The Kill Box

Book 2: Tyce Asher Novel

by H. Ripley Rawlings

Genres: Military Thrillers

Synopsis

The United States has been invaded. The Russians have seized control. Now US Marine hero Tyce Asher has one final mission—to make America free again—in this explosive series from Lt. Col. Hunter “Rip” Ripley Rawlings IV …
THE CITIES HAVE FALLEN.
America is under new management. Russian forces have occupied both coasts. They are taking our weapons, pillaging our resources, and destroying our nation. Those who resist are swiftly punished. Those who revolt are savagely killed …
THE HEARTLAND FIGHTS BACK.
Marine Corp officer Tyce Asher is a lone wolf patriot who will never surrender. He’s assembled a ragtag team of long-haul truckers and citizen soldiers willing to die for their freedoms. Their network has learned that the invaders are planning
to seize cargo that will bring America to its knees—and a sadistic Russian has marked Asher for death. There is only one way to stop them: Asher and his team must meet the enemy face-to-face—and enter the Kill Box …

Release date: September 28, 2021

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 356

Sample

PROLOGUE

Twelve years ago 
Bethesda, MD

The man was vaguely aware of some sounds nearby. Voices, and a beeping noise. All else was a haze of confusion.

Where am I? came his first cogent thought. This was followed closely by a sobering second thought. Wait . . .who am I?

He heard some other sounds, like heavy sighs from a wheezing old man. Someone with a very raspy throat and an even drier mouth. Concentrating hard through the fog and confusion in his mind, he realized the noises were actually coming from him.

He smacked his dry, flaking lips and tried to open his eyes. They wouldn’t budge. His world remained in relative darkness. He was vaguely aware of a dull beating in his chest and a throbbing in his head. Then he became aware that a pain was spreading out all over his body. At least, to his slowly awakening senses, it felt like it was spreading. He couldn’t tell. Everything just hurt. Badly.

At least I know I’m alive, he thought with grim amusement.

“Ow,” a voice said, and he recognized the sound. It was his own voice, but distant and somehow unfamiliar.

I can hear, he thought, trying to take stock, so there is that.

A few things were beginning to come back to him. Had there been gunfire? He remembered driving in a vehicle, then there was maybe a grenade going off.

No, he thought. It was more intense than that. Huge explosion. Fireball. I was blown out of my vehicle. There was rapid gunfire.

The feeling of confusion was now mixed with shock, and maybe some fear. The memories coming back were too rapid to comprehend but so vivid that he began to feel a pain in his stomach.

Then what? he thought.

He concentrated even harder now, but the harder he tried, the less he could remember. It was like turning on a car’s high beams in thick fog on a dark night. When you flick them on, they just illuminate the fog and conceal everything behind it.

The beeping noise grew faster: ping-ping-ping.

Wait, I’m in a hospital. More rational thought was returning. A growing awareness of the here and now overwhelmed him.

He tried to open his eyes, but they were stuck shut. Oh my God, he thought, am I blind? He tried to move his arms, but they didn’t seem to be working, either.

Alone and in his dark, hazy, pain-filled world, he remembered a man shooting at him. He’d shot back. In fact, he shot the guy twice without thinking and killed him. He could see the man’s face clearly. The spittle on his mouth, the wild look in his eyes: a mixture of fear and determination. A look of sudden surprise as the two bullets caught the man full force, the body crumpling to the ground. From below, a knife cut across his own calf, and someone wrestled him down to the floor—a floor filled with spent brass shell casings, gore, and dead or half-dead bodies. A grenade exploded, right next to him. And then . . . nothing.

I was in a full-fledged battle, he remembered. He tried to move his legs, but, like his arms, nothing moved. Dear God, did I lose my arms and legs? A wave of terror passed over him as he thought, I’m blind, and I’m limbless.

The machine’s ping was going even faster now.

Then he heard a door open.

“Hey, Marine, glad to see you’re awake.” It was a reassuring female voice. It brought him great comfort. “You’ve been through a lot.”

He tried to lift an arm but still couldn’t tell if it was moving. As if the voice’s owner sensed the purpose of his awkward motions, she said, “You have bandages on both arms from where the doctors removed shrapnel. You had almost ten grams in you.” He tried to lift an arm toward the bandages on his eyes. “You shouldn’t mess with the bandages. You were very badly wounded, and the surgeons are still worried about infections. Just get some rest now. Everything is going to be just fine.” He heard the door open again, and the sounds of the woman leaving the room.

She didn’t get far. He heard another female voice outside the door. “Nurse, there was an alarm.”

“Yes, doctor. I checked him, he’s fine. He’s just coming around.”

“Good. This one is the Marine? The one from Fallujah.”

“Yes, doctor. A combat infantry officer named Tyce Asher.”

“I heard the Deputy Commandant came by and pinned the Purple Heart medal on him personally.”

“Yes, a few days ago. Though he was unconscious through the whole thing.”

“Okay. Pretty tricky coming out of a drug-induced coma like that. The heavy sedation leaves them immobile. He’ll be very confused for the next day or two. Go ahead and get the next of kin over here.”

“He has none. There was a Marine sergeant listed. Umm, Dixon is his name. He’s the command rep and has been by a bunch of times. The sergeant was to be informed if he woke. He’s staying at a nearby hotel.”

“Did you tell him yet, about . . . ?”

“Not yet. I didn’t have the heart.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll be the one letting him know we had to amputate a leg.”

 

Two years ago 
Paris, France

 

From the corner of the café, the man watched the three Russians pay their bill and leave. He folded his newspaper, downed the remainder of his café au lait, and continued following them. He and his French DSGE unit had been tailing them for the past few days. They hadn’t been hard to track—in fact, it was pretty clear they were not trained in any kind of counterintelligence. Still, he stayed a respectable distance away as they entered the Paris Metro tunnel.

Twenty minutes later, the Russians arrived at the Quatre-Septembre Metro stop, the agent still tailing them. They walked to Palais Brongniart, the former Paris stock exchange. At the entrance to the Palais, they fumbled for their IDs, paid an entry fee, and went in.

The French agent signaled to his number two man across the street to hold his position, then reached into his raincoat and activated a concealed radio to call his headquarters.

“Chief, they have entered the Palais Brongniart.”

“Why?” came back the one-word question from his superior.

“I have no idea, boss. Looks like the Paris consumer electronics show is going on here. Should I follow?”

“Agent, when three officers from the Russian army enter our country with fake passports, spend three days grossly inebriated and womanizing, then finally attend the premier global technology show, yes, I suspect this is something you need to be curious about.”

The agent acknowledged, then proceeded into the convention center. He was immediately surrounded by barking robot dogs, swarms of drones dancing overhead in synchronized orbits, and everywhere beautiful ladies in slinky, computer-themed outfits standing next to signs or booths proclaiming the virtues of some groundbreaking piece of technology.

It took him nearly a half hour to locate the three Russian officers. He slipped casually nearby and watched as the three men looked to be closing a deal. They pulled out a credit card and paid for something on the spot, receiving a receipt in exchange. Then they left.

The agent called his partner to ensure he picked them up once they left the venue. His partner reported spotting them immediately. Then the agent went over to the vendor, flashed his badge, and demanded to know what they’d purchased. PlayStations, the man told him. Hundreds of PlayStations.

The DGSE man called his chief with the news, and his boss laughed. “Oh well, looks like a load of nothing. Russian army morale officers trying to keep the troops happy with some modern video games. Tail them to the airport and watch them board just to be sure it’s not some elaborate ruse, then come back to base. We have more important matters heating up. The U.S. is getting froggy in Iran, and we need to keep an eye on a group of Iranian officials coming in tomorrow.”

* * *

Twenty hours later, the three Russians had switched planes three times and were back in their uniforms, landing in Siberia. They each wore the rank of Russian infantry captain. As the plane’s aft ramp lowered, the freezing Siberian winds whipping into the plane’s loading bay, they covered their faces and wrapped their heavy coats around themselves. A Russian colonel walked up the gangway to meet them.

He didn’t waste time. “Did you get them?”

One of the men spoke up. “Yes, Comrade Colonel Kolikoff.”

“All of them?”

“Three hundred brand-new PlayStations will be delivered to the special address in two months’ time.”

“Excellent, Captain Pavel.” Colonel Kolikoff smiled broadly. “We will add them to the German computers we already have.”

“What’s next, Comrade Colonel?” one captain asked.

“Then, my dear Captain Drugov, the SPETS-VTOR will be one of the fastest military computers in the world. General Tympkin has something big planned for us.”

“More computations for Ukraine?”

“No. More complicated. We are to plan a large invasion from start to finish.”

Six months ago 
Norfolk, Virginia

The woman looked sharp in her formal U.S. Navy “mess dress” uniform. Two of the security officers eyed her up as she stepped out of her Uber. She walked briskly toward the checkpoint outside the Norfolk Naval Shipyard. The breast of her starched white Navy dinner jacket was adorned with a simple row of three medals, and on her sleeve was the rank of a petty officer. Four gold braids, aiguillettes, cascaded over her shoulder, which the guards knew meant she worked for a four-star admiral. But what really caught their eyes were her legs. The slits on her skirt opened up with every step, revealing tightly toned, tanned calves with no pantyhose.

She flashed them a bright, confident smile. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

The lead agent caught himself staring and put on an official tone. “Name,” he said, pulling out a clipboard.

“Stacey Van Andersson.” she said, accenting each syllable in her last name.

“Von A . . . what?” The unusual name caught him off guard. “What is that, Norwegian? Spell if for me.”

“Finnish, actually. V-a-n A-n-d—”

“Okay, okay,” he interrupted. “I found it. ID, please.” He ran his pen over the names on his clipboard.

She opened up a small black patent leather purse and handed over her Navy identity card. The agent checked her name off the list and held up the ID to compare the photo with the woman. She widened her eyes and imitated the picture in her photo. She was pretty, very pretty. Light blond hair pulled up in a high braided bun and the sun-kissed skin of someone who enjoyed nature in her off-duty hours. Something caused the man to hesitate a little longer than was proper. Her eyes. One was an ice-cold blue, and the other a deep, impenetrable brown.

“Ahem.” Someone behind her coughed meaningfully.

The agent was suddenly conscious of the gathering group of well-dressed diplomats and VIPs trying to figure out the reason for the holdup. He quickly waved her through the metal detectors and pointed to a sign that instructed everyone to surrender their electronic devices. Then he went back to checking in the new arrivals.

The woman entered the venue. A crowd of high-ranking officers dressed in their formal uniforms and civilians in sharp tuxedos and evening dresses were chatting freely and drinking champagne. The entire area was decorated with bouquets, red, white, and blue cloth bunting, and flags of all the U.S. states. Several foreign flags represented partnered nations’ dignitaries who were also in attendance. Behind all of this, looming large and grey against the dark sky, a full twenty stories tall, was the hull of the latest American nuclear supercarrier, set to be commissioned the next day.

Stacey walked around a bit to get the lay of the land, then casually went over to one of many enormous potted palms brought in for the occasion. She set her purse down on the back side of a planter and pretended to adjust her uniform while she felt around inside the pot. She found what she was looking for. She smiled, thankful the shipyard employee had done his job. She cautiously fished out a slim black box the size of an iPhone with a crystal bubble on the top. Opening her purse, she gently pushed a worn red handkerchief to one side to make room, inserted the device, then snapped it shut.

Stacey searched the room for her target. The son of a former president, a known womanizer and playboy. Spotting him among a group of chatting dignitaries and ambassadors, she worked her way over. Grabbing a champagne glass off a server’s platter, she looked for a spot to join their circle. There wasn’t long to wait. The French ambassador’s wife caught her husband eyeing Stacey, elbowed him knowingly in the ribs, then strolled off to look for something stronger than champagne.

Striking up a conversation with the ambassador in almost perfect French, Stacey kept one eye on the president’s son, making sure to keep the slit of her skirt aimed squarely in his direction. He was unable to resist; it was only a couple of minutes before he moved in closer to speak with her.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he said, waving his drink toward the carrier.

She turned briefly from the ambassador, put on a flirty smile, and widened her eyes. “So, so cool!” she said, but then turned back to the French ambassador.

Not dissuaded, the president’s son leaned in and tried again. “You know, I can get us a personal tour of the ship’s bridge later. You interested?”

The French ambassador’s wife returned and unceremoniously steered her husband away. The ambassador begged Stacey’s forgiveness in flowery French but dutifully followed his wife.

Stacey shrugged and turned to the president’s son. “You can do that?”

“Of course. The damned thing is being named after my dad,” he said.

“Oh, so that’s you?” she gushed.

He smiled, glad that name-dropping had worked. It rarely failed. He looked at all the adornments on her uniform and said, “Pretty sure I don’t have to ask if you have the clearance.” He turned to one of the secret service agents. “Hey, Tim, can you get the admiral to open the bridge for a private tour later?”

The agent looked at Stacey and frowned, but nodded, “Yes, sir. It’s doable.”

“Excellent.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear while inhaling the scent of her hair. “Come find me later, honey.” He reached down, patted her butt, then walked over to one of the wet bars for another cocktail.

Men are such simpletons, Stacey thought, and the big shots are even easier to manipulate, especially the drinkers. She lifted her glass in a secret victory toast to herself. Or maybe I am just that damned good. She downed the champagne and thought over the next steps of her plan.

 

Three months ago 
West of Washington, D. C.

 

The U.S. Navy corpsman had to shout over the noise of rushing air as the Humvee ambulance sped down Route 66 at a breakneck pace. “Did you hear the Russkies sank one of our carriers?”

“What?” said the other corpsman, named Purvis. He’d heard the man, but he’d been ordered by their commander to count morphine ampules and didn’t want to stop to talk. Partially he didn’t want to restart the count, but also the counting was calming him down from what he’d witnessed that morning. Massive explosions, gunfire, and Russian tanks racing through downtown D.C., laying waste everything in their way.

“It was that new one . . . just launched a few months ago. The one named after the president,” said the first man.

Purvis stopped counting and glared at the other man. His count had reached two hundred and thirty-something, but with the combination of the vehicle’s motion, the other guy’s constant chatter, and his own fright, his stomach was churning, and now he had lost count again.

“Who gives a shit right now?” Purvis said, restacking the loose ampules back into his unsorted box.

Purvis recalled back to that morning. Commander Victoria Remington had grabbed him and the other man and ordered them to follow her to the narcotics room, she’d told him to fill one box with morphine and another box with QuikClot. The other guy grabbed bandages and suture kits. When both men had balked at the order, she pulled them into a common room and showed them the live newsfeeds of the White House being attacked by Russian Spetsnaz. After that, he just obeyed and grabbed everything he could, and now he was here.

Purvis saw the other man hold his head in his hands and start sobbing gently, rocking back and forth.

“For fuck’s sakes,” said Purvis. He figured he probably better comfort the other guy, but he didn’t even know the man’s name. Then the vehicle screeched to a halt, and both men went flying—as did all the morphine and other unorganized medical gear. The back hatches were flung open, and Commander Remington was there, her pistol drawn.

“Get the fuck up, you two,” she yelled, “and bring your medical bags.” They obeyed, jumped out the back of the ambulance, and followed her. All six medical Humvees had halted behind them, and the navy personnel from those vehicles were likewise disembarking and following their commander to the front of their small convoy.

Two big pickup trucks were parked across the road near where several cars were rolled onto their sides in a drainage ditch. As the corpsmen walked up, they could see a few men walking around the vehicles and talking in animated tones.

“Hey!” Commander Remington yelled at the strangers, “do you need assistance?”

Purvis had seen her around Bethesda Naval Hospital. She was average height, perpetually tanned, and normally had a serious look about her that made him and others think she was bitchy. Pale blue eyes, raven hair, and the striking good looks of a model without being so skinny, she reminded him of Danica Patrick, including her widow’s peak. But what most of the other corpsmen commented on was her chest size. It was grossly inappropriate for them to comment that way about an officer, but they were all in their early twenties and, like most young men, they just couldn’t refrain from talking about the female form.

“Yeah, we got a few people here hurt real bad,” said a man standing by one of the trucks.

Purvis thought he saw something, maybe the flash of metal, but then it was gone just as quickly. He was about to speak up, but he was too nervous thinking about what the crash victims were going to look like.

Victoria motioned for all the navy corpsmen to approach. “Okay, looks like a vehicle accident. Let’s assess and assist, but stay sharp.” Purvis had never really noticed before, but she had an Italian accent. It sounded kind of songful, and sweet, like the voice of his favorite Italian Sports Illustrated calendar model, Daniella Sarahyba.

The corpsmen followed her to the stricken vehicles in teams and started looking around for the wounded persons. When they were all within a few steps, the three strangers pulled out shotguns and aimed them at the navy personnel.

“Now, listen up, we don’t want to hurt no one,” said one of the men. “But we aim to take whatever you got in the back of them ambulances. So if you want to live, just stand aside and—”

Bang!

Everything happened so fast, Purvis hadn’t even seen Commander Remington raise her pistol and shoot the man in the head. The man had propped his shotgun and his torso over the back of the pickup, and when he was hit, his head flopped forward but his body barely moved—other than the blood spraying out the bullet hole through his head and all over the other men like a fountain.

“Okay, now you listen to me!” yelled Victoria. “You are going to put those guns down and raise your hands. My men are gonna pick them up and toss them into the weeds. If any of you other figlio di puttana want to try something, I’ll put a fuckin’ bullet in your skull, too, capisce?”

The men had clearly not reckoned on this kind of a response. By the looks of things, the owners of the other two vehicles in the ditch had probably just given up their goods and been on their way. Two of the navy corpsmen moved the civilian pickups out of the way, careful to lay the dead man in the back of his own truck. Purvis and his partner collected up the shotguns.

“Holy shit, can you believe it?” the corpsman whispered to Purvis as they tossed the guns into the field.

“No,” Purvis responded quietly. “But I also know our commander is one badass motherfucker.”

Once they were all assembled again, Victoria yelled, “Mount up, sailors.” Then, to the locals, she said, “Next time, think twice about how you treat your American brothers and sisters.” And she spat toward them.

The men kept their hands up and nodded frantically. Purvis noticed Victoria still hadn’t lowered her pistol. She kept it trained on them through the window, her finger on the trigger until everyone was mounted up and had driven off toward the mountains of West Virginia.

 

CHAPTER 1

Russian Occupation Zone 
Union, West Virginia

 

Ghost breath, the exhalations from a panting boy and his father, joined a morning mist swirling head-high in the cool spring air. The early-rising farmer and his son led a team of horses up from watering them at a creek and went about hitching them to a wagon’s harness. The sound of vehicle engines caught their attention. They dropped the tackle, looked up from their labors, and froze. A string of headlights was visible across the valley, making miniature halos in the fog. The farmers stood motionless and stared as the lights approached.

It had been three months since Russia had seized the U.S. centers of power. Life in the rural reaches of America had changed drastically and, somehow, not at all. On one hand, the markets were open, people were paying for and even stocking up on farm goods. But on the other hand, outsiders were showing up in increasing numbers in the valley.

Sometimes, lone opportunists came through to steal food from the farms. Mostly at night. The fields were still barren from winter, but the grain silos were full, and every farm for miles around had healthy stocks of chickens, cows, and pigs. More recently, roving bands of displaced families had been through asking for handouts.

Farmers and nearby townsfolk, who were mostly kin, anyhow, did what they had always done. From the Revolutionary War to the Civil War, through famines and the Great Depression, to the rationing of World War I and World War II—folks banded together. They watched over their own and their neighbors’ property, and they locked and loaded.

About a month ago, a remnant U.S. military unit had come through fleeing south. The first U.S. troops the farmers had seen since the conflict had begun. At first, they were encouraged by the sight of U.S. military forces. They were running away from the strengthening Russian presence in the cities of West Virginia. They looked harried, skittish, and absolutely worn out. Their uniforms were in tatters. But what worried the farmers the most was that they looked scared. The farmers gave them some food, and then they melted away in full retreat.

The farmers grew alarmed when a Russian vehicle patrol or a pair of helicopters entered the valley. But the vehicles moved through fast and never stopped. Besides this—and like most citizens of the U.S.—contact with their new Russian overlords had only come through TV, radio, and over what everyone knew was a Russian-controlled internet. The broadcasts and available news had mostly been about staying calm, and orders were issued to remain sheltered in place from the West Virginia state governor.

Regardless, any approaching vehicles were reason enough to be cautious. The boy and the farmer could now see that the approaching headlights were some kind of convoy,