBC suits and had climbed into the open side cargo hatch of the last car and were staring down into dozens of big metal cases. The troops had smashed all the locks off and flung the top covers open. A brilliant pattern of reflected sunlight danced a scintillating array of colors through their masks and across both men’s faces. At first, neither man was really sure what he was looking at.
“Sir, we, uh, broke open the others. You know, just to check them,” said the Marine, his beaming smile visible inside the gas mask. “They’re all the same.”
“That’s . . . that’s . . .” Gunny stammered, “gold!”
“A whole shit ton of it,” said Tyce, wondering just what the hell the Russians had been up to and, what’s more, what he was going to do with it all now.
CHAPTER 40
New River Gorge Mine, West Virginia
Tyce watched as the coal mine’s enormous banded and bolted iron doors slammed shut with a loud clang. Much of the long train had fit down inside the mine shaft and would remain safe for the time being. The heavy industry rails were all compatible, and the unneeded cars had been easy to ditch. Gunny and Victoria came over to Tyce, clapped him on the shoulder, and sat down beside him on a pile of railroad spans. A cool spring breeze blew in a hint of the summer to come.
Trigger trotted over, his tail wagging, and flopped down at their feet. He glanced at the big mine door, then back at them, puzzled as to why three of his buddies were staring at a door. He had been sitting by Staff Sergeant Diaz’s side almost continuously, so Victoria had brought him with her just to get the dog out for some exercise. They had failed to get Diaz a new limb, but Trigger’s constant presence had kept her spirits high.
The three humans contemplated things for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Gunny was the first to break the silence. “What do we do with it all, s
ir?”
“I was just wondering that same thing. What do you think?” Tyce asked.
“Head out to Vegas,” said Gunny with a tiny hint of humor in his voice.
Tyce tried to stifle a laugh. “Not a bad idea, but it all still belongs to the American taxpayers. Besides, it’s contaminated, and I’m pretty sure the Russians control Vegas too. ”
Even though he’d turned down the suggestion, he felt Victoria’s pointed elbow bash him in the ribs for considering it. She was careful to avoid his left arm, which was still in a sling, but even still, he winced noticeably and grunted. It was a lot more painful than she knew. He still hadn’t told her about the other busted ribs from the sniper shot. The same ribs he had rebroken when he’d caught two rounds in the flak jacket at the battle of Strasburg. Victoria had cursed him out so badly while she stitched up the deep knife wound that Tyce decided not to mention the ribs. He knew the meds she’d prescribed for the pain would run out soon. Then, maybe, he’d find the courage to bring it up with her.
“Yeah, I figured you’d say that,” said Gunny, “but me and the commander here think the taxpayers owe us pretty good for all we’ve been through, and that gold in there just about pays us off. Might even get us a bunch of new weapons or some decent chow.”
Tyce grimaced. He knew Gunny was joking and trying to get a rise out of him, but he couldn’t resist the bait. He was about to speak, but before he could say a word, the other two said in near-perfect unison, “We’re not mercenaries for hire.” Then they both laughed at how easy it was to predict Tyce’s thoughts. They had all now been together long enough to be cohering as leaders as much as the men were melding into a battle-hardened unit.
“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Tyce said, standing up and wiping gravel off his hands, “but none of it replaces the men we lost.” His last words resonated in everyone’s ears. For a moment, no one said anything.
Tyce’s words had reanimated the names and faces of those they’d lost. He realized he’d better break the mood; it didn’t need to be a somber day. That would come later, when they held the services and tried to contact the families. “I’ll be honest, I think with all the other mess the Russians left behind from Huntington all the way up to Strasburg, NBC Chief Wheeler has his hands full trying to do a good cleanup and warning and moving the people away from the dangers. It’s a hell of a mess. It’s going to be a while before we have time to decon the gold.”
“At least we know no one will fuck with it. And things coulda been a lot worse,” Gunny said.
“Yes, it could have,” Tyce said, thinking about how close they came to seeing the Russians gas an entire army division, and maybe several towns worth of civilians with them. “By the way, sixteen of our men from the 150th have returned,” he said, trying to further change the topic.
“They did?” Gunny said. “How come I didn’t hear about it?” He looked incensed, as he probably should be.
“Well, as the acting sergeant major for the 150th, you’re supposed to already know all that troop-level stuff,” Tyce said, teasingly.
Gunny knew now he was the one being baited, and he quickly changed the subject. “To what do we think we owe the honor of their return?”
“People heard ’bout you all,” said Wynand, startling the three as he came up from behind. He rarely interjected himself into military discussions but had watched the gold go into the mine from nearby and was sticking around to see what the bosses were up to. “I heard out in town that folks, civilian folks, now want to come on over and join the unit. They’ve been calling the 150th the ‘red mountain wolves.’ A beast that’s so tough but elusive in this region that they have become a bit of a local legend. Just like y’all.”
“Us all,” Victoria corrected him. She still had not reconciled his and Bill’s bullying behavior in Morgantown, but this was her team.
“And with that fortune down there”—Gunny pointed to the big iron doors “and the good fortune we had back there on the battlefield, maybe comes a little bit of fame.”
“Probably why some of the troops returned. Wanted to serve in a well-led and honorable unit.” Victoria added.
Tyce glanced at the assembled hodgepodge of a crew, and it seemed for a second that he was about to get emotional. Instead, he said, “We’re in it to win it. I’m not quitting until the last Russian is kicked off our soil. That’s my promise to you.” He walked around to each of them, one at a time, and shook their hand with his good arm. He looked them in the eye and said, simply, “Thanks.” When he was done, he walked off.
They each got up and solemnly followed Tyce back to the old mine buildings that now hosted the new headquarters of the 150th West Virginia Cavalry.
* * *
Bill Degata walked in just as Victoria was finishing up a Marine’s knee surgery. He waited patiently in a far corner and watched as she nodded to her surgical assistant to close for her and stitch up the wound. She walked to a table, stripped off her nitrile gloves, and sat down to fill out some paperwork.
“Did you need something, Bill?” she asked, scribbling notes on the patient’s paper chart. It was hardly fun work, but she knew the continuity of care meant a lot to the men.
“Yes. I have something to say to you,” said Bill. Victoria looked up, unsure of which direction this conversation with Bill was going to go. “We—that is, Wynand and I—uh . . .” he stammered.
“Bill, get to the point. I have a lot of work to do,” she said brusquely.
“I know, I know. That’s kind of what this is about. I wanted to come and apologize. What I, err, what me and Wynand said, you know, what we, um . . . You are a good person, Commander. I just wanted to say that. Also, to ask if there is anything we can do to make it up to you.”
Victoria was conscious that the rest of the surgery was listening in on their conversation. While her Italian side wanted to yell at Bill and ask where the hell Wynand was, anyhow, she tried to remember how important it was to heal wounds—of both body and soul. Combat made people say and do things they shouldn’t. No one really knows what they are made of until the time comes. Besides, she often said stuff in the heat of the moment. It let everyone know where they stood and vice versa, and she was too strong-willed to go around regretting it.
“Tell you what,” she said to Bill. “You just keep calling them as they come and keep a good eye on the general. I’m pretty sure we couldn’t manage without either of you. Capisce?”
Bill nodded his assent and walked out.
“Certified badass,” Petty Officer Purvis whispered to his buddy, the words slightly muffled by his surgical mask.
* * *
The general was still confined to a bed and a wheelchair, but Bill brought him into the command post every day. The general had asked Tyce if his visits were a nuisance, but Tyce had taken it upon himself to insist on the visits, even going so far as ordering Victoria’s folks and asking Bill to make sure he came by. It was a tremendous comfort for Tyce to have him there. Sometimes they didn’t do more than clear the maps off the central table and lay out a game of chess. Tyce had lost every time, but the general had let him get close on a few games.
Today, Tyce picked up his rook, began to move it, and said, “Rook moves to . . .” He stopped himself when he saw the general shaking his head slightly. He put the piece back with frustration and looked over his other remaining pieces. “Do you think the people will ever get used to us being here? I mean, actually support us with things we need?”
“Do you mean Governor Holly, or the populace?” said the general.
“Both, I guess.” Tyce moved his piece and stared at the general’s sightless eyes. “Queen to C-seven.”
“So it’s the job of the populace to feed its army during times of war?” said the general. His fingers gently felt across the tops of the pieces, then moved his own queen. “Queen to C-six.”
Tyce looked at the new move with glee. “Queen to B-six, and check, General!” Though it wasn’t a checkmate, it wa
s the first time he’d ever gotten the general’s king in real jeopardy, and he was thrilled with himself. “I guess, in dire straits and without a functioning supply system, the 150th is at the mercy of the Russians and at the mercy of the people. Couldn’t we just take a few things we need to keep on fighting?”
“Hmmm . . .” the general seemed to be contemplating more than just the chessboard. “That’s very Napoleon of you, Colonel Asher. He said ‘Make war pay for war,’ and he ravaged the villages he conquered and made captured towns pay him in food and treasures. It didn’t go so well for him. King to F-one.” The general moved his king to safety, nullifying Tyce’s last move. “And I’m pretty sure there’s an amendment to the Constitution that says we can’t. But, to your question, I’m not sure they are one and the same. Oftentimes, roosters fight, even when the fox is in the henhouse.” The general scratched at the bandages on his forearms. Tyce hadn’t seen the wounds the general had gotten from all his blisters, but Victoria had filled him in on a little bit of it, and he knew they were very painful. “I still can’t figure out what happened with that assassination, but something about how it went down doesn’t make much sense.”
“They said the assassin was the sheriff from Parsons.”
“Where did that come from? The Russians? I’d take it with a grain of salt,” said the general. “There’s more to that story we don’t know about.”
Tyce was staring intently at the board. He began to make a few moves but reconsidered each in order. “I knew him. He didn’t seem like the assassin type. More a hick who hated the federal government and was probably lining his pockets, even during a time of war. But I’m more concerned about where we are going to get food and ammo.”
“Tyce,” the general said gently, “this war is not about you or me. And it’s everything about the people we are fighting to protect.”
The Kill Box Page 30