Finis: The End at Brownsville (Repost):

[Wolfman]

They should remember that Wisconsin has the habit of removing the hill paint scratchers die on.

But it’s such a good habit for a warship to have!

"Temper, temper!"

Wisconsin: “You think I have a temper? You should’ve seen the Pennsylvania back in World War II! She hated entire islands out of existence!”

[jemhouston]

But it’s such a good habit for a warship to have!

"Temper, temper!"

Wisconsin: “You think I have a temper? You should’ve seen the Pennsylvania back in World War II! She hated entire islands out of existence!”

Pennsylvania "It was a small island."

[Wolfman]

"Temper, temper!"

Wisconsin: “You think I have a temper? You should’ve seen the Pennsylvania back in World War II! She hated entire islands out of existence!”

Pennsylvania "It was a small island."

Wisconsin: “The first time, yes.”

[Matt Wiser]

The catastrophic day becomes night:


1925 Hours: Soviet Coastal Forces HQ: South Padre Island Coast Guard Station, Texas:

Captain 2nd Rank Vassily Tupolev sat at his desk in the former base commander's office. He had commanded the Soviet and Cuban naval forces based at South Padre Island for two years, and had seen his command steadily whittled down. No matter how hard the effort had been, nor the sacrifices made, the coastal forces had gone out to confront the U.S. Navy at both Houston and Corpus Christi, and had been battered as a result. He'd watched as missile and torpedo craft, along with frigates and corvettes, sailed out to confront the Americans and had been lucky to get one or two back, usually heavily damaged. Carrier-based aircraft, and helicopters from other warships, had made life for the coastal forces exciting but usually short, and there was no doubt about that. Now, there was an American amphibious force off the coast somewhere, and there was not only a three-carrier task force, but also four battleships as well, to face his handful of missile craft, a couple of old Riga-class frigates, and a couple of ex-USCG patrol craft. Better to be sunk on a final sortie than either scuttling, or worse, handing the ships over to the Americans when it was over, Tupolev thought. A knock on the door, and the question, “Comrade Captain?” brought him back out of his reverie. “Yes?”

It was Captain 3rd Rank Yegor Shatalin came in. Shatalin was his deputy-a real deputy, not a Zampolit. And for that, Tupolev was grateful, for the Zampolit had been killed two weeks earlier in an air raid. “Comrade Captain, do you wish to sail at first light?”

Shatalin knew full well what Tupolev was planning. This was it: a final sortie against the mighty U.S. Navy, and both officers knew full well that it wasn't likely that any of them-or their men, would be coming back from this one aboard a ship. If they did return, they'd be swimming. Captain Tupolev nodded, “Yes, first light will do. Who can sortie, and who will be left here?” The unspoken phrase was “to be scuttled.”

“Comrade Captain, both Rigas can sail. Then three of the corvettes: two Grishas and a Poti can make it as well. Of our missile craft, two Cuban Osas and one of our Nanchukas can sail. No torpedo craft, I'm afraid, are in shape to go out.” Shatalin reported.

“I take it the remainder will be left to scuttle?” Tupolev asked.

“That is correct, Comrade Captain.”

“Very well. Ask for volunteers among the crews of those who have to scuttle, if they wish to accompany those going out,” Tupolev ordered.

“Certainly, Comrade Captain.”

“Also, make sure there are demolition charges on the fuel storage tanks and the communications center. We'll blow them before we sail,” Tupolev said.

“That has been taken care of, Comrade Captain. And what time do you wish to sail?”

Tupolev thought a minute. The best time to start an amphibious operation was at dawn. And he knew that there was a chance that the Americans had mined the channels through the Soviets' own minefields. “We'll need some daylight. Make our sailing at 0700.”

“Yes, Comrade Captain,” Shatalin said.


1945 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, Along U.S. Highway 281:


Colonel Herrera knew that the Americans would have some advantages now. The sun had just about set, and with their night vision devices, they could see in the dark better than he could, or any of his men. With those Thermal sights on the M-60A4 and the Bradley, the Americans could see just as well at night as they could in the daytime, and pick his vehicles off before they knew what was happening. But there was one advantage he had now: the rest of the Army had pulled back, and General Perez had informed him that the 22nd Motor-Rifle Division was on his right, and that Herrera could call on their division artillery if necessary-with all the army-level assets either committed or destroyed, it was the best that could be done.

Now, Colonel Herrera decided to stir things up a little. Third Battalion, now down to fourteen T-55s, would draw American attention, while First and Second maneuvered as if preparing for a counterattack. Maybe, just maybe, that would force the Americans to halt and assume a hasty defensive position. And if they did that, he'd call down artillery on them, and in the confusion, he'd pull back to the next defensive position. There was one major problem: the Americans might not do so, and things would develop into a meeting engagement, and that was the last thing Herrera wanted. For those M-60A4s, even these with the 105-mm gun, could deal decisively with his armor in such an encounter, and he didn't want that to happen. The other problem: none of his antitank missiles-either the Konkurs (AT-5) on his BMPs, nor the Metis (AT-7) that the Soviet air assault troopers had, could deal with the American tanks unless one shot out the treads, or waited and took a shot at the rear, much as one did with a German Tiger forty-plus years earlier. And that option was not conducive to a long lifespan for the missile gunner in any event. Still, with things the way they were, everything had to be tried, no matter how low the odds of success were. He turned to his chief of staff. “Major, inform Third Battalion: Proceed as directed. No heavy contact, however. Just draw the Americans' attention.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.” the chief replied, going off to relay the order.

Major Murayev came up; he was the senior Soviet air-assault officer and was in command of the two battalions attached to the 214th. “You wanted to see me, Comrade Colonel?”

Herrera nodded. “Yes, Major. There's a couple of abandoned farms about five hundred meters in front of us. Can you put an anti-tank ambush in each?”

“That shouldn't be a problem, Comrade Colonel. I won't risk any more missile teams, but a squad in each-with RPGs and BG-15 grenade launchers should do.” Murayev replied.

“How many missiles do you have left, though?” Herrera wanted to know.

“I've three launchers, and a dozen missiles left. When they're gone, that's it.” Murayev said. “I'd like to conserve them: wait until we get into more favorable terrain for using the missiles.”

“I understand, Major. No heroics from your men tonight. If a situation develops unfavorably, fall back. No last stands unless there's no other option. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly, Comrade Colonel,” Murayev replied. “If you'll excuse me, I'll go brief my men.”

Herrera nodded as the air assault officer left. He'd worked with Cuban air assault troops in Angola, but Murayev and his men were a cut above the Cubans. Some of the Cuban airborne knew when to get into a fight, but not when to get out of one. Murayev, though, did. Maybe because there would be no more replacements coming, perhaps? He turned again to his chief of staff. “Get First and Second Battalions moving. Again, demonstration only, and no heavy contact. Fall back if they get into a serious fight.”

“Right away, Comrade Colonel.”

To the north, Captain Nancy Kozak's company team was pushing south alongside the highway. They'd found a few Mexican stragglers, most of whom had quickly surrendered. Those who did not died with weapons in hand. That last fight had been a strange one: the Mexicans had been rolled over, and most of them had fought until their battalion had been ripped apart, and then the survivors had surrendered. Then someone had shot a couple of antitank missiles at her company, damaging a tank and killing her FIST track-and everyone in it. Her Second Mech Platoon had checked out where the missiles had come from, and found several dead Russians. And to everyone's surprise, they were wearing air assault uniforms. First Cubans, then some Mexicans, then Russians. Maybe the Russians were “stiffening” the Mexicans? It had taken an hour to get the damaged tank repaired and back into the fight, regardless, and she'd have to call for fire herself, until a replacement FIST track and crew could be made available.
Then her Third Platoon-which had armor, called it in: Tanks to the front. T-55s by the look of them. “Take 'em!” she called.

Colonel Herrera watched in horror as his Third battalion came under American tank fire. The American gunnery was accurate and deadly, for four T-55s exploded almost at once. Herrera ordered the battalion to pull back immediately, and called down his own artillery, but this time, the 122-mm fire fell short. Two more T-55s exploded before the Cuban tanks pulled back under cover of their artillery, and what remained of Third Battalion was now a short company. Herrera swore-and swore loudly. He called for a flare mission, and saw American armor was approaching the two farms: maybe this ambush might come off.

Kozak's Fourth Platoon-her other tank platoon, spotted some movement among the abandoned farms. They'd had thermal contacts around the farmhouse and the barn in both instances, and the platoon leader smelled an ambush. He requested artillery fire, or at the very least, battalion mortars. Then her ETAC came on the line: he'd been talking to some Apaches, and a two-ship wanted to come in. She agreed, and the two Apaches unloaded their 2.75-inch rockets on the farmsteads, ripping up the farmhouses and barns, and setting them ablaze. The two helicopters then raked the area with their 30-mm cannon, killing anything they saw moving. A couple of secondary explosions in both houses convinced Fourth Platoon's leader that there had been an ambush, and as the Team advanced, Bradley-mounted troops dismounted to check. Sure enough, there were several bodies of Soviet air-assault troopers, with RPGs. After the farmsteads were secured, artillery fire came down on them.

“Blast it!” Colonel Herrera shouted. Someone on the other side had smelled an ambush-a not unreasonable suspicion, given the events of the previous few hours, and had called in a pair of AH-64s. Herrera called in a brief artillery concentration, and ordered his regiment to fall back to the next position.

Kozak's people had either gotten back into their Bradleys, or had taken cover. But still, someone on the other side was being very smart. And she wanted to push through that someone, nail his ass to the wall, and get into Brownsville. And do it before either the airborne prima donnas in XVIII Airborne Corps, or those Jarheads waiting off the coast.



2000 Hours: K-236: The Gulf of Mexico:

Captain Padorin came into the CCP. So far, everything was going all right: his boat was on the patrol pattern just off the coast: right at the continental shelf. Close enough to the coast to make a high-speed dash to pick up whoever he was supposed to retrieve, and then make another dash for deep water. And, if things didn't work out, he'd be a short distance from deep water and a run below the layer-if there was one-to get away. And the most recent message from Caribbean Squadron had told him not to initiate contact with the enemy: the pickup came first. He shook his head at that: either the mission was a go, and he'd do his best to get in and make the pickup, or cancel it and he could get out. And with all those American ships about, the ASW environment would get pretty nasty in a short while. Especially so if the Americans decided to land on the Texas-or Mexican-coast.

He noticed Shelpin, the Security Officer, taking his turn again as Officer of the Watch. Even though the man was KGB, he had proven his abilities as a submariner time and again. Shelpin's reasoning was that if he was assigned to a sub as Security Officer, he'd better learn to be a submariner first, and had gone to sub school and not only qualified, but qualified as a watch officer. And he took his turn at that duty. In so doing, he'd earned the respect of not only the Captain, but every other officer and warrant officer on the boat. “Shelpin, status, please.”

“Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. “We are maintaining our patrol station. Depth is steady at two hundred meters, speed ten knots. No thermal layer detected as yet, though.”

“It may be too deep for us, given where we are and the time of year,” Padorin said. He went to the chart. “Any change in our friends up there?” He asked.

“No, Comrade Captain, no change. The Amphibious Group is to our south, and they presumably have the battleships with them, as they haven't been picked up in the past few hours. And the carriers are to the north,” Shelpin said.

“Any signs of an ASW group?” Padorin wanted to know.

“No, none of that, either. They may be closer in to shore, though.”

Padorin stroked his chin. “And no submerged contacts?”

“No, Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. “If there were...”

“If there were, I would have been notified at once,” Padorin finished. “Carry on.”

Shelpin nodded as Padorin went to the sonar room. “Any change?” he asked the sonar officer.

“No, Comrade Captain,” the sonar officer replied. He pointed to a display. “To the north, here's the carrier group-or at least, one of the carriers. He's been tentatively identified as John F. Kennedy, though we've also picked up a Nimitz-class ship, but too far to get anything positive as to who he is.”

“Any sign of a third carrier?” Padorin asked. His latest report from Caribbean Squadron mentioned three carriers.

“Not yet, Comrade Captain. He may be to the north. That may be why we haven't picked him up.”

Padorin nodded. “And this here, to the south, is the amphibious force?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain. They keep going back and forth on an west to east pattern. And there's a probable ASW group here, between us and the coast,” the sonar officer said.

Then the communications officer came in. “Comrade Captain, we have an ELF message.”

That meant there was a more detailed message waiting for K-236. Padorin went back into the CCP. “Officer of the Watch, make your depth thirty meters. Slow to five knots.”

Shelpin nodded, and gave the necessary orders. Soon, the boat was at thirty meters. “Raise the antennae.”

Just as the antennae were raised, the message came in. It was quickly decoded and passed to the Captain. And as Padorin read it, he let out a huge sigh of relief. “Well, that ends that.”

“What is it, Comrade Captain?” The starpom asked. He'd just come into the CCP.

“Our date with someone on the Texas coast is off. For good. We've been relieved.” Padorin said.

Heads nodded around the CCP. “Do we have new orders?” Shelpin asked.

“Just maintain patrol position. Further orders to follow.” Padorin said, nodding. “Reel in the antennae, and take us down. Back to two hundred meters. Maintain speed.”


2015 Hours: 8th Fighter Aviation Regiment, Over Brownsville:

Major Yuri Shavarov maintained his racetrack patrol pattern over the city. His squadron of Su-27s had made the trip from San Julian in Cuba, and so far, things had been uneventful. But the flight in had been-or so he saw just to their north, as American fighters had savaged some transports-some going in, some going out. And the bitter pill he'd had to swallow was that he didn't have the fuel to intervene. His mission was clear: protect the last group of aircraft as they unloaded their cargo, took on passengers, and took off again. Right now, he was wondering, what was taking them so long? Then his radio crackled. “Mace One, the hens are getting airborne. Watch for crows.” Crows meant enemy fighters.

“Copy. Good luck down there.”

“Roger, Mace One. Do you have the hens in sight?”

Shavarov checked his radar. “Got them.”

The Su-27s formed up on the transports and headed east. To his surprise, in the fading light, he could see what they were: An-12s. Wonderful. They'd have to criss-cross back and forth to maintain their position. Shavarov called one of his flight leaders. “Hammer One, this is Mace One. Go on ahead, and see if any crows are waiting.”

“Hammer One, Roger.” the flight leader called. Then he called in, “SAM radars at One! Repeat: SAM Radars at One O'Clock!”

That would be the American ships, Shavarov knew. Though he couldn't see them, he knew they were down there. And with this long a trip back, he couldn't go in low to avoid radar: If combat developed, his Su-27s had only fuel for fifteen minutes' combat time, before they'd have to break off and head for Cuba. And sure enough, there were crows out there. Shavarov picked them up on radar, just as Hammer One called them in. “Crows at Eleven O' Clock! Engaging!”

The four Su-27s shot toward the unseen American fighters-and then Shavarov himself picked them up-just as his radar screen turned to snow. An unseen EA-6B Prowler was jamming his radar. Up ahead, he saw explosions just below his flight level, and two aircraft falling out of the sky in flames. His own threat receiver was quiet. Shavarov called the transport leader: “Get down on the deck. We'll cover you.” And without waiting for a reply, he led his own flight in, after telling his remaining flight to stay with the transports.

Mace Three then made a call: “Crows at Ten O'Clock!”

Major Shavarov looked in that direction. Four F-14s were coming in on the Su-27s. And not only did his threat receiver light up, he saw them: Sparrow missiles being fired. “Mace Flight, break!”

The four Su-27s broke as the Tomcats dove on them. A night fight was more dangerous, he knew, but then, so did the Americans, as both the F-14 and Su-27 had the same twin rudder configuration. Finding out who was friend or foe visually was next to impossible. And the Americans scored first, as Mace Three, his second element leader, and Mace Four, both took Sparrow hits and exploded. In the darkness, he didn't see any parachutes.

Shavarov cursed as he swung his plane around. He saw a missile trail pass him by, then another just right over his head. Then a fireball erupted behind his plane, and a scream came over the radio. His wingman had just died. Shavarov looked back, and saw the Su-27 tumbling out of the sky, and then explode as the flames touched off the fuel and ordnance. Right now, he ought to try and break off the fight, and get away, he knew, but that wasn't on his mind. Shavarov saw an F-14 and he turned toward it, hoping to get a lock for his R-73 (AA-11 Archer) missiles. Just as he did, his own threat receiver lit up again. Shavarov ignored it, and fired two missiles. The R-73s left the rails just as a pair of Sparrows slammed into his aircraft, and the plane simply blew apart. He never saw the attacker, nor did he see one of the R-73s miss the F-14. The other missile closed, but a shower of flares from the Tomcat decoyed it away: the missile did explode, and damaged the port engine. That Tomcat crew would have to divert to Corpus Christi, as a night landing on one engine was not advised. But Shavarov would never know. For he never bailed out of his aircraft.


2025 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev was in his office. He'd retired there to have a private dinner with Colonel Sergetov and General Dudorov. He'd hoped to have Commander Carlisle as a guest again, but she had politely, but firmly,declined. She had reminded Dudorov of her training about declining special favors from the enemy, and even Alekseyev admitted he actually admired that. “Yuri, when we're finished, have a plate from our table sent to her, regardless,” he told Dudorov.

“Of course, Comrade General,” Dudorov said.

“Now, I imagine that tomorrow will be the day of decision,” Alekseyev continued. “Suraykin's army will give way-somewhere. Either at that highway junction, or at the Rio Grande Valley airport. And then we'll be in big trouble.”

“That, Comrade Marshal, is likely to be an understatement,” Dudorov said.

“Quite. Colonel, if you were in Powell's position, where would you strike?” Alekseyev asked.

His aide paused, thinking for a moment. “Comrade Marshal, I would try at the airport. Success there means that a sizable penetration can be made, even as far as Highway 77-83. That seals Suraykin's fate-splits Malinsky's front, and enables a charge down the highway,” Colonel Sergetov said.

“Yuri? How about you?” Alekseyev asked.

“It's been a hard fight, but I'd go for the actual highway junction. Use the airport as a diversion, and simply put more into that sector. The 105th Guards and the 41st Tank Regiment won't last past midday unless there's a dramatic upsurge in supplies. And I just don't see that happening.” Dudorov said.

“And the landing options? Both of you, please,” Aleksyev asked the two officers.

Dudorov spoke first. “Comrade General, I'd go with the amphibious option. Leave out the airborne drop-that is, the 82nd Airborne Division, but proceed with the amphibious landing. And the Boca Chica area is where I'd land. Unfortunately, I don't have information as to who is at sea, but the Americans have enough to put at least a brigade-sized force ashore, probably two. And no one doubts that they have ample naval gunfire and carrier air support available.”

“Colonel? What's your opinion?”

Sergetov thought again. “Comrade Marshal, Powell's been cautious. I expect him to remain so. Though he's taken risks in the past, we do know he chose not to conduct such a landing at Corpus Christi last year. There was considerable pressure on him to do so, if you'll recall, Comrade Marshal.”

“I do. And Dudorov here was following it closely-even if his sources were the American news networks,” Alekseyev said.

“His previous campaign could have ended sooner if he'd conducted such an operation, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov continued. “Unless there's an opportunity that develops.....In my opinion, Comrades, he'll keep the Marines offshore. I may be wrong, but based on Powell's past experience, he'll forgo the amphibious option.”

Alekseyev nodded. “It's always good to have more than one viewpoint, Comrades. Personally, there's an even chance he'll do it.” He looked at his office map, and visualized the ships offshore, helicopters forming up, and landing craft in the water, with battleships and destroyers shelling the coast. “Be ready to finish the destruct bill if he does. We won't have much time. This means your offices especially, Yuri.”

“Understood, Comrade General,” Dudorov replied. “There's one more thing. Do you wish for the safe-conduct pass for our guest to be prepared?”

Alekseyev thought for a moment, then nodded. “Make it so. Make sure it's in English, Russian, and Spanish. And see to it personally.”


2055 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Independent Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:


General Gordonov watched from the roof of his headquarters. He'd moved twice since the morning, and was now watching things from the roof of a middle school library. His chief of staff was nervous as a result: they'd seen American aircraft and helicopter gunships going after any vehicle traffic, and more often as not, that traffic was turned into burning junk. The General focused his binoculars to the north, where a battered regiment continued to hold the 77-83 highway junction, while the two flanking regiments were hanging on, but just barely. And having a tank regiment bolster the defenders at the junction meant that for now, the Americans wouldn't sent light infantry or even airborne troops to take the junction from his desantniki. Continued tracer fire in that direction did show, however, that the Americans were still there, and if they redirected a heavy unit, such as the 12th Armored Cavalry Regiment or even a brigade from the 7th Armored Division, they might just break through.

Now, he turned his attention to the northeast. The 38th Tank Division was waiting on the Americans to push south, and if they did, they'd meet them, then finish the 24th Tanks, and he'd barely have time to reorient his own division into an all-around defense. If he didn't, then 7th Armored would simply roll up his division from the right flank, as well as the rear, and there was nothing he could do about that. Then his intelligence officer came to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade General, from what little I've been able to put together, the Americans have decided not to press the issue tonight. So far, it's only patrol activity along the division's front.” the intelligence officer said.

“So they've decided to dig in for the night?” Gordonov asked.

“It appears to be the case, Comrade General. Though their aviation is still active.” replied the major of intelligence.

“I've noticed. Those bloody Apaches again. And tactical aircraft, as well. They can see in the dark very well, the air force liaison says.” Gordonov commented.

“Quite so, Comrade General. Not much we can do about those helicopters, other than have Igla (SA-14) missiles ready.”

Gordonov shook his head. He knew the Air Force was doing its best, but their casualties had gone from merely horrendous to downright frightful, the air force liaison officer said, and they were trying to conserve aircraft and pilots. How they did that, wasn't his problem. Then his supply officer came to him. “Comrade General, everything that can be distributed has been allocated.”

“That's it, then, until first light, and maybe, an air drop that Army can send our way.” Gordonov said, and it wasn't a question.

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General.”

Gordonov knew, but had to ask anyway, “And if we don't get those supplies?”

“We'd have to withdraw by noon, Comrade General. It's either that, or stand and be destroyed.”

[Matt Wiser]

2110 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport, Texas:


General Petrov shook his head. Just as the last transports had gotten airborne, four F-111s had come in, and laid down a pattern of bombs on the runways. To his surprise, one runway had not been hit, and it was still operational. The other two, though, had been cratered, and his engineers were already working to fill the craters and get the field operational again by first light. Petrov looked at the ramp area, and saw the fire crews dousing the wrecks of an Il-18 and an An-74 that hadn't been able to leave before the runways were closed. At least the An-74's cargo had been unloaded, he thought, and Petrov also wondered who was supposed to leave on the Il-18, though he had an idea-and a most un-Soviet one. If the KGB had been hoping to fly out some of its own personnel, or worse, some of their American collaborators, well, as far as he was concerned, it was their bad luck.

Now, he was going from strongpoint to strongpoint, encouraging his men. Many of the excess air force and Voyska PVO personnel, those whose specialties did not entitle them to a ticket on the airlift out, had been formed into provisional infantry to defend the airport against an American airborne or helicopter assault. Though they had plenty of small arms-and even had some time to relearn their weapons training-something that nearly all of them had forgotten since their basic training days, heavy weapons, other than some old B-11 recoilless rifles and some RPGs, were in short supply. Petrov knew that if these men had to go up against the elite paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne or Rangers, it would be a slaughter. He cursed whoever had ordered this insanity, feeling it a waste of trained air force and air defense personnel, but professionally, he knew that there was no real choice. He then went over to his air-defense officer, also a Voyska PVO man, “Anything, Comrade Colonel?”

“Comrade General, we did get some Osa-M rockets. We've got eight launcher vehicles, but we can only put rockets on them all if we only give two rockets per launcher,” the man replied. Though the Osa-M (SA-8s) were operated by Army personnel, the overall air defense was in the hands of Voyska PVO-the Soviet Air Defense Force, much to Petrov's disgust. He'd wondered, who made that decision? Likely someone in Moscow, he knew. And yet another mistake piled on top of all the others.

“That's all?” Petrov asked.

“No, Comrade General, we did get some 23-mm ammunition, and some heavy 14.5 as well. Enough to give the ZPUs a full unit of fire.”

“That's something, at least,” Petrov said. “All right, just do the best you can. That's all anyone can ask right now.”

The air-defense man nodded. “Of course, Comrade General. We'll do our duty.”

Petrov nodded and continued on. As he headed towards the hangar where he had his office, he passed by where the wounded were being assembled for departure. If those Party bosses in Moscow could see this, he thought, they'd work out a deal and end this madness. For he saw stretcher cases with heavily bandaged limbs, burn cases who needed a full-service burn center, men missing hands or feet, and many of them with bandages that hadn't been changed for days. Only the walking wounded, whose injuries would not heal in time to return to their units, were in decent shape. And all of the wounded glared with hostile eyes at the specialists, those whose services were needed elsewhere, or those who had information that could not fall into American hands. Their priority passes enabled them to jump the line, and get on aircraft rigged for passenger hauling, while the stretcher cases had to wait for an aircraft rigged to carry them. Petrov spoke a few words of encouragement to the wounded, and talked with the medical staff as well. After that, he went to his headquarters, where a staffer was waiting. “What is it?”

“Comrade General, we've had a message from General Lukin.”

“Oh, where is he now? Cuba, unless I'm mistaken.” Petrov said.

“He is, Comrade General. And he's found a lot that we've been angry about. Supply officers there are throwing whatever can be loaded onto a plane, regardless of whether or not it's on our priority list. He's kicked a few backsides, but he's certain that his efforts will be, and I quote 'too little and too late.'” the staffer reported.

“I'm afraid he's right. I should have had him sent to Cuba when the decision was made to mount the airlift. He would've been in a better position to get things going right. Send him this: 'Your efforts greatly appreciated. I concur in your estimate, but hoped to be proved wrong. Request a maximum, repeat, maximum effort beginning at first light. This goes for the Mexico side as well.'” Petrov said.

The staffer nodded. “Do you wish anything else, Comrade General?”

Petrov thought for a minute. “Add this: 'May be evacuated on TVD orders if crisis point comes. If so, I'll see you in Havana.' Get that off at once.”

“Immediately, Comrade General.” The staffer turned to go send the message. “Colonel, one more thing.”

“Comrade General?”

“Inform the communications people: be prepared to destroy all radios, codes and code machines, and classified documents. They are to be destroyed upon my express orders. And no one else's. Other than Marshal Alekseyev or his Chief of Staff. Is that clear?” Petrov said.

“Completely clear, Comrade General.”

“And remind the staff that any female personnel are now on one hours' notice to leave. That includes all female medical staff.”


2150 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. Highway 281, Southwest of Rangerville, Texas:


Colonel Herrera went from position to position, giving words of encouragement to his men. Though that was usually the political officer's job, he'd always done so, regardless. He felt that if the men saw their Colonel, and even one or two spoke to him, that would boost their morale. And more often than not, he was right. Even Third Battalion, which now only had eight tanks, had felt his presence, and the troops had a boost of confidence. Of that, he was sure.

Now, he saw his regimental command vehicle pulling up. This was unusual, but not surprising. Something must be important. His chief of staff got out, and came over to him. “Comrade Colonel!”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Message from Havana, of all places. You've been made a Hero of the Revolution, as have all the division and separate brigade commanders.” The chief said.

“Of all the things Havana could send us, and this would be last on the list,” Herrera spat. “It happens every time there's a cut-off army: there's a shower of awards and promotions on those who are trapped.”

The chief nodded. “Yes, Comrade General. The Germans at Stalingrad, the Americans at Bataan, the French at Dien Bien Phu, and so on.”

“Hmph,” Herrera said. “All right. Anything from up front?”

“No, Comrade Colonel, nothing so far. Our outposts report no sign of the enemy.” the chief responded.

“With their sights, they can see us further than we can see them,” Herrera reminded his chief of staff. “They're sure?”

“As sure as one can be, Comrade Colonel.”

Herrera went back into his command vehicle. He needed to look at his map. Right now, though things were bad, given that one of his battalions was now the size of a company, it could be worse. One could hope for the best, he thought. “At least we'll get some rest, Luis. I think the Americans have stopped for the night, or at least, for a few hours.”

“Perhaps so. And our men are bone-weary. A few hours' rest, and some food, and be ready to do it all again in the morning,” the chief replied.

“Get them fed, now. We may not have time in the morning. Because once the Americans have rested and resupplied, they'll be coming. And I want our men ready.” Herrera snapped.

The chief nodded. “Right away, Comrade Colonel.”


To the northwest, along Highway 281, Captain Nancy Kozak was in a rage. Her battalion commander had ordered all of his companies to halt for a few hours, and she wasn't happy, as she felt they could get further south before having to stop. The Colonel had explained that this not only came from brigade, but division as well. Everyone was to be fed, rested, and ready. Because before dawn, the Soviets and Cubans were going to get a wake-up call along the coast. And when that happened, everyone would move-and give the Soviets more fires to put out than they had the means. Hopefully, one or two of those would grow to an inferno that would engulf the defenders. Kozak liked the sound of that-as well as the imagery. With luck, her Team would be the one to punch a hole down 281, and make a rush for Brownsville.

Like Colonel Herrera to the south, Kozak went around her team, talking to the platoon leaders and some of the soldiers. Every man and woman there was tired, but eager. They wanted to finish this. And if they could, do it in one or two days. One platoon sergeant, she'd heard, was taking bets as to whose tank or Bradley would be the first to reach the International Bridge. If the Soviet and Cuban defenses collapsed, as Battalion and Brigade thought they might, somebody was going to have a nice payday-if he or she lived. One thing at a time, she thought.

As she went back to her Bradley, she came across not only the First Sergeant, but the company mascot. The company had adopted a German Shepherd puppy when PRAIRIE FIRE got started, and Roscoe had been through it all. He'd been with the company long enough to have a dog tag-somebody liked that phrase-a real dog tag on a dog-and he usually rode with the First Sergeant in his M-113 APC. And even when most of the company was asleep, Roscoe would be awake and alert. And those pulling watch had learned to pay attention when he growled. One time, he'd stood up with a start, and growled in a particular direction. The First Sergeant woke up, grabbed his weapon and a starlight scope, and looked that way. Two men were approaching the company laager, and the First Sergeant opened fire. Both men dropped, and everyone went back to sleep. The next morning, they'd found two dead Cuban recon troopers. Nobody ignored Roscoe after that. Kozak came up. “Well, First Sergeant, Roscoe ready to go on watch?”

“He is, Ma'am.” the First Sergeant replied. He'd had three tours in Vietnam, and had fought in the Southwest with 3rd Armored Division before coming to help rebuild the 49th, just as she had, fresh out of West Point and the initial female infantry officers.

“Good. Get everyone fed, and make sure the OPs are out. Can't tell you when, but before dawn, we'll be moving again. And this time, we're not stopping.” Kozak said.

“Next stop Brownsville, Ma'am?”

“If everything goes right, First Sergeant.” Kozak replied. “And those Cubans ahead of us don't pull any more tricks.”


2220 Hours: 38th Tank Division, near Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Texas:

Major General Gennady Nikonov scanned the northern horizon from his command vehicle. He now had the last full-strength tank division left to the Soviets in the pocket, and his orders from General Suraykin had been clear: hold the area south of the airport as long as possible. On this occasion, he'd learned from what he thought were serious mistakes on the part of 20th Tanks and the 120th Motor-Rifles, divisions that had been destroyed just prior to his division's arrival. Instead of moving two regiments up to meet the Americans, and having two others ready to exploit, he had three regiments up forward, with his motor-rifle regiment in the center. On their left and right flanks were a full tank regiment, and the one remaining tank regiment was in reserve, ready to counterattack. General Nikonov had sent his division's reconnaissance battalion forward, and so far, they'd found wrecked vehicles and a few survivors from 20th Tanks. After they'd been sent back to the division's command point, Nikonov had talked to them; and they all said that there had been American armor in quantity, while attack helicopters and aircraft roamed at will, destroying whatever they found. Then the Americans, for whatever reason, had pulled back, leaving the airport's runways and tarmac littered with wrecked and burning vehicles, as well as Soviet corpses. When asked who the Americans were, the survivors shook their heads: all they knew was that the Americans had ripped their division to shreds, and they were lucky not to be dead or prisoners.

Nikonov's plan was basically sound, he thought, but he also knew there was a big problem: his tanks were T-64Bs, and his APCs were BMP-1Ms. The Americans, he knew from General Suraykin's briefing, had the M-60A4-120s, and Bradley fighting vehicles, all with thermal sights. He knew that they could see his positions before his own tanks could see the Americans. And on the flat, open terrain of the airport, one could see a long way. Not good, he thought.

Then his chief of staff came to him. “Comrade General, message from Army Headquarters.”

“Read it.”

“Americans believed halted for the night. You may expect attack at any time past 0530. American force identified as 7th Armored Division.” the chief said, reading from a message form.

Nikonov simply nodded. So, he thought, they're staying put for the night. Either their command wants the troops well rested, or their supplies haven't caught up to them yet. Maybe a combination of the two. “All right. Inform the regimental commanders. They can stand the men down and go on night watch. But be prepared to stand-to at any time.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the chief replied.

“And one other thing: ask Army Headquarters if any air support will be available. Because chances are, we'll need it.” Nikonov said.


2235 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:

General Malinsky looked at his situation map again. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. “They're doing this all over the front?”

“Yes, Comrade General,” his chief of staff, Isakov, replied.

“They're halting for the night. Why? When they can see us in the dark almost as clearly as in the daytime. I'm not sure what they're up to.” Malinsky said.

“Comrade General, there may be a combination of factors: First, General Powell may have something planned for the coast, and he wants a simultaneous attack to take place. Second, some of his units may have outrun their supplies-those on our left especially, and they need time to get caught up. Then, there's the desire to avoid any kind of fratricide-especially from the air-so there's that issue to contend with,” Isakov reported.

“And Powell's caution means he's decided to halt for the evening. But there's still that amphibious threat out there, and a chance that he's going to go for it,” Malinsky commented.

“That's very possible, Comrade General,” Isakov said.

Malinsky nodded. Even so, there were things that needed to be done-or at least, prepared for. “Have you prepared a destruct bill? Because we'll have a lot of classified materials to destroy,” Malinsky reminded Isakov.

“I've already issued orders to begin preparations, Comrade General. It can be implemented quickly,” Isakov reported.

“Good. Now, what from the Air Force?” Malinsky asked.

Isakov looked up from his notes. “The Air Force will try and maintain their sortie rate, Comrade General, but their loss rate itself is going up. They'll try, nevertheless.”

Malinsky nodded. Just as they had said, the Air Force had insisted on not promising anything that they couldn't keep. All they'd said was that they'd try their best to support the Army. “And the airlift? So far, we've held onto the drop zones.”

“I've spoken with General Petrov, Comrade General,” Isakov replied. “He, too, can make no promises, but said they'll make the effort. As long as those drop zones can be protected-and that means no enemy missile teams with Stingers lurking around-we'll get our share of supply drops.”

“Easier said than done, Isakov, especially given our other....difficulties.” Malinsky noted.

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“All right. I'm going to get a few hours' rest. You, too, Isakov. Because I think sleep is going to be in short supply for all of us the next few days.”

“Of course, Comrade General,” Isakov said.

“Oh, one more thing,” Malinsky remembered. “Have a final headquarters selected. We may not have much time to go looking about for a new one.”

“I've taken that step, Comrade General. The Rancho Viejo High School, just north of Brownsville. It's large enough, and suits our purposes.”

“Good, Isakov. Now, I'm off for some rest. Wake me, though, if anything serious develops.”


2300 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico.


“Captain to CCP!” the loudspeaker over Captain Padorin's bunk barked.

Padorin leaped out of his bunk, pulled on his shoes-he'd been sleeping fully clothed, as had been usual the past few days-and raced for the Central Command Post. Strenlikov, the Officer of the Watch, was standing next to the periscope. “What is it?”

“Comrade Captain, we've received another ELF message. Per the order book, I have ordered us to thirty meters, and maintained five knots.” Strenlikov reported.

“Very good. Now, maybe we'll get new orders,” Padorin said. “But we'll be vulnerable, just the same. Battle Stations, if you please.”

Strenlikov nodded, then sounded the general alarm. Officers and men raced to their stations, and within three minutes, all stations were manned and ready. Padorin went to the sonar room. “Anything?”

The sonar officer pointed to the display. “Just the same, Comrade Captain. The carrier group to the north, with the ASW group directly west. Then the amphibious force to the south.”

Captain Padorin nodded and went back into the CCP. The starpom and Shelpin were there, along with the weapons officer. A tracking party was already waiting, just in case. Then the diving officer reported. “At thirty meters.”

“Raise the antenna,” Padorin ordered.

The message came clattering in on the teletype. Then the communications officer took the paper and went into the code room to decode the message. He came back a few minutes later, shaking as he held the message form. “Comrade Captain,” he said, handing Padorin the form.

“What's the matter?” asked Padorin. “You'd think something dreadful has happened.”

“Read the message, Comrade Captain, please.” the communications man said.

Padorin did so, and his eyes widened. “Mother of God....” he said, shaking his head.

“Comrade Captain, what is it?” the starpom asked.

“Here's the message: 'Brownsville pocket expected to be liquidated by enemy in 48-72 hours. Proceed to Yucatan Channel, and establish a patrol pattern. Conduct Search-and-Rescue operations for downed Soviet aircrews once clear of American ASW activity while en route.' That's it, then,” Padorin said.

There was silence in the CCP. Some of the crew, Padorin knew, had had relatives serving in North America at times since 1985, and he also knew that the starpom's brother-in-law had been trapped in the pocket. “So the war's over?” the starpom asked.

“No. Just the war in Texas. We're still at war until we get a cease-fire-or we're sunk. Up periscope, and reel in the antenna.” Padorin said.

The scope came up, and Padorin made a full scan. “No contacts. Down scope. Sonar?”

“No new contacts, Comrade Captain.”

“Very well. Navigator: give me a course for the Yucatan Channel.”

The navigator checked his chart. “Recommend new course one-two-zero for the moment, Comrade Captain.”

Padorin nodded. “Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters. Come to one-two-zero. Make turns for ten knots.”

K-236 dived and turned onto the new heading. Soon, the boat was at the depth Padorin had wanted. “At two hundred and fifty meters, Comrade Captain,” the diving officer reported.

“Let's get out of here, but quietly, mind you. Maintain one-two-zero and ten knots,” Padorin ordered. “Secure from battle stations.”


2330 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev was in his office. This time, the call with Marshal Akhromayev was for their ears alone-though who knew what other parties might be listening in? Still, the two officers felt this time, a private call was necessary, and both could speak their minds. Though Alekseyev knew that his thoughts were more often than not those of his staff. And he suspected that Akhromayev not only knew that, but also his staff in Moscow had the same feelings as the Defense Minister. “I'm here, Comrade Marshal,” Alekseyev said over the satellite phone.

“Good, Alekseyev, very good. I know things are bad and getting worse by the hour, but just how much longer can you hold out?” the Defense Minister asked.

“Comrade Minister,” Alekseyev said formally, “I can give you forty-eight to seventy-two hours. At the most. If the Americans mount any kind of airborne and/or amphibious attack, things will be over much sooner.”

“All right, Alekseyev,” Akhromayev said. “I've talked with General Grachev, and he's made the same estimate to me.” General Pavel Grachev was the Chief of the General Staff, and a friend of Alekseyev's. “You're certain?”

“As certain as one can be about anything in war, Comrade Minister.” Alekseyev replied.

“Understood. For what it's worth, General Berkernev has given you thirty-six to forty-eight hours.” Akhromayev said. Berkernev was Chief of the GRU.

“Comrade Marshal, I'm erring on the side of caution in this. But we'll be finished within seventy-two hours, no matter what.” Alekseyev said.

“That's obvious, even to us here, Alekseyev. I take it the special weapons have been....properly taken care of?”

“Comrade Minister, those weapons have been denied to the enemy. They were loaded onto a freighter, and that ship was scuttled in the shipping channel leading to the Port of Brownsville.” Alekseyev reported.

“Good. You've kept the weapons out of enemy hands, and have also blocked the port. At least that's one thing the Defense Council will appreciate later on,” Akhromayev said.

“Comrade Minister, there's something else.” Alekseyev said.

“Go on,” the Minister replied.

“I've sent a courier from my staff out on the airlift, Major Arkady Sorokin. He flew out to Mexico, and should be en route to Moscow by now. He's got copies of all of our reports, supply figures, as well as both photographs and videotapes of conditions in the pocket. He's to brief you, General Grachev, and a number of candidate members of the Politburo. Such as Comrades Gorbachev, Sergetov, and Yeltsin.” Alekseyev said.

“I've heard his name: Didn't he lead his airborne battalion out of that Midland-Odessa debacle?” Akhromayev asked.

“Yes, Comrade Minister, and he was wounded in the process. He's been on the staff here ever since his release from the hospital. I politely suggest, and suggest strongly, that when he briefs you, that you and your staff listen to him. He's come from here, and the picture he will show is a far cry from what the Defense Council wants to see and hear.”

“Don't worry about that. He'll find a very receptive audience when I see him. Is there anyone else he should see?” Akhromayev asked.

“Comrade Minister, I think that General Mosiyev, the commander of the Moscow Military District, should be briefed, and that Major Sorokin should also see General Arbatov, the commander of the Leningrad MD, as well.”

Marshal Akhromayev knew full well why those two had been suggested. Both generals had been urging Akhromayev that the Soviets cut their losses and come to a negotiated peace with the Americans and their allies. And he also knew why those three candidate Politburo members had been named: they, too, had urged some kind of settlement that would allow the USSR to end the war with its honor intact-what little of it there was left. Fat chance of that happening, Akhromayev knew. The last time the Defense Council had authorized such approaches to the Americans had been prior to the Battle of Wichita. Those talks in Zurich-informal ones,he knew, had ended abruptly when the news from Wichita had hit the newspapers in Europe. And the Americans,along with the Canadian and British representatives, had simply told the Soviets that the issue would be settled on the battlefield from then on, then they all had walked out. There had been several approaches to try and get a settlement since, but all Soviet offers, even very generous ones, had been summarily rejected. And if I was the American Secretary of Defense, Akhromayev thought, I'd be urging the President to do just that. They're not interested, and they mean to have us. “All right, Alekseyev. I'll get out of your hair for the time being. Get some rest, because I doubt that the Americans will let you have much time for that once daybreak over there comes.”

“Yes, Comrade Minister,” Alekseyev said. “And Comrade Minister, let me say that it has been an honor to serve under your command. Just in case circumstances do not allow us to speak again.”

“Thank you, Alekseyev Hopefully, we'll still be able to talk before the end. And good luck.” Then Akhromayev cut the connection.

Alekseyev put the phone down. He went back to the Operations Room, where Chibisov, Dudorov, and Sergetov were waiting. “Anything?”

All three looked at each other. Then Chibisov spoke. “Nothing new, and I suspect there won't be until first light, Comrade Marshal.”

“That's a relief. Dudorov, is that safe-conduct pass prepared?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, it is, Comrade Marshal.”

“Good. Sergetov, when the time comes, bring Commander Carlisle to me. And it won't be long.”

Sergetov nodded. “Of course, Comrade Marshal.”

Alekseyev looked again at the map. “All right. Get some rest, all of you. Because we'll be so busy in the coming days, you'll all be glad you had some sleep tonight. Wake me at 0400, Sergetov,” Alekseyev said.

Colonel Sergetov nodded. “Yes, Comrade Marshal.”

“One other thing. Chibisov, have our coastal defenses stand to. I don't want them caught asleep when those Marines land.” Alekseyev said.

[jemhouston]

The American line during the last attempt of talks, "You go to Hell, we're going to Texas."

[Matt Wiser]

Paraphrasing Davy Crockett, but yeah, it was that. And Thomas Pickering, the Chief American negotiator at the talks, said to his Soviet counterpart, while the British and Canadians listened, "See you on the Rio Grande. Talk to us then." After throwing a copy of Le Monde on the table with headlines about Wichita and PRAIRIE FIRE...


2355 Hours: Federal Building, Brownsville:

Ambassador Markarev's car pulled up to the building that housed the offices of the “Liberation Government,” and as he got out, he noticed the Cuban Ambassador, Lorenzo, coming up as well. “Good evening, Hector,” Markarev said pleasantly as Lorenzo got out of his own car.

“Some evening,” Lorenzo spat. “I know you're trying to be optimistic, but there's damned little to be optimistic about.”

“I know. From what Marshal Alekseyev's told me, it could be over in forty-eight hours. Maybe less.” Markarev said.

“That fast?”

“Yes, if the Imperialists land their Marines and airborne troops. Alekseyev has hardly anything left to oppose such landings, and if they do land....” Markarev's voice trailed off as he drew a finger across his throat.

Lorenzo shook his head. “Well, I for one, do not plan to be here if they do land. President Castro's orders: I'm to take my staff out as soon as possible.”

“That's the reason I'm here as well: Foreign Minister Tumansky has ordered me and my staff out as well. So I guess we both bid farewell to President Hall and this place called Texas.”

Lorenzo nodded as both diplomats went into the building's foyer. They noticed the armed ALA and PSD personnel, as well as some KGB officers: the “advisors” to the PSD. Unlike their last visit, the generator had run out of fuel, and so they had to go up four flights of stairs to Hall's office. When they got there, they saw Vice-President Davis shouting on the phone, her office lit by candlelight, and documents being taken down below. Maybe someone had finally convinced that bitch to destroy her papers, Makarev thought. Then they came to Hall's office. The President's secretary shook their hands, then went in to announce them.

“President Hall will see you now,” the man said when he returned.

Both ambassadors went in, and they found Hall sitting at his desk, staring out the window behind his desk. The two diplomats looked at each other, then Makarev spoke, “Comrade President?”

Hall turned around, and his eyes lit up when he saw the two ambassadors. “Ambassador Makarev, and Ambassador Lorenzo. I am truly glad to see the both of you. Please, have a seat.”

The two sat down. “Comrade President, we have some good news, and, I'm sorry to say, some bad news as well.” Makarev said.

Hall took notice, and Markarev thought the man was coming out of whatever fantasy world he was living in. “Good news for a change? Please, tell me.”

“Two of the planes with those staff members that you had wished evacuated have arrived in Cuba. They will make preparations to receive the rest of your staff, and of course, you and your cabinet tomorrow,” Makarev reported.

“And the bad? Hall asked.

Lorenzo spoke next. “Comrade President, I'm sorry to report that the third plane did not arrive. It was shot down about a hundred kilometers off the coast. There were no survivors, it seems.”

Hall nodded sadly. “I understand.”

“And Comrade President, there is one other thing: both of our respective diplomatic missions are shutting down,” Makarev said.

“So it has come to that?” Hall asked. “And thus the dream has really come to an end.”

“I am afraid so,” Lorenzo said. “However, thanks to President Fidel, you will be able to continue the struggle from Havana, until you and your government can get to Moscow.”

Hall nodded. “And do we know what the Fascists have in mind once they're through here?” he asked.

“No, Comrade President,” Makarev said. “There's no consensus. Some say they'll continue south into Mexico, and march all the way to Mexico City. Others feel that the Imperialists will force Mexico to sign a separate peace, and then attack Cuba,” the Russian said, looking at his Cuban counterpart. “And then there are those who believe that they'll blockade and bomb Cuba, while moving forces to fight in Canada.”

“So no one really knows what the Reactionaries have in mind?” Hall asked.

“That is correct, Comrade President,” Lorenzo said. “Our own intelligence is just as divided.”

Hall nodded again. “Whichever way, the dream of a socialist America is over,” he said with tears in his eyes. He then looked at the Soviet ambassador. “When do we-my remaining staff and cabinet-leave?”

Makarev chose his words carefully. “That, I do not know exactly, but it'll likely be after noon. I will, of course, try and get a more exact time of departure.”

“Thank you, Ambassador, for everything. I only wish that things had turned out differently, but one cannot change the past, no matter what he wishes.” Hall said. “I do plan on leaving something for the Imperialists to find, however.”

Makarev and Lorenzo exchanged glances. “What do you mean, Comrade President?” Lorenzo asked.

“I've made some videotapes, explaining my position. Vice-President Davis has done the same, and others have left written statements. Hopefully, people will understand, and the American people will realize my actions were all in good faith.”

Not much chance of that, Makarev thought. He looked at Lorenzo, who seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Perhaps so, Comrade President.”

“Perhaps,” Hall said.

Makarev and Lorenzo stood. “At least, we'll see you off, Comrade President, and then we'll get out of here ourselves.”

“Thank you, again, for everything. And I will be glad to see you again tomorrow.” Hall said.

All three shook hands and then the two ambassadors left. After they got to the foyer and left the building, only then did the two ambassadors talk freely. “What are the chances he and his cabinet get to Havana?” Lorenzo asked.

Makarev looked back towards the building. Then he turned to the Cuban. “No better than fifty-fifty at best. If the Americans put everything they have in the air tomorrow, Hall and his people will be lucky if only one plane gets through.”


0015 Hours: 4 September, 1989. 398th Coastal Defense Missile Battalion, Boca Chica State Park, Texas:


Captain Kokarev sat in his command bunker, overlooking the beach. He'd received word from the Admiral, and had stood his men to. Though he had reload missiles, he knew full well that the Americans were not likely to give his men a second chance in that regard. When faced with the firepower that was lurking offshore, one could only do their best, and little else. Even though the best job one could do would hardly dent a battleship or heavy cruiser, and given how obsolete his missiles were, Kokarev felt they had to try anyway.

It wasn't just the missile crews, but he'd formed excess personnel into an infantry company, and his men were now at the alert, waiting. He scanned the sea again, seeing nothing, then turned to his deputy.

“Vitaly, if this turns out to be a false alarm,” Kokarev said, shaking his head, “I'd like to know who advised the Admiral to order us to stand to.”

“We've had a couple of alerts before, Comrade Captain, and then there's those Marines on Brazos Island,” the deputy said, referring to the American helicopter assault that had taken that island the previous evening.

Kokarev nodded. At least I don't have to worry about a Zampolit, he thought. The 369th's Political Officer had been wounded in an air attack a week earlier, and had not returned. It actually felt good for a change, not having a Party Stooge watching over his shoulder, giving useless political lectures to the men, and generally getting in the way. When this war is over, he vowed, things need to change, and getting rid of the Zampolits would be a good way to start. “And those Marines can see us, though not as well as we can see them, Vitaly.”

“Quite so, Comrade Captain. But we're ready for whatever comes our way.”

“Get the men to digging more holes. When those battleships come, there's going to be shells raining down, and I want our men under as much cover as possible,” Kokarev said.

The deputy raised an eyebrow. “Even now? Comrade Captain, we've got plenty of protection.”

“Even now. And tell the men if they'd rather be tired or dead while they're digging. Get to it, right away.”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.”


0035 Hours: K-236, the Gulf of Mexico:

“Captain to CCP!” the loudspeaker barked.

Captain Padorin had been in the torpedo room, talking to the torpedomen and the officer-in-charge of the compartment. He raced back to the CCP, where he found Antukyh, the Officer of the Watch, waiting. “Yes?”

“Comrade Captain, we have sonar contacts on the surface bearing zero-four-zero, range 20,000 meters,” Antukyh reported. “No identification as yet.”

Padorin went into the sonar room. The chief sonarman on duty pointed at his display. “How many ships?” Padorin asked.

“Six, Comrade Captain,” the man replied.

The captain nodded. He turned to Antukyh. “Battle Stations.”

The general alarm sounded, and once again, officers and crew raced to their stations. Back to work, the Captain thought. “The Captain has the deck and the con. Bring us to periscope depth.”

The diving officer relayed the command, and soon, the boat was at periscope depth. The Starpom began the track, with Shelpin assisting him. Then the sonar officer reported in. “Six ships bearing zero-three-eight, range 15,000 meters.”

Padorin nodded. “Up scope.” As the periscope came up, he went to take a look. First he swung the periscope around, making sure there were no other contacts, then he saw the outlines of ships when he took the periscope to full magnification. “Several ships, but I can't tell what type. Down scope, and raise the ESM antenna.”

The ESM came up, and the operator noted several radars-both ship and most disturbing, airborne. “One appears to be a helicopter radar, Comrade Captain,” the operator reported. “An LN-66 radar, Comrade Captain.”

“That means an SH-2 is out there,” the Starpom noted.

“We have identification on four ships, Comrade Captain, one Spruance or Kidd, one Charles F. Adams, one Perry, and one Farragut. Nothing yet on the other two,” the sonar officer reported.

Padorin turned to the weapons officer. “Yuri, weapons?”

“Four Klub missiles left, plus two Type-65s, for long-range shooting. A full load of torpedoes if you wish to get closer,” the weapons officer replied.

“We'll do this just like last time. Put two missiles on the Perry, one on the Adams, and one on the Spruance or Kidd. Then whoever takes missile hits, send a torpedo their way. Load two MG-74 decoys in the empty 65 tubes as well. Once the torpedoes are gone, we'll fire the decoys.” Padorin said.

Nodding, the weapons officer relayed the order to the torpedo room. The sonar officer relayed range and bearing, then gave identifications on the last two ships. “One Knox, and one more Adams," the sonar officer reported.

“Very well. Weapons status?”

Tubes loaded and ready in all aspects, Comrade Captain.” the Weapons Officer replied.

“Let me know when you have a shooting solution,” Padorin ordered.

“Aye.” the man replied. A couple of minutes passed, then it came. “Solution light on missiles one through four.”

“Flood tubes, and open outer doors.”

“Tubes ready, Comrade Captain,”

Padorin looked at the Starpom and Shelpin. He turned to the weapons officer. “Fire.”

Four SS-N-27 missiles shot from the tubes, and their booster engines ignited. They soon raced for their targets.

Up above, the American ASW group was east of the amphibious force, expecting that any submarines attempting to interfere would be coming from the east. They were surprised when four missiles came in from the west, but reacted sharply. The Kidd-class destroyer Scott fired two SM-1 missiles at the missile targeting her, and the inbound weapon took a hit and exploded well short of the ship. The destroyer Semmes also fired, and she, too, exploded the weapon targeting her. But the Perry-class frigate Clark wasn't so fortunate. Her CIWS 20-mm gun exploded one missile short of the ship, spraying her with missile fragments, but the second struck home, exploding in the superstructure, engulfing the bridge and CIC in the explosion, and leaving her dead in the water.

“One hit, Comrade Captain,” the sonar officer reported. “The Perry has stopped.”

Padorin nodded again. “Put one Type-65 on her, and have the other Type-65 on the nearest ship.”

“That would be a Knox-class, Comrade Captain,” the sonar officer replied.

“Make it so, Yuri, and fast.” Padorin said.

The weapons officer worked the solution, and nodded. “Tubes ready. Weapons ready, Comrade Captain. Decoys ready.”

“Very well, Yuri.” Padorin said. “Fire.”

Two Type-65 torpedoes shot from K-236 and began running to their targets. Running time: eleven minutes.

“Launch decoys, and get us out of here. Right full rudder, new course one-five-zero, and make depth two hundred meters. Make turns for twenty knots.” Padorin ordered.

Two decoys were also fired, and the MG-74s ran different courses, with Padorin hoping they attracted American attention, maybe convincing them there were two submarines, as K-236 made its getaway.


0040 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suraykin looked at his map one more time. The Americans had halted for the night, and though he was certain at first they'd renew the attack after midnight, so far, though, there'd been no sign of an attack. He turned to his operations officer. “Anything from General Nikonov at 38th Tanks?”

“He reports no sign of enemy activity to his front, Comrade General,” the operations man said.

General Golvoko, the chief of staff, spoke up. “So what's XVIII Airborne Corps doing?”

“That, Golvoko, is a very good question.” Suraykin replied. He turned to his intelligence officer. “Any ideas?”

“Comrade General, with no prisoners to interrogate, I can only speculate,” the intelligence officer responded.

“Then do so,” Suraykin snapped.

“Comrades,” the man said, addressing not only Suraykin, but the other staff officers. “It could be any number of reasons. First, they may be running low on supplies-such as fuel and ammunition, and the Corps commander may have decided to hold up so that he can replenish. Second, it may be a decision from higher up-at Third Army Headquarters,”

“General Powell, you mean.” Suraykin noted.

“Yes, Comrade General,” the man replied. “Powell may have something in mind elsewhere, and wants a coordinated operation as a result. Then there's the real likelihood of what they call 'friendly fire', especially from their aircraft, and Corps may have decided to hold off until morning,” said the intelligence man.

“And it could be a combination of all of those factors,” Golvoko commented.

“Yes, Comrade chief of staff, it could.” the man replied.

General Suraykin nodded silently, digesting the information. Then he pointed at the map. “So, where will the crisis point come?”

Golvoko spoke up. “I'd load up at the airport, Comrade General. Take the 12th Armored Cavalry away from the 29th Division, reinforce the 7th Armored, and come down from that direction. Push 38th Tanks aside, and get into the rear of not only 24th Tanks, but also the 105th Guards Airborne.”

“And if they did that, we'd be making a hasty withdrawal to avoid being cut off, and they'd have us for breakfast,” the operations man said.

“Intelligence?” Suraykin asked.

“The 77-83 junction is still very possible. Make a demonstration at the airport, and punch a hole in our defense at the junction. They've come close at least twice, and there's no reason they won't do it again.” the intelligence officer ventured.

“And a combination of the two would be worst-case, in any eventuality?” Suraykin asked, though this was for the record. He personally believed that was exactly what his counterpart at XVIII Airborne Corps had in mind.

The staff nodded. Golvoko himself feared that possibility worst of all. And if that happened, there wasn't much the 4th Guards could do about it. “Yes, it would, Comrade General.”

Suraykin nodded. “Very well. I imagine sleep will be in short supply in the coming hours. I'm going to get some sleep. That goes for all of you. Golvoko, wake me at 0500. Sooner if anything develops.” Suraykin said. And this will likely be the last day, he thought to himself.


0046 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:


As K-236 dove for the deep, Captain Padorin was standing next to the sonar room, checking the display. Then he turned to the weapons officer. “Yuri, running time?”

“Less than a minute, Comrade Captain,” replied the weapons officer, checking his stopwatch.


Up above, the ASW Group was busy: not only were they working to prosecute and kill whoever had attacked them, but the Americans were also busy fishing sailors from the water as the frigate Clark had been rapidly reduced to a burning wreck. Her captain and executive officer had both been killed, and it had fallen to the ship's damage-control officer, the highest ranking survivor, to order Abandon Ship. Most of the crew who had survived had left the ship, and had either been picked up by boats launched from other ships, or by helicopter. Only a few were still aboard, making sure there was no one left behind who was still alive.

Aboard the destroyer Scott, a sonar operator checked her display, and then she yelled into her headset. “Torpedoes in the water! Two torpedoes bearing two-one-eight!”

The ships began taking evasive action, and also streamed their Nixie torpedo decoys. If these were Type-65s, they had a fair chance of decoying the torpedoes, even though they were wake-homers. And two ships, Scott and the Farragut-class destroyer Dewey, counterfired torpedoes down the bearing of the incoming weapons. Then the Type-65s found their targets.

Clark never had a chance: one torpedo exploded beneath the hull, just aft of amidships, and the explosion blew the frigate in half. Those who hadn't left the ship were killed, and both halves of the frigate quickly sank. Of 206 crew, 122 either went down with the ship or died of injuries later.

The second Type-65 found the Knox-class frigate Valdez, exploding just past the stern. The big fish's warhead blew the stern off the frigate all the way to the helicopter hangar, and caused extensive shock damage to the rest of the ship. Though the frigate was doomed, she managed to stay afloat long enough for the other ships in the group to conduct rescue operations. Still, of a crew of 282, 74 were lost.


“Two hits, Comrade Captain!” the sonar officer reported.

Padorin turned to the weapons officer. “Well done, Yuri.” The weapons officer nodded as Padorin turned back to the sonar officer. “Any incoming torpedoes?”

“No, Comrade Captain. There were two torpedoes-Mark 46s, apparently-but they've run out of fuel.” the sonar officer said.

“Let's get beneath the layer some more,” Padorin decided. He turned to the diving officer. “Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters, and make turns for ten knots. New course: one-five-zero.”

K-236 settled on the new heading, and slipped away from the hunt taking place astern.


0100 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas:

Colonel Herrera woke up with a start. He'd been sleeping in his command vehicle, and unknowingly echoing General Suraykin, he silently thanked whoever it was that had given him a sleeping bag. It was a lot better than just a blanket, and much more comfortable. Herrera looked around at first, then decided to check on things before getting some more sleep. He walked over to the command point was, and found his executive officer keeping watch. “Major.”

“Comrade Colonel, I didn't see you.” the executive officer replied.

“Not to worry Fernando. I just decided to check on how things are before going back to sleep. Anything happening, or are they asleep just as we are?” Herrera asked.

The executive officer shook his head. “Nothing going on, Comrade Colonel. They're asleep, it looks like.”

Herrera went to an observation point, and peered out in the distance with a starlight scope. He knew full well the Americans could see farther with their thermal sights than he could see himself, but what he saw verified the executive officer's report. Herrera went back to the command point, nodding. “Maybe you're right, Fernando. Still, make sure the men on watch are alert.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” the exec replied.

“I'm going to get some more sleep. Wake me if anything develops.” Herrera said, walking back to his command vehicle.

The exec nodded. “It will be done, Comrade Colonel,” the man said.

Herrera nodded, and climbed back into his command BTR-60. The driver was on watch, but the rest of the vehicle's crew was asleep on the ground. He got back into his sleeping bag and went back to sleep.

[Matt Wiser]

0120 Hours: Soviet 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Independent Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:


Major Butakov peered outside the window of his command post. It was strange, not seeing the tracer duels that had been an hourly occurrence at night, ever since his regiment had arrived and taken up its positions. The occasional crack of a rifle, though, showed that it was still dangerous, for snipers were still active-on both sides, and on occasion, someone's bullet found a target. Other than that, it was eerily quiet, with no artillery fire, no sounds of tanks or other armored vehicles moving about, in fact, hardly anything at all. And that made him uneasy. Then he crawled into a room away from the shooting and found his regimental staff, still at work. “So, anything new, either from Division, or from the 41st?” he asked his staff.

His deputy replied. “No, Comrade Major, nothing. But so far, it's like this all over the front, and not just with Division. It's happening everywhere along the line, from what Division has said.”

“They're up to something. I can feel it.” Butakov said, and he saw his chief of staff-along with his deputy, nod. “But what?”

“That, Comrade Commander, we don't know. Without any prisoners....” his intelligence officer said, his voice trailing off.

“I know. They're probably resting up, and getting ready for the morning. They'll be coming down both Highway 77 and Highway 83, and they'll be out for blood,” Butakov said. He turned to his supply officer. “How much is left?”

“Comrade Commander, we have one unit of fire for all regimental weapons. That's all we have. When that's gone,”

“When that's gone, so are we,” Butakov said, and the supply officer nodded. “Talk to Division again. See if we can't get some airdrops close to our position in the morning. Find out if those Air Force blockheads are willing to do whatever it takes to keep us fighting.”

The chief of staff nodded. “Yes, Comrade Major.”

A runner then came into the command post. “Comrade Commander, Colonel Chesnikov wants to see you right away.”

Butakov nodded, and went to follow the runner. Both managed to get to where the command point for the 41st Tank Regiment was, and Colonel Chesnikov was there, sitting beside his T-80. “Comrade Commander, Major Butakov,” the runner said as he reported.

Chesnikov stood up. “Major, Glad to see you still alive,”

“And you, Comrade Colonel. May I ask why I'm here?” Butakov asked.

“You may. How soon can you be ready for all-around defense?” Chesnikov wanted to know.

“Not that long, Comrade Colonel,” was the reply.

“Good. Now, I've got my channel to Army headquarters, and they're worried about the possibility we may get outflanked. It's not likely, but possible, nonetheless. Just be ready in case we have to conduct an all-around defense.” Chesnikov said.

Butakov nodded. “We'll be ready, Comrade Colonel. But whether or not we'll have a lot to fight with...”

“I know, Major. My regiment's in the same position. We've shot off half of our ammunition, and haven't been able to restock from regimental supply due to those aircraft and helicopters. With this lull, maybe we can. If not...my orders are to fight with what I've got left.” said Chesnikov.

Butakov understood what that meant. Fight to the last round, then, and only then, one could give up. Not before. “Is there anything else, Comrade Colonel?”

“No. Just watch the right, and the rear. If it appears we're being pocketed, call it out on the radio. Don't worry about code, just do it in plain language. Get it out-fast.” Chesnikov said.

Butakov saluted and headed back to his command post. And this time, he barely made it back, for twice, snipers took shots at him and they'd barely missed.


0200 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

General Petrov woke up from a fitful sleep. He'd been camped out in his office, sleeping on a cot, and had been asleep for four hours, when a staff officer came in. “Comrade General, this just came for you,” the man said as Petrov woke up.

“What is it?” he asked groggily.

“Comrade General, I suggest you read the message,” the staffer said, handing Petrov a message form.

Petrov took it and read it by flashlight. “All right. When do they expect to be here?”

“Comrade General, perhaps a second message will tell us. All we were told was to expect some Mi-26s in from Mexico this morning.”

The Mi-26 was the largest transport helicopter in the world-just beating out the American CH-53E for that honor. And it could carry 85 troops or plenty of supplies. Oh, there'd been numerous helicopter flights into and out of the pocket, mainly Mi-8s or Mi-17s, but no heavy lift like the Mi-6 or the Mi-26. Now, for whatever reason, there would be the heavy lifters coming in. And Petrov knew that those would be easy and tempting targets for American fighters, no doubt about it. “Very well,” Petrov said. “Notify our Frontal Aviation comrades in Victoria and Monterrey. See if they can't get some fighter sorties to cover the helicopter lift.”

“Right away, Comrade General.”

“And one other thing,” Petrov said.

The staffer stopped. “Comrade General?”

“Specialists are priority for those going out via the helicopter lifts. Is that clear?” Petrov asked.

“It is, Comrade General,” the staffer responded.

“Good. Now, unless there's an attack, I'm going back to sleep. Wake me at 0400 if there's no attacks,” Petrov ordered.

“Yes, Comrade General,” the staffer said, closing the office door behind him.

Well, now. Thank you, Lukin. We never did know why the helicopters weren't used earlier, but now.....but it's not going to be enough. Another 'too little and too late' item we should've done from the start. At least some of those who need to get out of here will get that chance. Now, will this be our Saigon, or will it still turn out to be a bloodbath in the sky, Petrov thought.


0220 Hours: 38th Tank Division, Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Harlingen, Texas:


General Nikonov stepped out of his command vehicle, and went to the where the 327th Tank Regiment's command post was situated, just south of the airport perimeter. A soldier on watch stopped him, but when he recognized the general, called for the Sergeant of the Guard. Nikonov went to the regimental command post, where Colonel Anatoly Pushkin was waiting. “Comrade General,”

“Pushkin,” Nikonov said. “All quiet? I wanted to have a look for myself, before things get started.”

“All is quiet to the north, Comrade General,” Pushkin replied. “It looks like they're all asleep.”

“Not for long, Colonel. I take it you're on normal night watch?”

“Absolutely, Comrade General!” Pushkin replied. A normal night watch had one-third of the men awake at all times, with the rest asleep. What worried Niknonov, though, was that the Americans could be coming, and they'd see his men before they could see the Americans.

“Good, Colonel. Is your regimental reconnaissance out?” Niknonov asked.

“Yes, Comrade General,” Pushkin replied. “They've gone north about two kilometers, and have only found wrecked vehicles and aircraft-along with bodies. As you instructed, they halted before going any further.”

Nikonov nodded. “Excellent,Colonel. At least we'll have some warning for when they come, or at least, I hope we will.”

“Yes, Comrade General. But so far, there's not a sign of the enemy.” Pushkin said.

“That won't last. Come daybreak, there's going to be tanks and fighting vehicles coming down those runways, and all over the airport. M-60A4s with those 120 guns, and Bradleys and their TOW missiles. And the sky's going to be full of aircraft-mostly theirs, but ours as well. Remind your air-defense people not to knock down our own planes.”

Pushkin nodded. “They've been told, Comrade General.”

“Tell them again,” Nikonov ordered. As he turned to leave, he said one more thing. “Pushkin? There's this: if we go, the entire Army will be outflanked. And they'll have 28th Army as well. Give them our best, no matter what.”

“We will, Comrade General!” Pushkin said, with a little too much enthusiasm in his voice.

As General Nikonov returned to his command vehicle, he knew that most of the 327th was going to die come morning. He'd talked to some survivors from 20th Tanks and even the Rogachev Guards. The Americans had been very methodical-and very precise. Every tank, every armored personnel carrier or infantry fighting vehicle, every artillery or antitank gun, and every truck, had been destroyed or simply knocked out. And he fully expected the same fury to descend on his division come first light. A pity about Colonel Pushkin, though. Three years at Freunze as an instructor, and he finally gets the combat command he desired. Only now, his first battle in America is going to be his last. He'd seen his share of commanders with too much enthusiasm before, and he'd been a regimental commander then, at a place hardly any Russian had heard of until May, 1987. A place called Wichita.



0245 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas:

Major Lazarev peered out to sea from the ground floor of his headquarters. Mentally, he cursed whoever had ordered his unit-and the other units tasked with coastal defense-to a full alert status. As if the Americans would risk a landing now, in the dead of night. No, they'd wait, until daybreak, and before that, they'd bombard the defenses with not only carrier aircraft, but those battleships. And word of the Brazos Island landing had been passed around, so he imagined that was why his unit (among others) had been alerted.

Now, as he peered through his binoculars, he saw nothing. Shaking his head, he went up to the fifth floor, where the lookouts from the now-wrecked destroyer Boiky had set up their observation point after an American cruiser had shelled the area-and rooftop access was now hazardous, at best. There, he found Captain Lieutenant Kamarov, the former executive officer of the Boiky, sitting behind some very powerful glasses. Kamarov turned, and spotted Lazarev, “Good morning, Comrade Major,”

“The same to you, Kamarov,” Lazarev replied.”Anything from your vantage point?”

“Nothing so far,” the destroyer officer said. “My guess is that they'll wait until daybreak to show themselves. Then we'll be in for it.”

“That's assuming they land here,” Lazarev pointed out.

“True, but even if their appearance here is a diversion, there's nothing diversionary about those forty-centimeter shells they'll be dropping in on us.” Kamarov reminded the naval infantry officer.

Lazarev shook at that. He remembered how bad it had been when the cruiser Des Moines had shelled the area, and those had been twenty-centimeter rounds. And there were four battleships that could, in theory, be pounding away at his defenses, clearing the way for the U.S. Marines to land. “Quite so, Comrade. Quite so. But there's nothing at the moment?'

“Not a sign.” Kamarov said. “Our field phone still works. You'll get word if we sight anything.”

“Let me know the instant you sight any ships coming in,” Kamarov ordered. “At least, we can get to shelter and ride out the bombardment.”

Kamarov thought for a moment. Was the naval infantryman crazy, or just optimistic? But, he remembered, there were other possible landing sites, and those battleships couldn't be everywhere at once. “There is that, Comrade Major.”


0305 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, U.S. 281, southwest of Rangerville, Texas:

Colonel Herrera woke up in his command vehicle, and this time, he was fully awake and alert. He checked his watch, and found that he'd gotten about five hours of sleep. It would have to do, he knew, and today promised to be as busy as the previous one. The Colonel got out of his command vehicle, where several of his men were still asleep on the ground, and quietly went over to the regiment's command post. There, he found his executive officer, and several staff officers, quietly talking. “Comrades?”

The executive officer turned. “Comrade Colonel, you're up early.”

“I'm fully awake, and decided to go ahead and get up, Fernando. Is there anything new?”

The executive officer motioned for one of the staff orderlies to get a cup of coffee for the Colonel. After he did so, he reported, “No, Comrade Colonel, nothing yet. Though Major Murayev was here a half-hour ago. He's sent some of his men out ahead of us. When the Americans come, we'll get some warning at least.”

Herrera nodded. The Soviet air-assault troopers were showing just how tough they were-and how their officers could use their heads when things demanded it. Murayev had been an Afghan vet before coming to America, and he'd brought that experience with him. Perhaps that explained his continued survival: a year in Afghanistan, and four years here, and the man hadn't even had so much as a scratch. “Very good , Fernando. Go get some rest yourself, I'll take over here, until stand-to.” When the executive officer hesitated, Herrera reminded him, “That's an order, Fernando.”

The man nodded, and went off to his own vehicle to get some sleep. As he did so, Herrera told the duty staff, “Wake up your counterparts, and get them here. Then get some rest yourselves. You'll be glad you did.” As they did so, Major Murayev came in. “Ah, Major. Have your men reported anything?”

The air-assault officer shook his head. “No, Comrade Colonel. Nothing serious. Though they did draw some fire as they set up. Probably from someone who thought he'd seen something and opened fire. No casualties, though.”

Herrera nodded. It was a common enough occurrence, and often not worth reporting. “How many do you have out?”

“Two platoons, Comrade Colonel,” the Soviet major replied.

“Good. Because until we stand-to at daybreak, they're the only warning we'll have,” Herrera said.


To the north, along the highway, Captain Nancy Kozak's company team was in the same position as the Cubans: most of them were still asleep. Though Kozak herself had awakened at 0300, having snatched about five hours' sleep herself. Like Colonel Herrera, she was fully awake, and decided not to go back to sleep. But she checked her map, reading it by a red flashlight, and thought to herself, Soon, Fidel. Soon. We're going to Brownsville today, and just you try and stop us.


0325 Hours: 315th Independent Transport Helicopter Regiment, near Villa Hermosa, Mexico:


Major Gregori Sabin was not a happy man at the moment. Someone, he thought, had lost his head, and as a result, he and his fellow pilots and crew members stood a chance of getting themselves killed in the process. His Regiment-though a regiment in name only-had received orders to start flying into and out of the pocket, bringing supplies in, and taking people out. With what, he asked. Only four Mi-26s remained, and one of those was unserviceable. The Americans had been out looking for any helicopter or transport fields-and bombing them heavily whenever they found them. And whenever a helicopter was found in the air, it was an easy target for any American aircraft, and he knew full well that any self-respecting fighter pilot would gladly go for a helicopter and rack up an easy kill. And a fully laden Mi-26 was easy prey for such fighter pilots.

Sabin's regiment had been stationed in Kaunas, Lithuania, prior to deploying to Mexico, and he'd seen a great deal of action since the war began in 1985. San Antonio, Austin, Fort Worth, Tulsa, the Ozarks, he'd been there for all of it. And then they'd been kicked back south, and he'd flown missions evacuating wounded and flying in supplies to places like Dallas, before getting sent unceremoniously packing again. And now, the 315th was back where they'd started, but only this time, his squadron was a shadow of its former self. And the same went for the regiment: Of two Mi-8 squadrons and two Mi-26 squadrons, there were only five Mi-8s left total, and only four Mi-26s. And due to casualties, he was the acting regimental commander, something he'd rather not have. At least I don't have a Zampolit, he thought, and that's the only good thing about it. He went over to the air command post, where he found his deputy, who was busy checking the maintenance records. “Yuri,”

Captain Yuri Kovpak looked up from the records he was checking. “Major. Just checking all the records of the available helicopters.”

“Good. Because I have a feeling this is going to be our Saigon today. I want all three aircraft flying as long as possible.” Sabin said.

“That bad? The fixed-wing airlift's been a mess, and I thought they were keeping us out.” Kovpak said.”Our loss rate's been prohibitive.”

“It's that bad. And probably going to be worse. Between you and me, they've got two days left there. At the most. There's a lot of people-wounded and others-who need to get out. And we may be their last chance if the airlift closes.” Sabin reminded his deputy.

“At least we won't have to refuel. Just get everyone out, load up on supplies, and get back in,” Kovpak said. “What about air cover? If those F-16s or F-20s find us....”

“No guarantees, but we should have fighters overhead. Should, Yuri,” Sabin said, remembering the mission orders they'd received the previous afternoon.

“Should,” Kovpak said. “How many times have we seen American fighters get in among the transports? And not a single MiG or Sukoi in sight.”

“Enough. But we have no choice but to try.” Sabin reminded his friend.

“When do we start, then?” Kovpak asked. Soon, they'd have to wake everyone up who was needed.

“Daybreak. And we'll be at it all day, or until we're either shot down or forced down with a mechanical,” Sabin pointed out.

Kovpak thought for a moment. He knew full well what their odds of getting through the day were. But like his CO, he was a professional to the end. “I'd rather take the mechanical. Then I know I'll get home-eventually.”



0350 Hours: 177th Independent Reconnaissance Battalion, 38th Tank Division, Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Harlingen, Texas:


Captain Ivan Penkov scanned the northern horizon from his BTR-70. He commanded the 38th Tanks' reconnaissance battalion, and he knew the Americans were out there, somewhere. General Nikonov himself had given him his orders: report the enemy advance, then fall back. Information was needed, not heroics, and the General had repeatedly stressed that, not only to Penkov, but to his company commanders. Though his long-range reconnaissance company was out, he doubted they'd return, for he'd heard tank fire and what sounded like cannon fire from a Bradley several times, followed by fireballs. All he knew was that they had not reported since passing the line of departure, and after that, nothing. He'd reported that to division, and was told to continue his mission.

Now, he scanned the runways and their approaches. Burned-out vehicles and corpses littered the whole area, and the airport buildings had been reduced to rubble, and his own reconnaissance vehicles and tanks lurked among them, watching and waiting. Penkov knew the Americans could see farther at night than he could, and it was very likely the first sign that they were about would be one or more of his vehicles exploding. At least he'd ordered his dismounts outside, and some of them had occupied the wrecked buildings, using them as observation points.

His Zampolit came up to him. Senior Lieutenant Vladimir Gorenko, though a political officer, was no party hack. He was a combat veteran, having been in the company for over a year, and was well liked by the other officers, as well as the men. And for once, Penkov thought, if anything happens to me, I'd rather have Gorenko take over than someone who thinks Party dogma is a substitute for doctrine. “Vladimir, anything?”

“Nothing, Comrade Captain. Nothing at all. They must be asleep to the north.” Gorenko responded.

“That won't last. From what the General said, they'll be coming down on us at first light, and we'll be in for it.” Penko reminded his political officer.

“That's likely to be an understatement, Comrade Captain,” Gorenko said. “Still can't believe the 20th Tanks and the Rogachev Guards got shot to pieces. Those two divisions were among the best.”

“Not anymore,” Penko said. “What's left of them is just so much scrap.”

Unknown to Penko or Gorenko, some American LRRP troopers were slipping into the airport. They'd easily avoided the Soviets-the lack of dismounts in quantity had enabled that, and now, they were reporting back on the Soviet strength at the airport. Their information confirmed what the Air Force had reported: reinforcements at the airport, and in division strength. The commander of the 7th Armored smiled. The Soviets had reinforced a failure, and he was more than willing to make them pay for that. He looked at his watch. Not that long, he knew. And then the Soviets would find themselves in a world of hurt. And he wasn't planning to stop until he reached the 77-83 Freeway. Then he planned to turn left and keep on going.


0405 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

General Chibisov entered the Operations Room. He'd been awakened only a few minutes previously, and despite Marshal Alekseyev's orders to be awakened at 0400, the Chief of Staff knew that the Marshal needed sleep, much more than he or the rest of the staff did. Chibisov decided to let Marshal Alekseyev get some more rest, before waking him. He went over to the map, and found the deputy operations officer. “Anything new?” Chibisov asked.

“No, Comrade General, nothing. We've gotten regular updates from the various headquarters, but so far, nothing unusual.”

Chibisov nodded, and looked at the map again. “I don't like it at all,” he said. “Powell is up to something.”

“Yes, Comrade General, but what?” the staffer replied.

“That is a very good question,” Chibisov said as General Dudorov came into the room. “General,”

“Comrade Chief of Staff,” Dudorov said. “Where's the Marshal?”

“He needs his sleep. Let him sleep in for a while longer. If nothing's happening, I'd rather let him sleep some more.” Chibisov said.

Dudorov nodded. “Yes. And so far, nothing is happening?”

“Not even at sea,” Chibisov replied.

Then one of the phones rang, and a staffer took the call. “Comrade Chief of Staff, it's South Padre Island. Some of the obstacles on the beach have been blown up,” the man said.

“Beach obstacles?” Dudorov asked. “That means there's going to be a landing.”

“Or simply a diversion,” Chibisov commented. “Where, exactly?”

“On the southern tip of the Island, Comrade General,” the staffer said.

Chibisov turned to Dudorov. “Now something's happening. I'll go wake the Marshal.”

Dudorov nodded agreement, as Chibisov went to Alekseyev's office. He knocked, and then entered. “Comrade Marshal?”

Alekseyev opened his eyes. “Hmm. It's you, Pavel Pavlovitich. What time is it?”

“0410, Comrade Marshal. You needed some more sleep time, Though it was only ten minutes, I'm afraid. But something has happened, and it may be nothing, or the prelude to something.”

Alekseyev stood up. “I'll shave first. Then go to the operations room. You can tell me then. And get Colonel Sergetov.”

Chibisov nodded and left the office. Alekseyev quickly shaved and took care of his morning routine, then went into the Operations Room. He found Sergetov there, waiting. “Comrades,”

“Good morning, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said.

“Now, what's happened?”

Chibisov took a pointer. “Someone, not quite a half-hour ago, blew up some of the beach obstacles on South Padre Island. Obviously it was a SEAL operation, but for what purpose?”

Alekseyev nodded. “Either a landing is planned, or there's the first diversionary action. Either way, they're coming ashore. Today.”

“It looks that way, Comrade Marshal.” Chibisov said.

Alekseyev turned to Sergetov. “Inform General Andreyev. Tell him it's coming. Today.”

[jemhouston]

Suasage being made.

[Wolfman]

Suasage being made.

The wood chipper is being fired up…

[Matt Wiser]

The catastrophic day has spawned a sequel....

0420 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

General Petrov left his office, and went outside to find his engineering officer. Operations were planned to resume at first light, and he wanted a runway status update. On the way to the engineers, he noticed the number of wounded had grown. And he knew full well that there was no way all of them would get a ride out. Still, we have to try, he thought. And so it has come to this: the American adventure is in its final throes. If he'd had his way, there would have been an honorable way out months earlier, but since no one had been interested.... Still, he was a professional to the end, and he would do his duty.

Petrov came to the engineers, and found his engineering officer. “Well, Colonel? Runway status, please.”

“Comrade General,” the man replied. “I've got crews out, repairing last evening's craters. Two craters, one each at two runway junctions. Both should be finished by 0500.”

“Very good,” Petrov replied. “And the drop zones?”

“Being checked now, Comrade General,” the Colonel said. “So far, nothing. But the check's only half finished. My men are dead tired, as you know, and things aren't going as fast as they usually would.”

Petrov nodded. “I know, Comrade Colonel. But ask your men: Would they rather be tired or dead?”

“Point taken, Comrade General. We'll get these runways finished by 0500. A foreign-object sweep, then we'll be ready for operations.” the SAF colonel replied.

“Very good. Keep at it,” Petrov said.

The SAF man nodded as Petrov left to return to the Operations Room. He stopped to check the aircraft status board: two An-26s had been trapped overnight, and would leave first thing as soon as the runways were declared safe and ready. Also leaving would be an Il-76 and that Libyan AF C-130. How that plane had managed to get in and out without being shot down by either side was something that amazed him, but he decided not to ask. Maybe it's the fact that it's the last thing the Americans would expect, he thought. Then his communications officer came to him. “Comrade General, the first aircraft have left Cuban fields. We should have the first aircraft making drops at 0700.”

“Excellent, Major,” Petrov said. “You should also be thinking about the destruct bill: if worse comes to worse, how fast can you destroy your codes and classified materials?”

“I've got a couple of burn barrels prepared, Comrade General. It won't take long, I can promise you.”

“Good. Because it's likely that today may be our last day here. Be ready to implement the destruct bill at any moment.” said Petrov.


0445 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, East of Brownsville, Texas:


General Andreyev was meeting with his regimental commanders, as well as with Colonel Sergei Glavchenko, the commander of the 47th Tank Brigade. Andreyev looked over the officers, and he'd served with the airborne officers ever since the beginning of the war, with the drop into Colorado. Now, it was down to this, and what might very well be the last day of the war-in this part of North America, anyway. Glavchenko, he only knew by reputation, but he'd carved out a name for himself as a hard-charging armor officer, who'd also been a little reckless at times, especially in the early days, but now...it wasn't recklessness that was needed, but caution.

“So, that's it, Comrades. We're now on full alert, and our task is simple: halt any inland progress of a Marine landing for as long as possible.” Andreyev said.

Colonel Suslov, who led the 234th Guards Air Assault Regiment, nodded. “And where do we deploy, Comrade General?”

“Right now, we haven't been released. There are two possible landing sites: the first is on South Padre Island, though that's not likely due to the fact that the Queen Isabella causeway is rigged for demolition, though a SEAL operation to disarm the charges can't be ruled out.” Andreyev remarked.

“And the second?” Colonel Mikhail Ivanov, who had the 236th Guards Air Assault Regiment, asked.

“Right here, at the eastern end of Highway 4,” Andreyev said. It's more likely to be a landing site, due to the beach, and a good road leading away from the beach.”

Andreyev's intelligence officer spoke next, “Those tidal flats and lagoons will help, Comrade General.”

“They're still within range of Naval Gunfire, and our task is to hold them outside the range of those battleship and cruiser guns,” Andreyev replied. “I think we can assume that we're headed along Highway 4, as South Padre Island is not a likely landing site.”

Colonel Glavchenko noted the area, “Not much room to maneuver, Comrade General.”

Andreyev nodded. “True, but right now, there's not much choice. The Americans will choose the landing site, but we'll choose the battlefield. Here, just as the beach area along with the tidal flats and marshes ends, and more solid-and defensible terrain, begins.”

“Has the Navy done anything?” Colonel Suslov asked.

“Not much: there's a coastal-defense missile battalion with four launchers, and they've had minefields, but those are mainly to protect the shipping channel,” Alekseyev replied. “And Comrades, the beach itself has but a single battalion defending it. And of all the possibles, it's a penal battalion.” Alekseyev said, allowing that bit of information to sink in.

“A penal unit?” Major Nikolai Boborov, who commanded the 235th Air Assault Regiment, asked, dumbstruck.

“Yes, Comrades,” Andreyev said. “And I imagine that they'll hinder the Americans for all of a half-hour at the most. Longer if the guard company hasn't taken to its heels.”

Andreyev's officers nodded. It had happened before: a penal unit left to hold an impossible situation, and had not resisted hardly at all. “That, Comrade General, won't be a surprising development,” Suslov remarked.

“Yes. Right, then: Suslov, your regiment is divisional reserve. Boborov, you and Ivanov are up front. The 235th is on the left side of Highway 4, 236th on the right. And Colonel Glavchenko, your brigade is right behind the 234th. Be prepared to pass through and counterattack on my order.” Andreyev said. “Any more questions?”

“Just one, Comrade General,” Boborov said. “What's our ammunition state?”

“One unit of fire for all heavy weapons, and two days' worth of small-arms and other infantry weapons. That's it.” Andreyev said. “All right, if that's it, get back to your units, and be ready to move.”


0510 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Golvoko went to the door of the warehouse the command vehicles were parked in. He looked towards the east, and saw the first hint of light beginning to appear on the horizon. He nodded, and went back inside. Soon, he knew. And he knew that he'd best wake General Suraykin. He walked over to the command vehicle, and knocked on the hatch. Then he opened it. “Comrade General?”

Suraykin stirred in his sleeping bag. “Oh, Golvoko. What's the time?”

“It's 0510, Comrade General. You needed some more sleep, so forgive me for not waking you earlier.”

Suraykin got out of his sleeping bag, and climbed out of the vehicle as Golvoko got out of the way. “One thing that all generals seem to have: a chief of staff who's more like mother hen. No matter what army they're in.”

“Quite so, Comrade General.” Golvoko reported. “So far, things are quiet, all along the front.”

Suraykin nodded as he went to shave. “That won't last. Once dawn breaks, they'll be coming at us, and it won't be long before we'll be unable to stop them. Have breakfast waiting in the operations section, and brief me then.”

Golvoko nodded as Suraykin went to shave and brush his teeth. Then he came into the operations section and checked the map. “So far, not a thing?”

“They have been quiet since late last night, Comrade General,” Golvoko reported. “Minor patrol activity, and in the more urban areas of Harlingen, there's been continued sniper activity as well.”

Suraykin nodded as a breakfast of bread, cheese, a boiled egg, and tea, was served by his orderly. “Anything else of note?”

His air force liaison spoke next. “We'll be getting some helicopter lift in,once it's light enough, Comrade General. Mi-8s for the most part. And a maximum effort by Frontal Aviation as well.”

“And the airlift?” Suraykin asked.

“Some drops, but most of what we can expect is going to be by helicopter. For as long as they're flying.” the Air Force man said.

“And with the American fighter activity, that won't last,” Golvoko observed.

“One thing at a time, Comrades,” Suraykin noted. “Their fighters can't be everywhere at once, and I'm sure our helicopter comrades will do whatever they can to support us.” He turned to the air force man. “Will they be taking passengers out?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“All right, then.” Suraykin turned to his staff. “Get a list of all those who absolutely can't fall into enemy hands, all of you. Have them ready to leave on those helicopters. And do it fast.”

Heads nodded. Then the phone rang, and Golvoko answered. “Comrade General, it's General Nikonov at the airport.”

Suraykin swallowed a piece of cheese and took the phone. “Yes? When? All right, Nikonov, do your best, and I'll get whatever the Air Force can spare up to you.” He hung up the phone.

“Comrade General?” Golvoko asked.

“They're coming. The 7th Armored Division is starting to move.”


0515 Hours:177th Independent Reconnaissance Battalion, 38th Tank Division, Harlingen, Texas:


Captain Pankov watched through his binoculars, and bent forward to look through his night sight. Even though the first light of dawn was breaking, there they were: American tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles, moving towards the airport, and using the wrecked Soviet vehicles as cover. He could see as tank and Bradley turrets swiveled back and forth, searching for targets. So far, not a shot had been fired, but that wouldn't last long. He called his two remaining companies, ordering them to fall back, and then he contacted division. And it was the division's intelligence officer who answered.

“You're certain about that, Panther?” the intelligence officer replied, giving Pankov's call sign.

“Rapier, this is Panther,” Pankov replied. “They're coming. Estimate two brigade strength.”

“Panther, this is Rapier Ten,” a new voice came in over the radio. “No heroics. Fall back and pass through friendly lines.” Pankov recognized the voice: it was General Nikonov, the divisional commander.

“Understood, Rapier Ten. Pulling off now.” And Pankov then relayed the order to pull out. Then he saw it: his two heavy companies taking both Bradley and tank fire. BRDMs and BMPs exploded, and the T-64Bs assigned to the tank platoons returned fire. One or two Bradleys took hits and were disabled, but the big M-60A4-120s turned their attention onto the T-64s, and within moments, all of the Soviet tanks were ablaze. And then Pankov saw a sight that chilled him: an M-60A4 laying its gun on him. He swiveled the BTR-70's turret around, and opened fire with the 14.5-mm gun, but it was way too little, and too late. The 120-mm gun spoke, and the BTR exploded. Pankov's last sensation was of incredible heat, then the fuel tanks blew.

All along the front line of 38th Tank Division, the American 7th Armored Division crashed into the Soviets, and a vicious tank battle began. It was soon obvious that the T-64Bs of the 38th were no match for the big M-60A4s and their 120-mm guns. Slowly but surely, the 38th began to give way.


0550 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:


The whop-whop of helicopters startled General Petrov. At first, he thought it was an American helicopter-borne assault, but then he saw that the helicopters were Mi-26s. He slapped the back of his deputy, then went over to where the first helicopter was dropping its sling load. After it dropped its load, the big helicopter came in to land. Nodding his approval, he told his deputy to get the cargo sorted and distributed at once. Then he went over to thank the pilot. “Where did you come from?” Petrov asked, yelling over the engine noise.

“Major Sabin, Comrade General. From Villa Hermosa.” the pilot said.

“Good. How many can you take aboard?” Petrov asked.

“Eighty-five to ninety, Comrade General,” Sabin replied. “Less if you want me to rig for stretcher cases.”

“Don't worry about that, you won't be taking any,” Petrov said. He waved over the first group of specialists-a mix of planeless MiG or Sukhoi pilots, some intelligence personnel, and even a couple of Navy officers. “Specialists only for you heavy lift boys.”

Sabin nodded. “We can keep this up all day, Comrade General,” he said as the passengers got in. “How close to the front do you want us?”

“The Mi-26s? This is as far as you go. The Mi-8s need to get up close-there's an airborne division in Harlingen, and they need everything. Get them up there as soon as you can.” Petrov ordered.

“I'll relay the order, Comrade General,” Sabin said. And he did so, speaking into his helmet microphone. “The -8s are headed that way, Comrade General.”

“All right,” Petrov said. And he noticed Sabin's crew chief giving the thumbs-up sign. The big helicopter was loaded. “Get back down south, then back here as soon as you can.”

“I'll do that, Comrade General,” Sabin said. “Get clear!”

Petrov backed away from the big helicopter's rotor blades, and watched as the Mi-26 lifted off. It didn't take long to make the turn and head south, back into Mexico. And he watched as two more Mi-26s came in. “Get those loads, and then get the helicopters loaded,” Petrov shouted at his deputy. “Move!”


0605 Hours: 398th Coastal-Defense Missile Battalion, Boca Chica Beach area, Texas:


Captain Kokorev scanned the eastern horizon from his command bunker. It was getting more and more light out, though the sun was not yet above the horizon. He cursed again whoever had put his unit on alert, and did it loud and long. And so far, there had been no sign of an American landing, let alone any American ships. “Another wasted night,” he said to his deputy.

“Shall I order the men to stand down, Comrade Commander?” replied the deputy. He, too, was grumpy about pulling another all-night alert.

“Not yet. I'll scan the horizon again,” Kokorev said. He put his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. “Nothing. Nothing so far. Not a.....My God!”

“Comrade Commander?” the deputy asked.

“Get this off to Naval Headquarters: 'American ships off Boca Chica Beach. Three battleships, with several destroyers. Amphibious ships not yet spotted.' GO!” Kokarev yelled.

The deputy nodded, and went to the communications bunker to send the message. Kokarev watched the ships come closer. He yelled at the officer-in-charge of the missile battery. “Get those missiles ready for firing, but do not turn on the radar.”

“Right away, Comrade Commander!” And the four P-20M missile launchers began to elevate and traverse. But would it be in time?

Then Kokarev saw a sight that chilled him. The battleships began to make a run broadside to the beach. And there could only be one reason for that. “Take cover!”

Just as Kokarev yelled for the men to take cover, the battleships opened fire. He watched as flame erupted from the ships, and then came the scream of shells as they came in, followed by the explosions. The beach defenses-those penal troops on the beach and just off it, were clearly getting the worst of it. And it was clear that those forty-centimeter shells were doing a job on the beach, as bunkers either collapsed or blew sky-high, gun positions disappeared in clouds of flame and debris, and the few heavy weapons sites met a similar fate. He turned to his deputy. “Power up the radar, and fire as soon as you get a lock-on. Then get the missile crews to cover!”

“Yes, Comrade Commander!” the man shouted. And very quickly, the missile radar had a lock, and the four P-20M missiles shot off their launchers and headed towards the ships. Kokarev watched as the missiles headed for one of the big ships, and then missile trails came up to meet his own. Three of the P-20Ms exploded, while the last one must have been overcome by jamming, for it staggered away and never found a target. And one of the battleships must have noticed where the missiles came from, for shells began dropping around and on the battalion's positions.

[Matt Wiser]

0615 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Independent Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:


Major Butakov and Colonel Chesnikov watched as the Mi-8 helicopter came in and dropped its sling load. Then the helicopter came into a vacant field and landed. The pilot got out, noticed the officers watching, and came over to them. “Captain Reiter, 315th Helicopter Regiment. Those supplies are yours, Comrades.”

“Glad to see you!” Chesnikov said. “Anything for the airborne boys?”

“Comrade Colonel, everything we brought is for the airborne: small-arms ammunition, some RPG-22s, plus some rations and medical supplies.” Reiter said.

“Can you take wounded out? Butakov asked.

“We can't rig for stretcher cases, but we can get walking wounded,” the pilot replied.

Chesnikov nodded, and turned to his regimental surgeon. “Get two dozen walking wounded to that chopper. Now, Doctor.”

The surgeon nodded, and got the cases together: half were members of the 41st, and half were airborne. After the casualties were loaded, Reiter said, “I'll be back as soon as I can-if the American fighters don't get me.”

Both officers shook hands with the pilot, who then remounted his helicopter and took off. As the Mi-8 disappeared to the south, a familiar whine was heard. Incoming. “Take cover!” Chesnikov yelled.

As the Soviets took shelter, 155-mm shells landed in the field. Clearly, someone had seen the helicopter landing, and had called for fire. Chesnikov and Butakov crawled over to where the 41st's air force controller was crouched down, talking into a radio. “Well?”

“Comrade Colonel, we'll get a few more helicopter sorties-but that applies to the whole division. There's only a few choppers, and too many requests to go around.” the air force officer replied.

The artillery fire lifted, and the two officers stood up. “Comrade Colonel, I'd better get back to my men,” Butakov said. “Things are likely coming to a head.”

Chesnikov nodded, and Butakov got back to his command post. Just before he did so, a rifle shot rang out, and he went down, clutching his shoulder. Butakov tried to get up, but as he did, there was another shot, but this time, he didn't get up again. His deputy crawled to his body, and found that the sniper's bullet had gone through the major's skull. The deputy tried to get the major's body to cover, but he, too, took a bullet to the head, and fell alongside his regimental commander.


0630 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas:

Colonel Herrera was on the radio to 2nd Army Headquarters. And he did not like what he was hearing. The Americans had launched what was likely to be their final assault, but so far, had only hit selected areas of the front. General Perez told him that there had been a major attack at the junction of the Army and 3rd Shock Army, and that both the Cubans and Russians were giving way. “How long can you continue to delay?” Perez had asked. And Herrera replied, “Most of the day, Comrade General. If you want me to make a stand, however....there's nothing between us and Brownsville.”

“That's what I was afraid of, Colonel. Continue to delay. And keep at it as long as possible. There's several ribbon bridges between you and Brownsville, and right now, all traffic is headed south. Keep delaying the Americans as long as you can.” Perez said.

“We'll do just that, Comrade General.” Herrera replied.

“What's your supply situation?” Perez asked.

“Adequate at the moment, and we've even helped ourselves to the contents of a few wrecked supply convoys. The only thing we're short of is any kind of air-defense assets.” Herrera told the General.

“Keep it up, Colonel, and let us know if your position becomes untenable. Out.”

Herrera put down the radio and went over to the map. He turned to his deputy. “Fernando, we're in for it. This position is good, but we'll be falling back before too long.”

The deputy looked at the map. The intelligence officer had finally noted the identity of the American unit they'd been facing: it was part of the 49th Armored Division, and the Cubans knew that this division, having been rebuilt since its mauling during the initial invasion in 1985, was out for blood. “With what we know about this American unit, Comrade Colonel, we certainly are in for it.”

Herrera paused. “What's the unit?”

The deputy looked at the map,then at Colonel Herrera. “The 49th Armored Division, Comrade Colonel.”

Herrera noted that. “I see, well..... We're to continue this delaying action as long as we possibly can. Tell Major Murayev to have the outposts he's put out fully alerted.”

“Right away, Comrade Colonel,” the deputy replied.

Herrera looked at the map again. From what General Perez had told him, the Army was beginning to fall back-and it might soon be in need of a rearguard. Nothing different than what he'd been doing the last couple of days, he knew. “Get our regimental reconnaissance out between our positions and Murayev's outposts. And make sure they're doing things blatantly: I want the Americans to see them, and call down fire. As the fire drops, they're to pull back. And have our own guns ready to fire. Three rounds per gun, then get moving before that Firefinder radar zeroes in on us. We'll pull back to position Foxtrot on my order. Is that clear?”

Heads nodded. “Yes, Comrade Colonel!” the chief of staff said.


To the north, Captain Nancy Kozak's people had been up for over an hour. Her people had had a breakfast of MREs, and were now ready to move. But her company team had no orders as yet, and her battalion commander was still waiting on brigade. One of her tank platoon leaders, though, had noticed something: some activity around a burned-out house on the east side of the road, and more movement near a bridge on a local road that intersected the highway. When she received the report, Kozak suspected another ambush, and requested artillery fire on the suspect locations. That request was not granted, and soon, she found out why. F-111s came over, four of them, at medium altitude, and each plane unloaded two dozen bombs on the Cuban position to her front.

Colonel Herrera and his regiment only had a minute's warning of the incoming raid, and the order to take cover had been given. Unfortunately for the Cubans, they had no remaining heavy air-defense weapons, and the F-111s had a free ride, each dropping two dozen five hundred-pound bombs on the Cuban positions. Several tanks and APCs were hit, along with two more of his 2S1 122-mm howitzers, and his motor-rifle battalion took many casualties. Picking himself up after the raid, Herrera turned to his chief of staff. “It could've been a lot worse.”

“How so, Comrade Colonel?” the man asked.

“We're still in shape to fight. Four F-111s? Not enough. If they'd hit us with B-52s, though....Get the men ready to fight, and have Murayev get one of his battalions in alongside our motor-rifle battalion, quickly!” Herrera said.


0650 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:


General Malinsky looked at his map, and his operations officer was changing dispositions in front of his eyes. The Americans had struck all along the front, striking hard at selected points. The Cuban 1st Army had been hit by II MAF, and had been forced to give ground-almost to the F.M. 106 road and the Laguna Atascosa, and 28th Army had to do the same: they'd been hit at the boundary between their army and 4th Guards Tank Army-by elements of XVIII Airborne Corps, and had to fall back to avoid being outflanked. Suraykin's Army had been hit again at the Rio Grande Valley Airport, and the 38th Tank Division was in its own fight for survival.

As a staff officer came up with a message form, Malinsky took a look at 8th Guards Army: they had been hit at the junction with 3rd Shock-and 3rd Shock and the Cuban 2nd Army had also been hit hard. The Americans had unleashed both VIII and XII Corps, and Malinsky's left flank was now in trouble. And he had no reserves left, simple as that. He'd told his commanders just that-and they'd have to scrape together whatever could be found to fill that role. Then the staffer came up. “Yes?” Malinsky asked.

“Comrade General, the Americans have landed Marines on the coast.”

“Show me,” Malinsky ordered.

The staffer pointed to the eastern terminus of Highway 4. “Right here, Comrade General.”

Malinsky nodded. “The most likely beach, and there's not much we can do about it.”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General. Marshal Alekseyev's reserve is moving to contest the landing-out of range of naval gunfire-it should be noted.”

Malinsky nodded. “I'd rather we had that tank brigade, but that's not likely. All right: be prepared to withdraw, but not until I've spoken with Marshal Alekseyev.” He turned to Isakov, his chief of staff. “Send that advance party to the Rancho Viejo High School at once, and get a new headquarters ready.”

Isakov looked at the map, then at his Front Commander. “At once, Comrade General.”


0705 Hours: 369th Coastal-Defense Missile Battalion, Boca Chica Beach, Texas:

Captain Kokarev peered out the observation slit of his bunker. What he saw both amazed and dismayed him. The Americans had put Marines ashore, and they were busy cleaning out the remnants of the penal battalion that had garrisoned the beach. Of the guard company, they were nowhere to be seen, and had either taken to their heels, or had been caught by the naval gunfire and wiped out.

Now, the Americans were landing follow-on waves of Marines and their heavy equipment, even as the remnants of the penal battalion were cleaned up. And those Marines were moving inland. Kokarev turned to his deputy, whose left arm was in a sling-he'd been wounded during the bombardment of the battalion's positions. “How many do we have who are fit to fight?” Kokarev asked.

“About two hundred, Comrade Captain,” the deputy responded. “Not counting some wounded who can still hold a rifle.”

“Any heavy weapons left?” Kokarev wanted to know.

“Nothing. Just our rifles and some hand grenades. That's it.”

“That's it, then. We haven't been relieved, and our orders are clear in the event of a landing: fight as infantry if our missile launchers are knocked out.” Kokarev reminded his deputy.

“Fight with what?” the deputy asked. “A couple hundred rifles and some grenades aren't going to hold the Americans for very long.”

“We'll do our duty, that's what we'll do. Enough of this defeatist talk. Get to the men, and I'll be right behind you.” Kokarev ordered.

The deputy turned to leave the bunker, then he turned and faced Kokarev again. “I'm not dying on this beach. If you have any sense, you'd come to that realization.”

“You are talking treason. I remind you of your duty.” Kokarev sneered.

“My duty now is to these men. And you know what that means.” the deputy shot back.

Kokarev went for his AKM rifle, but the deputy was quicker with his pistol. The man stood over the corpse and spat on Kokarev's body, before picking up some white cloth that a medic had used to get his arm in the sling. Returning to the men, he threw his pistol away, and they waited for the Marines to come. Shortly thereafter, the first Marines did arrive, and the deputy formally surrendered the 369th to a very astonished platoon leader, whose company commander had told his men to expect a tough fight on the beach.


0715 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev frowned as he studied the operations map. Clearly, this was it, Powell's final assault, and the Americans weren't holding anything back. And as expected, there had been a Marine landing, and all contact with the coastal defenses had been lost. Three battleships had been bombarding the beach defenses, and though a penal unit along with some provisional infantry units drawn from engineers, chemical defense, and air defense troops, had been holding the beach, they had been overwhelmed by the bombardment and then by the Marine landing. Now, it was up to Andreyev's grouping to try and contain the landing, before the terrain permitted a Marine breakout inland. What was now also possible was a helicopter assault not only on the Brownsville airport, but also at Port Isabel, to seal off South Padre Island.

Now, he'd just gotten off the phone with Malinsky, and had authorized the Front Commander to begin pulling back his more exposed units. That included both 28th Army and the Cuban 1st Army on the right, and 8th Guards and 3rd Shock on the left. The Cuban 2nd Army was still hanging on, but soon, they'd be pulling back as well. And Malinsky had already begun to set up a final headquarters in the town of Rancho Viejo, just north of Brownsville proper. Alekseyev knew that very soon, Suraykin's 4th Guards Tank Army was going to be cut off, if that thrust coming down from the Rio Grande Valley Airport wasn't held, and things would go from not only bad to worse, but to downright catastrophic. He noticed General Chibisov coming next to him. “Pavel Pavlovitich?”

“Comrade Marshal, this just in from General Petrov. An-124s have made their supply drops. Four aircraft. First aircraft now in. Twelve scheduled, seven arrived.” Chibisov reported.

“I see. Does Petrov have a schedule for getting the Hall government out?” Alekseyev asked. “The Ambassador has been on me twice this morning, asking for their evacuation.”

“Petrov says their aircraft-An-74s and Il-62s, will be here around 1300. He also wants to know if you have those who need to get out from your own headquarters right away. Mi-26s can land here, and can fly out Dudorov's people, for example.” Chibisov said.

“Good, Chibisov. Have the Mi-26s get here as soon as they can. Dudorov and his key personnel are first on the priority list.” Alekseyev decided.

“Speaking of Dudorov, he's identified the Marine unit that's landed. The 24th Marine Regiment, Fourth Marine Division.” Chibisov noted.

“I see. Not the first time they've done this-I believe that division did land during their Gulf Offensive last year. So I'm not surprised.” Alekseyev commented. “It's nearly time.”

“Comrade Marshal?” Chibisov asked.

Alekseyev turned to Colonel Sergetov. “Issue the order: all female service personnel to be evacuated. Gather them up as soon as possible. The headquarters guard battalion can spare a company to protect them, correct?”

“That is so, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov replied. “Shall I issue that order as well?”

“Do so, Colonel. And have my table set for breakfast. I'll have our prisoner as my guest for the meal, and inform her of what I'd like her to do. Either way, she returns to her own lines today.” said Alekseyev.

“General Dudorov has prepared the safe-conduct pass, as you know, Comrade Marshal. I'll get it from him, with your permission.” Sergetov replied.

“Do so, Colonel. I'll sign it in her presence. Now, once the women leave, I'll inform Moscow. Like it or not, the Defense Council is going to know that this is very likely to be the last day. Unless Major Sorokin has managed to brief any members besides Marshal Akhromayev.” Alekseyev said.

“Unfortunately, Comrade Marshal, I have not heard from the Minister. I believe he is quite busy.” Sergetov said.

“One other thing-for both of you: Chibisov and Sergetov; both of you speak fluent English, correct?”

The two officers looked at each other, then nodded. “Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov responded.

“Good. This afternoon, you'll both be putting that to use.” Alekseyev said.


0740 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:


General Petrov glanced at the message form an aide had just handed to him. So, he thought, those American friends of the Chekists are getting out of here? Better they should stay and face the wrath of their countrymen, and let those who really deserve a ride out of here have their seats, he felt. But orders were orders, and he was enough of a professional to carry them out. At least they won't be leaving until noon or just after. The more wounded and specialists who got out in the meantime, the better.

He looked out the window of his office, and saw two more An-74s coming in. If only these had been committed earlier, he thought, getting into the smaller airports, maybe we would've had a decent chance of pulling this off. Now, the An-74s could get in, especially when there was damage to runways that precluded landing larger aircraft. Then the whine of turboprop engines got his attention: an An-22 was taxiing in, having air-dropped its cargo, and now came in to take on its human cargo. The big cargo plane was the largest plane that Petrov-and Lukin when he was there-would allow to land, because no one wanted to see an An-124 caught on the ground and block a runway for hours while the wreckage was cleared. He went over to his operations officer. “How many so far?” Petrov asked.

“Right now, Comrade General, it's about half.” the man replied. “American fighter activity over the Gulf is heavy: both Air Force and Navy fighters have gotten into the transport stream.”

“How about from Mexico?” Petrov asked.

“The same, Comrade General. American fighters have been going into the transports there-one An-26 pilot said it was like a wolf in a hen house when two F-16s got into the transports-they got four each.”

Petrov shook his head. And Moscow still wanted to go on with this madness? “All right. Tell the Frontal Aviation people that we need more escorts. If they have to pull fighters from Northern Mexico's air defense, so be it.”

“Comrade General, the Americans are also hitting targets all over northern Mexico-from the Amistad reservoir all the way to the Gulf Coast.” the man replied.

“Right now, I don't care. Get those fighters to cover the transports, or nobody's leaving here today.” Petrov ordered.

“Immediately, Comrade General,” the ops officer said, going to the communications center to send the order.

Petrov then went outside. The An-22 had already been loaded with its human cargo. He waved a staff officer over. “Where's that An-22 headed?”

“Cuba, Comrade General,”

“Not anymore. Tell the pilot he's headed to Monterrey on my orders. And relay this to any additional An-22s coming in: land in Brownsville, then after loading passengers, they go to Monterrey. Then come back to get more out.” Petrov ordered.

“Yes, Comrade General.”


0755 Hours: Coastal Forces HQ, South Padre Island, Texas:


Captain Tupolev stepped aboard the only remaining Nanchuka-class missile corvette left in Texas. The corvette's captain, a Captain Lieutenant, saluted as Tupolev came aboard. “Comrade Commander,” the captain said. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Captain,” he replied. Tupolev looked over at his deputy, Captain Shatalin, who boarded the Riga-class frigate SKR-58, one of the two Rigas left. The other, SKR-61, was raising anchor, and the remaining ships-two Grishas, a Poti, and a pair of Cuban Osas-were ready to leave as well. The rest, including a damaged destroyer, several other corvettes, and another Riga, would be scuttled. “Now, Captain. We have an appointment east of Brazos Santiago Pass.”

The captain nodded, and the Nanchuka got underway, with the other ships falling into line. The navigator checked the chart, and noted the safe-passage lane through the Soviets' own minefields, and remembered what had happened to the Grisha MPK-40, which had set off an American mine right in the safe passage lane. But the minesweepers-and there were two T-43s available-were short of fuel. And they would have been exposed to air attack, so they had not sortied. They, too, would be scuttled. Tupolev scanned the eastern horizon with his binoculars: the sun was fully up, and it promised to be a beautiful day. For those who survived, he thought. Then there was an explosion behind the Nanchuka: one of the two Grishas had set off a mine, and there was a cloud of smoke, flame, and debris mixed in with the waterspout. It was obvious there were no survivors. Tupolev picked up the TBS (Talk Between Ships) radio and ordered, “Continue the sortie.”

The little fleet continued on east, and Tupolev ordered the radars turned on: the Nanchuka and both Osas needed to search for targets to launch missiles. Unfortunately, they were picked up by American ESM gear, and a lookout noticed a plane approaching. It was a P-3 Orion, and it stayed well clear of SAM range. Then two flashes came from underneath the aircraft: inbound missiles.

Two Harpoon missiles had been launched, and both searched out targets. One of the Harpoons found a Cuban Osa, obliterating it in a fiery blast, while the second found the single Poti, blowing it apart as well. Then SKR-61 radioed a warning: aircraft inbound from the east.

The P-3's contact report had been received aboard the carrier Eisenhower, and four F/A-18A Hornets from that ship, and four A-4E Skyhawks from the carrier Oriskany, were launched to attack the Soviet/Cuban squadron. They didn't take long to arrive, and one of the Hornets picked up the Osa-2M missile radar (SA-N-4) from the remaining Grisha, and fired a HARM antiradar missile at the frigate. The weapon struck, shredding not only the radar, but the superstructure as well, while a second HARM destroyed the air-search radar on SKR-61. Then the rest of the strike aircraft came in.

One thing that aided the attackers was the fact that as the A-4s had been reactivated from storage, they had been upgraded with not only improved radar warning equipment, but had been fitted to carry weapons not originally fitted to the Skyhawk. These A-4s were able to carry the AGM-65 Maverick missile, and two of the Skyhawks were so fitted this day. Both picked out targets and fired: one firing its two missiles at SKR-61, and the second Skyhawk targeting the remaining Cuban Osa with one missile, and the damaged Grisha, MPK-40, with the other Maverick. SKR-61 took two hits, and was crippled at the outset: one hit wrecked the after deckhouse and 100-mm gun, while the second ripped into the superstructure, wrecking the bridge and combat control center. The Cuban Osa was hit by its missile and obliterated, while MPK-40 was finished off by its weapon.

SKR-58 and the Nanchuka-Uragan, kept going, only to have the Hornets and two remaining Skyhawks fall upon them. Two Skyhawks set upon the Nanchuka, spraying her with Zuni rockets and 20-mm cannon fire, before dropping Rockeye cluster bombs on her. Uragan's Osa-2M operator never had a chance to fire his missiles to defend the ship, for as the radar came up, a HARM missile came back down, shredding the superstructure and the radar. And Rockeyes exploded the P-120 missile launchers (SS-N-9), which blasted Uragan to pieces.

The Hornets then came in on the crippled SKR-61, and her sister, SKR-58. Both ships could still fire, and they put up heavy antiaircraft fire as the Hornets came in. SKR-58, though, was wrecked by two Hornets, each dropping four Mark-82 500-pound bombs, and her sister was set upon by the other two F/A-18s, also receiving four Mark-82s from the pair of Hornets. Both Soviet ships were left dead in the water, and as the strike aircraft returned to their carriers, the cruiser Des Moines was diverted from a bombardment mission against South Padre Island to deal with the two cripples.

When the cruiser arrived, she found that the Soviet crews were in the process of abandoning ship. Her captain ordered ship's boats launched to pick up survivors, and the cruiser spent an hour picking up survivors. When the last of the Soviets had been fished out of the water, the two crippled ships were finished off with eight-inch and five-inch gunfire. Neither Captain Tupolev or Captain Shatalin were among the survivors.


0810 Hours: 105th Guards Airborne Division/41st Independent Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:

General Gordonov checked his own map, and he knew things were coming to a head today. He'd found out that one regiment's commander and deputy had been killed by sniper fire, and he'd had to put that regiment under the 41st's commander as a result. American aircraft and attack helicopters were very active, and the latter were systematically looking for the 41st's tanks and infantry vehicles and destroying them. To top it off, the 38th Tank Division to his northeast was fighting for its life, and when they went, not only would 24th Tank Division to his right be cut off, but his own division as well. He turned to his chief of staff. “It was only a matter of time, and we both knew it.”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General. We've got the ammunition from several helicopter lifts, and they've taken wounded out, but it's not going to be enough. Either we'll have to fall back, or be cut off and pocketed.” the chief replied.

Gordonov nodded. “Get me the 41st Tank Regiment-phone or radio, whichever works.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the chief responded. After a minute, he handed a radio to Gordonov. “Colonel Chesnikov, Comrade General.”

“Chesnikov, this is Gordonov at Division. What's your situation?”

An explosion sounded in the background. “Sorry about that, Comrade General, but we're under some artillery fire right now. The helicopter lifts have come in-we've had three, but there's so few helicopters...” Chesnikov said, his voice trailing off.

“I know. We've gotten a few here as well. Listen. There's a very good chance we'll either be outflanked, or get caught in a cauldron battle. If it looks like either one is going to happen, be prepared to withdraw. You'll have to spearhead any breakout, and leave those airborne troops to fight a delaying action.”

Chesnikov digested the news. He'd been preoccupied with events to his front and immediate left and right, he'd paid only minimal attention to the “big picture.” “How bad is it, Comrade General?”

“Bad enough. Army headquarters says that 38th Tanks is fighting for its life, and 24th Tanks may be doing the same before too long.”

“Very well, Comrade General. If you want me to lead a breakout, I'll be ready. Be advised I'm down to forty-five tanks and a company's worth of motor-rifle troops, and half of my regimental artillery,” Chesnikov reported.

Gordonov looked at the map again. He noticed a staff officer updating it. The 24th Tank Division was beginning to give way. He nodded, and told Chesnikov, “Be ready to move. On my order. And I believe it may not be very long.”


0825 Hours: Soviet 38th Tank Division, near Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Harlingen, Texas:


General Nikonov no longer needed a map to follow the progress of the battle: he could see it very easily from his command vehicle. Tanks and APCs were erupting in fireballs as they were hit, artillery fire screamed back and forth, and aircraft and helicopter gunships roamed over the battlefield, searching out prey. One of his regiments was gone-after having taken heavy punishment, its commander had gone on one final attack-and been engulfed by the advancing Americans. Another regiment was being pinned to its position while the 376th Motor-Rifle Regiment was being methodically ground down. It was time. Nikonov turned to his chief of staff. “Send in the 465th Tank Regiment. They're the division's counterattack. Fill the gap left by the destruction of the 140th on the left.”

The chief nodded, “Immediately, Comrade General.” And he went off to relay the order. Nikonov watched as the full regiment moved out, moving to confront a brigade from the American 7th Armored Division. And as the regiment advanced, A-10s and attack helicopters swarmed over the regiment, knocking out tanks and combat vehicles with near impunity. American air attack and artillery fire had neutralized his division-level air defense Kub (SA-6) missiles, and the Strela-1Ms (SA-9) were among the first targets of American attack aircraft. As the 465th advanced, it was reduced to two battalions' worth of tanks and two companies from its motor-rifle battalion, and was hammered at once by American tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles. T-64Bs blew apart when hit by 120-mm rounds, while BMP-1Ms were no match for Bradleys, with their TOW missiles and 25-mm fire. Soon, 465th TR joined its sister regiment in the junkyard of burning tanks and vehicles, and dead or maimed men, on the south side of the airport. The survivors of both units tried to pull back, even though they had no order to do so, but they were methodically picked off by American tank fire or by attack helicopters overhead, and the issue was soon decided. Niknonov's chief of staff came up. “Comrade General, the 376th is asking for orders, and the 225th is asking for instructions as well.”

“Pull back. Now. A fighting withdrawal. We'll try and regroup here, at the intersection of Loop 499 and the F.M. 106. Issue the order, and do it fast.” Niknonov said, with an urgent tone in his voice.

“If they can, Comrade General,” the chief said as he went to relay the orders.

Nikonov nodded, He knew that his division was being methodically destroyed, just as the two divisions had earlier, and there was no stopping it. Now, he had to save what remained of his division, and he watched as the two remaining regiments pulled back under fire. He went over to the chief of staff again. “Get the chemical-defense, SAM, Luna (FROG-7) and excess supply and maintenance troops, and form them into ad hoc infantry. Give them whatever heavy weapons-I don't care what they have, but we need a rearguard, and they're it. And no, there's no choice. Just do it!”

The chief nodded gravely. That order meant that most of those soldiers in the mentioned units were going to die. But if that sacrifice meant saving the division to fight again in a few hours....”Yes, Comrade General.”

General Nikonov then found his division artillery chief, “Listen, the regimental guns from the two destroyed regiments; the 465th's guns go to divisional artillery-what remains of it. Leave the 140th's guns to engage the enemy with direct fire.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the man replied, then he issued the order.

The chief of staff came back. “Comrade General, the 376th has broken contact, and the 225th has left a battalion to fight a rearguard action; most of the surviving regiment has broken off contact. Your orders?”

“Fall back to that junction: we'll be almost in the rear of 24th Tanks. Maintain what contact with 28th Army that you can. And put that ad hoc unit up as divisional rearguard.”

[Poohbah]

Rook to E7, check

[Matt Wiser]

The catastrophic day keeps on....



0850 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev sat in his office, waiting for his special “breakfast companion” to arrive. Colonel Sergetov was there as well, and both had noted the feverish activity in the intelligence spaces, as Dudorov's people were gathering up their classified materials and taking them down below, where burn barrels had been set up, and the documents thrown onto the flames. Other offices were doing the same, but Alekseyev noted that the Political Directorate was not. He'd sent General Chibisov to find out, and relay a direct order from the Marshal to destroy all sensitive materials at once. For certain, if the Americans found the materials in the Political Directorate, there would be hell to pay-and not just from the Americans, who promised “stern and swift justice” to war criminals, but from the KGB and the GRU. Then there was a knock on the office door. It was Major Kokorev, from the headquarters guard. “Comrade Marshal, I have the prisoner.”

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Commander Carlisle came in. She noticed that the Marshal and his aide were in their best uniforms, and she had a feeling that not only was this for her benefit, but that they fully expected to be needing them later in the day-perhaps at a surrender ceremony. Still, she thought that it was best to remain polite, since one way or another, she'd be back in American territory before the day was out. “Marshal, Colonel,” she said, saluting both, as the Geneva Convention required.

“Commander,” Alekseyev said, returning her salute. “Won't you please be seated?”

She sat down, and then the two Soviet officers did so as well. Strange, for normally it was a senior who sat first, then junior officers. “I take it things are not going that well from your perspective, Marshal.”

“Very perceptive, Commander. First, before we discuss that, breakfast?”

Carlisle nodded, and Alekseyev's orderly served the meal: bread, some sausage, cheese, and a boiled egg each, with Cuban coffee. As they ate, there was some polite conversation, even between enemies. Both felt that family was more important at a time like this, since it was almost certain that Commander Carlisle would be seeing hers before either Alekseyev or Sergetov would. “So, Marshal, you're lucky. You have daughters. And your side doesn't allow them to serve in combat units.”

“Quite so, Commander. We thought that our use of women in the Great Patriotic War...excuse me, the Second World War, was a necessary wartime expedient, though some of them did serve into the 1950s.” Alekseyev said. “We underestimated your people, just as Hitler underestimated ours.”

“And yet, after four years of war, you're still surprised at seeing a female pilot or a tank officer, I understand. We've got enough Soviet prisoners who've said that they were shocked at seeing a female tank commander, or finding out the pilot that shot him down was a woman.” Carlisle pointed out.

“Quite so, Commander. Quite so. I imagine your father was surprised when you told him what you would be doing?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, he was. He's a retired Rear Admiral, living at some cottage on the Maine seashore. He offered to return to the Navy, but they had so many retired officers come back to offer their services, the Navy was able to pick and choose who they wanted back in uniform.”

Both Soviet officers nodded. “Just as we had Tsarist veterans volunteer to come back to the colors when Hitler invaded,” Alekseyev said. “I imagine the late Party ideologist is spinning in his Kremlin grave at the moment: he is reported to have said that when our forces attacked, 'all we have to do is kick in the door, and the whole rotten structure will come down.'”

A remark in a history course at Annapolis came back to Carlisle's mind. “I believe Hitler said the same thing about you, back in 1941.”

“He did,” Alekseyev said. “Now, to our business here. As I mentioned earlier, I'm evacuating all of my servicewomen to Mexico. The international bridges here in Brownsville are down-no thanks to your air strikes-and I have to send them north to some ribbon bridges over the Rio Grande You will accompany them until they get to a bridge. The officer in charge will then let you go, and direct you towards your own lines.”

“And I'm to be what, a human shield?” Carlisle asked. They'd been through this earlier.

“Not necessarily. If the lines to the north collapse, it's very possible that you may run into your own troops before getting to the bridge site. Like I said earlier: I don't want those women to fall into the hands of those maniacs in the 13th Armored Cavalry, or the New Yorkers from the 42nd Infantry, not to mention the 49th Armored.”

Carlisle looked at Alekseyev. “So, you want me to vouch for the women if this convoy encounters American troops?”

“Precisely, Commander,” Alekseyev said. “If you don't, you'll be released then and there at the bridge site, on the American side. The pass-which is English, Russian, and Spanish, identifies you as a released prisoner of war, and are to be directed to American lines. It will be under my signature, and the cover letter-which is also in all three languages, says that if there is any doubt, to contact this headquarters for verification. Either way, Commander, by day's end, you'll be back with your own forces.”


0915 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas:


Colonel Herrera watched as the Americans renewed their drive forward, and this time, he knew they really meant business. There had been a second F-111 strike, which had knocked out most of a battery of 2S1s, and had made a mess of some of his regiment's support services, but his men were still in shape to fight. But Third battalion's T-55s now numbered four, and he decided to keep them as a reserve, along with one of the Soviet air-assault battalions. He'd also taken his remaining chemical-defense, nonessential signals, and some other odds and ends, and formed them into a provisional infantry unit. And to command them, he sent his political officer.

Now, he watched as the Americans-a reinforced battalion task force by all appearances, moved forward. They had dropped artillery fire on the locations where the Soviets had put some air-assault troops out as forward outposts, and had cleaned them up rather quickly afterwards. Colonel Herrera turned to his deputy and his chief of staff. “I want artillery called in on them, once they reach that creek bed. Tanks and infantry to take long-range shots, then we'll fall back.”

Both nodded. “And the provisional unit?” Asked the chief of staff.

“They're going to be the rearguard. I know, I wanted the Soviets to perform that, but we're going to need them later today-more than once, so the provisionals are going to have to be sacrificed.” Herrera said, seeing his chief of staff nod. And it gets rid of the political officer, which is an added bonus, the colonel thought.

“And our next fallback position?” his deputy asked.

“The junction of 281 and F.M. 1479. That's position Golf. Get the essential elements-including one artillery battery, going there right away,” Herrera said.

“Right away, Comrade Colonel,” the deputy said, moving off to issue the orders.

The chief looked through his own set of binoculars. The Americans were getting close to the creek bed. “It's almost time, Comrade Colonel.”

Herrera took a look for himself. The lead tanks and Bradley vehicles were now at the creek bed, and at the small bridge on 281. “Now.”

In her Bradley, Captain Nancy Kozak was in her element. They'd jumped off at 0700, and had encountered no opposition, until they'd reached where one of her tank platoon leaders had spotted movement on both sides of 281. After the F-111 strikes, the battalion had advanced cautiously, as several bodies found the previous day were Soviet airborne, and everyone knew if those guys in the blue berets were encountered in strength, it could be a vicious fight developing. If anyone wanted to verify that, all they had to do was look at Harlingen, where a Soviet airborne division was said to be hanging on to the city by its fingernails, and yet was still resisting. They hardly gave up, and often had to be blasted out of wherever they were fighting from. So, to deal with the suspected enemy, her tank platoons asked for battalion mortars, if no artillery was available. And the suspected ambush sites were mortared heavily. Sure enough, several bodies were clearly Soviet airborne, and after a fusillade of small-arms fire and some RPG-22s directed at the tanks, several more Soviet paratroopers had tried to pull back-obviously a rearguard. And they'd been blasted by tank and Bradley fire.

Now, the Team had come across a creek bed and a small bridge on 281. Since it could be wired, Kozak ordered her platoons not to use the bridge, and to cross the creek bed on either side of the bridge. As they did so, artillery fire came down on them, and tanks opened up in the distance. “Tanks front!” came the call on the radio.

Kozak responded instantly, ordering her two tank platoons to open fire, and the Bradleys to do the same, if they were in TOW range. If not, they were to push beyond the creek bed, and get out of the artillery fire.

Herrera watched as the Americans opened fire, and their gunnery, as he found out quickly, was very accurate. Three T-72s from First Battalion took hits and exploded, as did two from Second Battalion. And several APCs did so as well. Remembering his orders not to get caught in a last stand if he could avoid it, Herrera gave the order to pull back.

“They're pulling back, Six!” the call came over Kozak's platoon net.

“Don't stop! Keep moving! The sooner we run over these guys, the sooner we're in Brownsville!” Kozak radioed back, even as more Cuban artillery-including some 122-mm rockets, landed around her Team. No one was hit, but the barrage served its purpose: everyone had to button up.


0935 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army, Harlingen, Texas:


Generals Suraykin and Golikov looked at their situation map. And neither general was surprised at what they saw. The 28th Army to their right had been forced back, giving up the town of Rio Hondo, while to their left, 8th Guards Army was pulling back south of Palm Valley, hoping to set up a line from Highways 77-83 to the town of Rangerville. Unfortunately, Trimenko's decision to do just that had put his left flank wide open. Both knew that General Malinsky had approved the decision, but that didn't mean they approved of it themselves. And Golikov spoke first.

“Comrade General, both our flanks are exposed. There's no way around it.”

“I know. And right now, 38th Tanks is fighting for its life south of the airport. If they go, that gives 7th Armored Division a clear route all the way to the 77-83 freeway, and a straight run into Brownsville.” Suraykin noted.

“I'm afraid I have to agree with you on that, Comrade General. The 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle are being ground down, as is the 105th Guards Air Assault Division at the highway junction.” Golikov pointed out.

Suraykin nodded. “It won't be long, Golikov. By noon, I expect, we'll be either forced to withdraw, or get caught in a cauldron battle. If the latter happens, we'll have to send that final message to Alekseyev directly.”

“Understood, Comrade General,” Golikov said. “We have the order to evacuate all of the female personnel: they're to go to Rancho Viejo to meet with the others, before going over the border to Mexico.”

“How many do we have?” Suraykin asked. “Not that many, I assume.”

“Just about a hundred or so, Comrade General. Mostly medical, but some from field kitchens, clerical staff, and a few English-language specialists from our Radio Intercept section.” Golikov reported.

“Then get them moving where Alekseyev wants them.” Suraykin ordered.


1005 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

General Petrov watched as two Il-76s came in to land, one after the other. There had been four scheduled, and two had gotten in. About what he expected. On his requests, aircraft coming in from Cuba had air-dropped their cargoes, and then came in to land-and he'd watched twice as transports-one Il-76 and an An-74, had taken SAM fire-where from he had no idea, and exploded in midair. Not what one expected to see, especially those hoping to get out. And another plane had astonished him: that Libyan C-130 was still at it, on its third trip of the morning. Obviously, it had gone to Mexico, and had unloaded its passengers, taken on cargo, and come back in. Impressed, Petrov went to see the C-130 crew. He was surprised to see that only one of them-the pilot-was Libyan. “Where are you from? He asked the copilot, who didn't look at all Libyan.

“I'm Iranian Air Force, on detached duty with the Libyans, the copilot replied. “The navigator's the same, while the flight engineer and loadmaster are both Vietnamese.”

“Let me guess: both air forces still fly the C-130s left over from the previous governments?” Petrov asked.

“That's right, General.” the Iranian pilot said. There's one good thing about this duty, though.”

“What's that?” Petrov asked. How could doing an impossible job have anything good about it, other than getting those who needed to get away out?

“The Libyans are paying us in hard currency,” the Iranian replied. “Apart from that, this is a real mess, no two ways about it.”

Petrov nodded. “You're quite right on that.” But one thing puzzled the General. “How do you communicate between each other?”

“The ultimate irony, General. Everyone speaks fluent English.” The Iranian said, seeing his navigator nod.

The Vietnamese Air Force loadmaster came up. The plane was loaded. Ninety-two passengers in the seats, plus a number of stretcher cases on the cargo floor. “Time to go, General,” the Iranian copilot said.

Petrov nodded and backed away from the C-130. The crew fired up the engines, then taxied straight into its takeoff run. And the C-130 made it into the air, made a bank to the right, and headed south. Petrov watched it disappear in the distance, as two An-2s came up from Mexico, as did a pair of An-26s. Then Petrov saw a sight that chilled him. A big An-22 came in to make its supply drop, and as it did so, it had to fly straight and level. That made the big plane an easy target, and to Petrov's horror, two fighters, almost certainly F-16s, got in and one of them fired two missiles at the big transport. Both hit the starboard engines, and the resulting explosion tore the wing off the aircraft. The transport trailed fire, then rolled over and crashed just north of the field. And the F-16s weren't finished, for as they turned north, two MiG-23s came in to try and avenge the downed transport. The two F-16s broke, turned into their attackers, and shot both of them down. Only then did the two American fighters head north again.


1025 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas:


Major Lazarev watched the smoke billowing up from the Coast Guard station, south of his headquarters. The remaining ships that hadn't sailed on their final operation had been scuttled, and the fuel tanks at the Coast Guard station had also been blown up, sending oily, black smoke up into the sky. And they'd also blown up the communications station there, putting the radio antenna into the bay. So now he had about five hundred navy personnel, mostly Soviets, but a few Cubans as well, to form yet another provisional infantry battalion. Just like the destroyer crew, he thought. Oh well, if the Americans do land, all they have to do is shoot straight. And die. His deputy came to him. “Comrade Major,”

“What is it?” Lazarev asked. It had already been a long morning.

“American ships approaching, Kamarov reports.” the deputy said.

Lazarev turned and went inside to the stairway. Five floors up, then he found the observation point that the destroyer men had established when their original vantage point-the roof, had been made unsafe due to an American naval bombardment. He found Captain Lieutenant Kamarov sitting at his glasses, and consulting a ship-recognition manual. “Well, Kamarov?”

“It's not four battleships, but one. And the cruiser Des Moines, Comrade Major,” Kamarov reported.

One battleship was enough for Lazarev. The ghastly thought of four such ships bombarding his positions had made him very queasy. “Just one? What happened to the other three?”

Kamarov turned to the naval infantry officer. “You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?” Lazarev replied.

“They're down south, at Boca Chica beach. Three battleships, and they bombarded the beach defenses, and there's now two brigades of Marines coming ashore.”

“Lovely,” Lazarev said. “So what are they doing here? Just reminding us of what they can do?”

“No. The battleship there looks like it's North Carolina, and she's turning broadside to us. I suggest we all take cover in the basement.” Kamarov very calmly said to Lazarev.

“A sensible idea,” Lazarev agreed. “Everyone to the shelters.”

Just as the Soviets reached their shelters, both American heavy ships opened fire. The shells sounded like freight trains as they came overhead, and there were loud explosions that followed. Smaller explosions were soon heard, and that mean the secondary guns from both ships were now in action. The shelling lasted for twenty minutes, before the two ships ceased fire. Lazarev and Kamarov went back up to the observation point, and found it still intact, to their surprise. But the building next door had taken several heavy-caliber shells, and what had been an eight-story resort condominium was now a burning shell that would soon collapse. Kamarov peered through the glasses. “They're departing, Major. Headed back south.”

“Fire support for their Marines?” Lazarev asked.

“No doubt. I'm glad we're not facing that firepower. But someone's going to be in a world of hurt.”


1050 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:


General Malinsky frowned as he read the message form. “Unless reinforced and resupplied, 4th Guards Tank Army cannot hold more than a few hours.” Though Malinsky was frowning, it was what he,and everyone at headquarters, expected to hear from Suraykin. The only thing was, they had expected it to be the following day at least. Malinsky looked up from the message form at the situation map. The 4th GTA had been split from 28th Army, and the Cuban 1st Army was being split apart itself. Both XVIII Airborne Corps and II MAF were pressing forward, and there wasn't much that could be done about it.

On his left, both 8th Guards and 3rd Shock Armies were giving ground, grudgingly, but they were still giving way to both XII Corps and VIII Corps. And the Cuban 2nd Army was also giving way, in some areas, it was very porous, but in others, the Cubans only pulled back when the air was turned to lead. But with American air activity at an all-time high, pulling back, if not done properly, could result in a massacre. It had happened before, Malinsky knew, and he'd seen it as an Army commander first-hand, in 1987 and 1988, and he knew that it could easily happen again. Major General Konstantin Durnov, Isakov's deputy Chief of Staff, came up to the Front Commander. “Comrade General,”

“Durnov, what is it now?”

“We've received the order to assemble all female service personnel for evacuation. The Assembly Point is the elementary school at Rancho Viejo.” Durnov reported.

“Very well. See to it, Durnov.” Malinsky said. “How much longer, until Suraykin either pulls back, or is destroyed?”

“That's hard to say, Comrade General. It all depends on what XVIII Airborne Corps has in mind. They can pin Suraykin's forces up against the units to their front, and wipe them out, or simply envelop them in a cauldron battle, by linking up with XII Corps.” Durnov said, waving at the map.

“Just as we did, in 1985-86,” Malinsky commented. “More than once.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Durnov agreed. “There's one area that both General Isakov and I have been worried about: that's Cuban 2nd Army's left flank.”

“I've noticed. That one regiment holding along Highway 281 is hanging on for dear life. Then again, just about every unit here is hanging on for dear life.”Malinsky observed.

“Ah, yes, Comrade General,” Durnov said. “However, if that one regiment gives way, that opens up Highway 281, and there's nothing between that Cuban regiment and Brownsville itself.”

Malinsky looked at the map again. He saw where a staff officer had marked the Cubans, along with the American unit opposite them. And he saw which unit it was. “They're facing the 49th Armored?”

Durnov looked at his commander with downcast eyes. “I'm afraid so, Comrade General.”

Malinsky nodded. “There are three American units that are the most dangerous, and two of them are here,” he noted. “There's those New Yorkers from the 42nd Mechanized Infantry, who've sworn vengeance for the destruction of Manhattan, and the Texans from the 49th, who've preached revenge for what happened to their home state, and not only have they preached revenge, they practice it.”

“That they do, Comrade General.” Durnov agreed. “At least we haven't seen the 13th Armored Cavalry Regiment.....”

Malinsky thundered, “Those lunatics! Only in America could one recruit a military unit out of an outlaw motorcycle gang, and yet they did! The Americans gleefully point out that the unit uses less ammunition than any unit of comparable size, and produces more corpses than a similar-sized formation.”

“Comrade General...”

“Just because they haven't been identified yet doesn't mean they're not here!” Malinsky roared.

“That is so, Comrade General.” Durnov said.

Malinsky calmed down. “All right, proceed with that evacuation. Now, we've got some front-level troops who are no longer useful, correct? I'm talking chemical defense, our air defense missile brigade, some redundant artillerymen, and nonessential personnel in some of our signals and communications units-that is, people who do not have access to secret information or equipment?”

“That's so, Comrade General.”

Malinsky looked at the map again. “Remind them that they have rifles as well as whatever equipment they usually handle. Put them here, across the 77-83 freeway, at the northern edge of San Benito. And gather up any excess air force personnel at the San Benito Airport, and have them defend the airport.”

[Matt Wiser]

1110 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas:


Colonel Herrera watched as his men dug in at their new position. They'd had some American air activity, including an attack by a pair of A-7s, but had gotten off relatively scot-free. However, those using the ribbon bridge nearby were not so fortunate, as the American planes were concentrating on the bridge traffic. Though a few vehicles came north, most traffic using the bridge was headed south into Mexico, and the aircraft swarmed all over them. He also looked to the north, along Highway 281, and knew that the American force he'd been fighting for the last two days was coming his way, and he'd best be prepared. Already, some of his engineers were out in front, laying a few mines, and being conspicuous in putting out warning signs in areas that were not mined as well. Any trick that he could think of to delay the Americans, he'd do his level best to employ. But he also knew that the Americans wouldn't fall for the same trick twice, and so he had to be innovative. Then Major Murayev, the Soviet air-assault officer who commanded the two battalions of air-assault troops attached to his regiment, came to him. “Major, what brings you here?”

“Comrade Colonel,” Murayev said. “I was wondering if you were planning on using the bridges. If so, my men and I would be pleased to be your rearguard.”

“No, Comrade Major, that's not what I have in mind. Have one of your battalions at the intersection proper: there's a few ruined buildings there that can provide some protection,” Herrera said. He went on, adding, I want the other battalion with the motor-rifle troops; they're pretty shaky at the moment, and could use a good shot in the arm with your boys around.”

Murayev nodded. A delaying action once again, but still...”What about the bridge, Comrade Colonel?”

“Have your men inform those engineers in charge of the bridge. Have it prepared for demolition, and do it fast. We won't have much time.” Herrera said.

Murayev glanced upwards. “The Americans may solve that problem for us, Comrade Colonel. Aircraft alarm!”

The Cubans Soviets took cover as four A-7s came in again, and once more, their target was the bridge.
Two of the A-7s fired Maverick missiles at the bridge proper, blowing sections of it apart, while the other two Corsairs dropped cluster bombs on the vehicles lined up waiting to cross. Trucks and buses-many filled with those being evacuated south, went up in flames as the submunitions exploded the soft-skinned vehicles. Then all four aircraft came around to strafe with their 20-mm cannon, and more vehicles exploded. As they pulled out and away, two Strela (SA-7) missiles were fired by Herrera's motor-rifle troops, but missed. After the aircraft departed, the two officers picked themselves up, and surveyed the scene at the bridge. A wrecked ribbon bridge, plus two or three dozen wrecked vehicles, and numerous casualties. Murayev shook his head, and then turned to Colonel Herrera. “Comrade Colonel, I believe that the order about the bridge is now irrelevant.”

Herrera nodded. “So it is, Major. So it is. All right. Get your men in position and ready. Again, no heroics.”

The air-assault officer nodded, and went off to inform his commanders. Herrera's deputy then came to him. “Comrade Colonel, we've a message from the provisional battalion left as a rearguard.”

“And?” Herrera wanted to know.

“They are in the process of being overrun, Comrade Colonel, then the radio went dead.” said the deputy.


To the north, Captain Kozak's team was busy blasting the Cuban provisionals out of their position. Some had taken up positions in a abandoned farmhouse, while others had dug in beside the road. They may have been chemical defense or rear-echelon troops, but they fought, regardless. To crush their resistance, Kozak got an artillery mission onto the farmhouse, and another one on the positions along the highway, along with an air strike by A-7s. The Cubans gave up when they were first blasted, then overrun, by both tank platoons. She asked one Cuban prisoner why they kept fighting when it was hopeless, and the man said that their commander, who was also a political officer, shot several men who tried to run, and they remained in their positions out of fear of the man. One of them finally showed Kozak the political officer's body, torn apart by an artillery blast, and she nodded understanding. After securing the area, and sending the prisoners to the rear, she contacted her battalion commander and informed him of this development. He understood, and ordered her team to continue forward once it was ready. Ten minutes later, the team continued on ahead, having been told about a ribbon bridge at the next intersection, and that it had been wrecked by air attack. But the pilots had reported enemy armor nearby, so Kozak and Team Bravo were warned to be careful, and if armor was found in strength, to call in aircraft-it appeared things were moving fast elsewhere, and that today might be the last day, so the adage “ammunition is cheaper than human life” was being employed with a vengeance by not only Division, but all over the front.


1125 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Texas Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas:


General Andreyev could see things clearly for himself, and he knew full well that the U.S. Marines were coming. His own divisional reconnaissance had reported LAV-25s and infantry pushing forward, and there were Marine helicopters and Harriers prowling overhead. Already, some of his positions had been struck by air attack, and it was clear that battle would soon be joined. He'd also heard from the 47th Tank Brigade, and they were also under air attack, and that first, their own air defense assets had been systematically destroyed, and only then did American aircraft attack the brigade directly. Carrier-based aircraft were now paying attention to the tank brigade, and especially the 135 T-72A tanks, that posed the main threat to the Marine landing. Not only that, but F-111s had paid visits as well, in flights of four to eight, making level bomb runs a la B-52s.

Now, as he surveyed the terrain ahead of him, he knew that the Marines would soon be getting close. And if this was to be the last battle the 76th Guards would fight, then so much the better: the elite of the Soviet Army against the elite U.S. Marines. And his division would be able to end its proud history in battle with troops who were just as proud of their heritage as his men were of theirs. His operations officer came to him. “Comrade General,”

“What is it, Viktor?”

“Comrade General, our forward outposts are reporting the Americans closing on their positions. And there's more: naval gunfire is falling among them.” the operations man said.

Andreyev turned to face the man. “What? I thought our positions were out of range of that. Even the battleship guns.”

“Evidently not, Comrade General. The shell craters are very big, they say. And that means..”

“Battleship guns-those forty-centimeter guns. And if they're in range, so are we.” Andreyev said. He turned to the division's engineer officer. “Get more shelters dug for troops, weapons, supplies. And do it now!”

“Right away, Comrade General!” the man said, going off to get his men to work

Then his deputy came to Andreyev with a message. “Comrade General, the 235th is taking fire. Not small-arms or mortar fire, but heavy-caliber fire.”

“Marine artillery? They could have landed their guns by now.” Andreyev said.

“No, Comrade General. It's the heavy stuff. Battleship guns.”

Andreyev went to have a look for himself. On the roof of the command bunker, he scanned the horizon with his binoculars. Sure enough, he could see the outline of ships, with flashes of gunfire coming from them. And then the shells landed on his positions, with huge fountains of dirt and debris coming up. He went back into the command bunker, and roared at his intelligence officer. “Who prepared the range tables for the naval gunfire?”

“That would be Admiral Gordikov, Comrade General.” the intelligence officer replied.

Andreyev fumed at the Navy, but held his temper. “Inform the Admiral that his range estimates were incorrect. We're taking battleship-caliber gunfire.”


1145 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

General Petrov shook his head in amazement. That Libyan C-130 was back, and a small menagerie of various transports followed it in from Mexico. Three An-26s, two An-12s, two Il-76s, a Tu-154, and an Il-62 with North Korean markings had all come in from the south, while the Cuba run was becoming a life-or-death experience. Half of the planes from Cuba that were scheduled in hadn't made it, while most of those from Mexico had gotten in. Petrov smiled, and turned to his deputy. “Get those aircraft offloaded immediately. See if we can't get more wounded in those aircraft, if at all possible.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the man replied.

Petrov then went to the map. Those pilots who had made it in from Cuba were reporting U.S. Navy fighters from a point about three hundred kilometers west of Havana, all the way to the halfway point of the flight. Then it appeared the U.S. Air Force was taking over interdiction, with more F-15s and F-16s being reported. And the escort fighters were simply being overwhelmed by the number of American fighters swarming the transports. While they were inflicting losses on the Americans, their own casualties had been horrendous to say the least. Now he knew full well what the German commanders like Gen. Wolfram von Richthofen had felt on the Stalingrad lift. His operations officer came to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade General, it's Marshal Alekseyev on the phone for you.”

Petrov went to the phone in the operations room. “I'll take it here.” Picking it up, he said. “Yes, Comrade Marshal?”

“Petrov, how's it going?”

“Comrade Marshal, about what I expected, though the lift from Mexico has been a surprising thing: more of them are getting through, though I fear this won't last long.” Petrov said.

“And the planes coming in to take the Hall government out?” Andreyev asked.

“They'll be in at 1300, Comrade Marshal.”

“I see...All right. Petrov, you've done all you can. The Rodina will need your services elsewhere. Turn things over to your deputy, and get yourself out of there. That's an order.” Alekseyev said firmly.

“Comrade Marshal-”

“I know, you've got Air Force personnel there who won't have a chance of getting out. But you are an airlift specialist, and your talents are needed.” Alekseyev reminded the general.

And Petrov knew it. But he still felt a sense of loyalty to his men. “Let the record show that I obey the orders of my commander-in-chief.”

“Good. Put your deputy in charge, and get yourself on the next plane out. Cuba or Mexico, it doesn't matter.”


1200 Hours: Headquarters, 4th Guards Tank Army, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suraykin took the list from his supply officer. The man had brought him a list of what had either been air-dropped or brought in by helicopter, and they both knew that it wasn't enough. It might let them last a day, but the problem now was getting the supplies to those who needed it. And with American aircraft and attack helicopters roaming the sky.....

“Comrade General?” Isakov asked.

“Golikov. What is it?” Suraykin replied.

The Chief of Staff handed him the phone. “It's General Nikonov at 38th Tanks.”

Suraykin took the receiver. “Nikonov? What's your situation?”

“Comrade General, my situation, for want of a better word, is catastrophic. I'm only in communications with one regiment, and the Americans have simply engulfed the others. There's no contact at all with 24th Tanks, nor any unit from 28th Army, and couriers I've sent to both have not returned-nor are they likely to.” Nikonov reported.

“Save whatever you can, Nikonov. Get back to Army Headquarters if at all possible.” Suraykin ordered. “Get here as fast as you can.”

“If we don't make it, it's because we're dead,” Nikonov observed dryly. “We'll try, Comrade General.”

Then the line went dead. “A one-in-ten chance he makes it,” Suraykin commented.

“Yes, Comrade General. There's this from 52nd Tanks and 6th GMRD. They're being split from the 105th Guards. The 24th Tanks is being pocketed as well.”

Suraykin nodded. He had one last look at the map. “We were close, Golikov. We were close.” He took out a piece of paper and wrote down a message. “Send this to Marshal Alekseyev. Do it fast, and when you come back, begin destroying all secret materials.”

Golikov looked at the paper. “Didn't they say this in the arenas, two thousand years ago?”

“I think so, but it does describe our predicament. Get it off at once.” Suraykin ordered.


1205 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev had ordered all the female staff evacuated, and though they could have gone out by helicopter-the Mi-26s were still going in and out, evacuation of the intelligence sections and high-priority personnel such as signals intelligence, took priority. Several captured buses were made available, and the buses were soon parked outside the headquarters. As the female staff got onto the buses, and some were saying goodbye to boyfriends, Major Kokorev came down with Commander Carlisle. “Comrade Marshal,” Kokarev said.

“Major. And Commander,” Alekseyev said, nodding. “Major, I trust you understand your orders fully?”

“I do, Comrade Marshal. She is to be given her safe-conduct pass, and once we reach an intact ribbon bridge, Commander Carlisle is to be released, and directed towards American lines,” said the Major.

“Excellent, Kokarev,” Alekseyev said. “Commander, when you do reach your lines, I do hope you'll report that your treatment was exemplary?”

“I'll say that it was better than I expected, but not surprised, given the circumstances.”

“Fair enough,” Alekseyev said. He then signed both the pass and the cover letter, and gave it to Colonel Sergetov, who countersigned it. Then it was handed to Commander Carlisle. “Again, Commander, I want you to know that not all of us are barbarians, and that our past conduct certainly reflects on our image. And as I said earlier, we cannot change the past, no matter what we wish.”

She nodded. “I'll report that as well. A pity, Marshal, that your predecessors didn't have your attitude.”

“Quite true. Now, Major, please escort her to the first bus, and then get to the Assembly point in Rancho Viejo. Once you've gotten all who've made the rendezvous, head to one of the ribbon bridges over the Rio Grande. And get the women to safety.” Alekseyev said.

Kokarev nodded gravely. “I will fulfill my mission, Comrade Marshal.”

Major Kokarev escorted the American to the lead bus, then he mounted his own vehicle, a BTR-70. Another BTR-70, along with two BRDMs, escorted the buses as they drove north to the rendezvous point. And not only Alekseyev, but many of the staff, waved as they left. Then General Dudorov came to him. “Comrade Marshal, it's time for me to go.”

“Dudorov, I wish you good luck. I know you had to leave a few of your staff behind to finish destroying documents...” Alekseyev said.

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal. Those staffers do have a means of making sure their true identities and assignments remain hidden: false papers.” Dudorov said.

“Good. Here, these are for my daughters,” Alekseyev said, handing a packet to Dudorov. “I have no idea if Major Sorokin made it to Moscow. You have everything Sorokin had in that packet, and some extra material.”

“I will deliver them personally, Comrade Marshal.” Dudorov replied. “And Colonel, do you have anything for your father, the Minister?”

Sergetov nodded, and handed him a letter as well.

The Mi-26 pilot came over. “Comrade General, it's time.”

Dudorov nodded as the pilot saluted the Marshal, then went back to his helicopter. He saluted Alekseyev one last time. “It's been an honor to serve with you, Comrade Marshal.”

Alekseyev returned the salute, and the intelligence chief scrambled aboard the Mi-26. It lifted off, and headed into Mexico. After the helicopter left, Alekseyev and Sergetov returned to the headquarters, where staffers were feverishly destroying documents and other classified items. They went back into the operations room, where Chibisov stood, regarding the operations map. “Pavel Pavlovitch,”

“Comrade Marshal, this came for you from General Suraykin.” Chibisov said, handing him a message form.

Alekseyev read the message. He handed it to Colonel Sergetov. “That's it, then.”

Sergetov read it himself. “Those who are about to die salute you.” read the message. “Comrade Marshal, the old gladiators' phrase.”

“Yes. And it perfectly describes Suraykin's situation.” He turned to Chibisov. “There's still communications with Moscow?”

“Of course, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov said.

“Good. Send this to Marshal Ahkromayev: 'Final collapse no more than twenty-four hours away. This command has done its full duty to the Rodina.' Get that off at once.”

Chibisov nodded, just as a staffer came up with another message. “Comrade Marshal, President Hall wants to see you before he leaves. At the airport.”

Alekseyev scowled at that. Seeing Hall was the last thing he wanted, given that he felt that the whole “Liberation Government” was a mistake-among many-that the Soviets had made. But there were still those who might have their own channels to Moscow.....and would report that he hadn't seen Hall off. “Very well. Get my vehicle and driver. It's distasteful, but getting him out of here will certainly help.”

[jemhouston]

You know we care when we send in the battleships to kill you.

[Poohbah]

You know we care when we send in the battleships to kill you.

"You should be honored, General Andreyev. Few novices learn so much of Ti Kwan Leep so quickly!"

[jemhouston]

You know we care when we send in the battleships to kill you.

"You should be honored, General Andreyev. Few novices learn so much of Ti Kwan Leep so quickly!"

It's an honor I could have down without.

[Wolfman]

You know we care when we send in the battleships to kill you.

"You should be honored, General Andreyev. Few novices learn so much of Ti Kwan Leep so quickly!"

It's an honor I could have down without.

Then you should have stayed in the Rodina, Tovarich…

[Matt Wiser]

The catastrophic day continues for the Soviets and their remaining lackeys:


1220 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas:

Colonel Herrera looked north along the highway, just as he'd done often the last few days. Now, he waited for the Americans to come again, and hopefully, be delayed again. Now, his location was about two kilometers north of the intersection of 281 and F.M. 2520, where there was another ribbon bridge, and a lot of southbound traffic. He now had sixteen T-72s in First Battalion, and fourteen in Second. Third battalion's T-55s were now gone, and the motor-rifle battalion was down to a weak company, and his artillery was down by half-the air attacks had had an effect, no doubt about it. But now, he thought, this position is good. A couple of small irrigation canals would help in hindering the Americans, while he'd put his tanks in position to cover the canals. And the Soviet air-assault troopers were in position as well: they felt that they had a chance to use their remaining Metis (AT-7) antitank missiles. But Herrera's order remained the same: no heroic last stands. Delay as long as possible. And his deputy came up to him. “Fernando, what is it?”

“Comrade Colonel, we've lost contact with Army Headquarters. Enemy Jamming is very intense.”

“To be expected,” Herrera said. What was the last message from Headquarters?”

The deputy replied, “To continue as long as possible.”

Herrera looked at him. “Good. And we'll do just that.”


Unfortunately for Colonel Herrera, his dispositions were now known to the Americans. An OH-58 scout helicopter had spotted the Cuban and Soviet positions, and had reported that back to 49th Armored Division headquarters. The division had just been given a battalion of AH-64A Apaches from Corps to use, and the division's aviation brigade was now making full use of the deadly Apaches. A company of the helicopter gunships was sent to support 3rd Brigade, and those helicopters went after the 214th. And as had happened so many times in the past, the first indication that the Cubans were under attack was when armored vehicles began blowing up.

“Take cover!” Herrera yelled as Hellfire missiles began raining down on his regiment. He could see that they were standing off, out of range of his air defenses, though apart from a few Strela-M missiles (SA-14) he had no real air defense left. And the American helicopters went about their business in a methodical manner, destroying tanks, then artillery, then APCs. Eight Apaches came in, and in the space of fifteen minutes, had destroyed all but eight of his tanks, and left him with exactly four 2S1s to give artillery support. They had then come in with rockets to plaster his motor-rifle troops and the Soviet air-assault troopers, and had wrecked a few more vehicles with their 30-mm cannon. And after the Apaches left, a rain of artillery-both HE and ICM rounds, came in.

To the north, Captain Nancy Kozak and her Team watched it all from a distance. Fireballs signaled the death of armored vehicles, while smaller explosions marked rocket fire finding its mark. After the Apaches had left, the battalion commander called in an artillery mission, and plastered the area worked by the helicopter gunships. Three volleys of HE and ICM rained down on the Cubans, and then all was suddenly quiet. It was time. She called up her platoon leaders and gave the command to move out.

Colonel Herrera stood up from his foxhole as the Apaches left. He looked around and saw that his regiment was now mostly a collection of wrecked vehicles and dead and maimed men. His deputy came over from a hole next to the wrecked command vehicles, and just shook his head. “Comrade Colonel, now what?'

“We do the best we can. There's no way we can fight a delaying action and get away with it,” said the Colonel.

The deputy nodded. Both men went over to find the chief of staff, but he had been in one of the command vehicles, and it had taken a Hellfire missile. Herrera saw that his remaining tanks and artillery pieces were moving up, along with an intact BMP. He turned to the deputy. “Fernando, gather those with weapons and set up a position the best you can. I'm going forward.”

Before the deputy could reply, Herrera went to the BMP and told its surprised commander that he was relieved. The sergeant got off in favor of his colonel, and Herrera ordered the remaining vehicles forward. As he did so, he saw the Soviet air-assault troopers stand up and follow his lead. One final attack on the enemy, that was what he wanted, and he was sure, the Soviets wanted as well.

“Six, They're coming at us,” one of the mech platoon leaders said over Kozak's radio.

So much the better, Kozak thought. It beats this delaying crap, and it sure beats digging them out of their holes. “Let them close, then fire on my order.”

The platoons acknowledged, while Kozak called for battalion mortars to fire on the advancing enemy. As the mortars rained down, she told the gunner to raise the TOW missile launcher up, and find a target. “Got a BMP at twelve, Cap'n.” was his reply.

“When I say fire, take him.” Kozak said.

Herrera peered through the commander's sight on the BMP. The American armor was closing, and soon, they'd be in range. He ordered the four remaining artillery pieces to pull off, then set up to fire, while the T-72s and BMP closed with the Americans. One of the tanks used its laser rangefinder to get a range: 2900 meters. Not quite yet.

“Six, this is Three-One. Range now 2800.” Third Platoon called. Close enough. It was time. She called over the platoon net, “Take 'em!” And to her gunner Kozak calmly said, “Send it.”

The Team opened fire at once. Five of the eight T-72s took hits from tank fire and exploded at once. And Kozak's TOW missile flew straight and true to the BMP, exploding it. Then the other three tanks, along with the four SO-122s, took tank fire and exploded. Then the Team blasted both the advancing Soviet troops and the Cuban position with tank and Bradley fire, finishing what the battalion mortars had started. Within minutes, she was in the Cuban position so recently devastated by the Apaches, and a Cuban major stood up with a white flag, and she called a cease-fire. Kozak got down from the Bradley, took off her CVC helmet, drew her .45, and went over to the Cuban officer.

“Major Fernando Sotomayor, 214th Tank Regiment. I surrender my troops to you.”

“Tell your men to drop their weapons, gather your wounded, and start walking north along the highway, Major. I don't have time to take your men, but there's others following us, and they will take care of you.” He nodded as she called over to her First Sergeant. “First Sergeant! Give these men some water, some MREs, and point them north. We're headed for Brownsville, and there's nothing in our way.”

“Yes, Ma'am!”


1240 Hours: Cuban 2nd Army Headquarters, Rangerville, Texas:


General Perez knew it before his chief of staff came to him with the official word. The 214th had been annihilated. The last radio message had reported an Apache attack, and that American armor was fast approaching, before the sender went off the air-suddenly, and Perez presumed, violently. He turned to the map as the chief of staff came up. “That's it, then, for the 214th?”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General. No further word from them,” the chief said.

“Don't bother trying to reach them. Right now, the only thing stopping the Americans from charging down Highway 281 is their own fuel supply. If they're running low....otherwise, they'll be in Brownsville by evening,” Perez noted.

The chief looked at the map. “Those ribbon bridges are in our sector, Comrade General. Shall I...”

Perez looked at him, then again at the map. “By all means, warn them. Have them ready to destroy the bridges when the enemy approaches.”

The chief nodded and went to send the message. “And one other thing: notify Front Headquarters: tell them 281 is now undefended.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

Perez looked at the map again. Though his Army was still cohesive, he had nothing left to put on Highway 281. He'd had to send some provisional units to his front, to bolster two remaining divisions, but nothing left to send against the Americans on the highway. Unless General Malinsky, the Front Commander, has something, that's it, he realized. The General went over to his Political Officer.

“Comrade General?” the man asked.

“Destroy any sensitive materials, if you haven't done so already. And there's still a chance for you and some of your people to get out via one of the ribbon bridges, if you choose.”

“Thank you, Comrade General. The....sensitive material will be destroyed, immediately.” the Political Officer replied.

Perez nodded. “Do you still wish to leave?”

“Given that the Americans consider many political officers to be war criminals, I would like to do so, Comrade General.”

“All right, then. Get ready to leave by 1400. And the Chief of staff will be with you. I want the Army's war diary to get out, and him with it, so that a personal report can be made.” Perez said.

“Of course, Comrade General.”


1300 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

Marshal Alekseyev, Colonel Sergetov, and General Petrov waited by the hangar that served as Petrov's office and specialist holding area. There were still several hundred men, all priority cases, who needed to leave. And it disgusted all three that two aircraft that could be used to evacuate them were being misused to get the Hall Government out to Cuba. Now, they were waiting on the collaborationists to arrive, and get them out of the pocket. It was very clear, even to the most die-hard Party member or Political Officer, that there wasn't much time left. And the soldiers of the Commandant's Service were taking some severe means to maintain order. Line-jumpers were immediately taken out and shot, while those that tried to rush aircraft were similarly dealt with. While waiting for Hall and his entourage to arrive, Alekseyev turned to Petrov, with an angry tone in his voice. “I thought I ordered you out.”

“I'm going, Comrade General, on the next Mi-26. Even if the pocket goes today, we'll still have forces in Mexico, and who knows when the Americans will come charging over the Rio Grande, intending to settle with the Mexicans. I can get matters organized on the aviation side of things,” Petrov said.

Alekseyev nodded his approval. “I take it you're not that certain about running the gauntlet to Havana?”

“No, Comrade General. The Americans have been feasting on transports the whole day so far. Right now, it's one in four that's getting in,” reported Petrov.

A staff officer came over to the three senior officers. “Comrade Marshal, the planes for President Hall are on approach. And there's two Mi-26s coming in as well. A Libyan C-130 is on short final, along with two An-2s, an An-12, and three Il-76s.”

Alekseyev nodded, while Sergetov was amazed. “A Libyan C-130?”

“I was surprised too, Colonel,” Petrov said. “The Libyan government bought the aircraft before their estrangement with the Americans. The command pilot is Libyan, the copilot and navigator are Iranian, while the flight engineer and loadmaster are Vietnamese. And the common language they all use is English. I do appreciate the irony.”

The Libyan C-130 came in and landed. It was followed by an An-74 and an Il-62, the latter with Cubana markings, then a Tu-154 with North Korean insignia. The C-130 taxied over to the hangar, while the other aircraft taxied over to the terminal building. As the C-130 dropped its ramp, supply pallets were rolled off, and a Soviet ground crew quickly used forklifts to get the supplies out of the way. Then a group of specialists, ninety men, were ushered to the C-130, which hadn't even shut down its engines. Once the men were aboard, the plane quickly taxied to the runway, gunned its engines, and made a quick takeoff. After it took off, an Mi-26 came in and landed near the hangar, and taxied in. The pilot got out and came to the trio. He looked nervous as he saw Marshal Alekseyev, but managed to keep his cool. “Comrade Marshal...we've two Mi-26s and two Mi-8s left. One of the latter is taking out more headquarters personnel, as is one of the former. General Malinsky asked for the use of the remaining Mi-8 to get his intelligence officer and some of that staff component out.”

Alekseyev nodded approval, turning to Petrov. “You're getting on that helicopter. Now. And give my regards to the Rodina: you will see it before I will.”

Petrov came to full attention, just like in his cadet days. “Comrade Marshal, It has been an honor to serve with, and under, you.”

“It's not the Air Force's fault, Petrov,” Alekseyev said. “It's those who failed to get us out of this mess that are responsible. When you do see Marshal Akhromayev, as you most likely will, emphasize that in your report.”

Petrov looked at his Theater Commander with a grave look in his eyes. “I will, Comrade Marshal.”

“Now go. But before you see the Defense Minister, see your family. Many here will not have that opportunity ever again,” Alekseyev said, saluting Petrov.

Petrov returned the salute, then grabbed a small bag and went onto the Mi-26. Alekseyev and Sergetov dropped back as the big helicopter taxied and did a rolling takeoff, kicking up dust as it did so, before pulling up and away. Within two minutes, it was clearly over Mexico, and headed to safety-though with American aircraft roaming the sky over northern Mexico almost at will, that was a relative term.

“Well, let's tend to Hall and his clique. Then, Sergetov, you and General Chibisov will have an important meeting to prepare for.” Alekseyev said.

Colonel Sergetov nodded, knowing full well what that meant.


1310 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, east of Brownsville, Texas:


The bombardment from the American battleships and cruiser had stopped. For General Andreyev, it was about time, and he went up to the roof of the command bunker to have a look for himself. He did a full 360-degree scan with his binoculars, and he saw defensive positions torn apart by heavy-caliber shells, BMD infantry carriers and other vehicles tossed around like toys, and artillery positions ripped to pieces. The 47th Tank Brigade had also taken some of the battleships' fire, and two battalions of tanks had been especially hard hit. Not to mention the fact that American aircraft had been overhead before the bombardment, striking armor and artillery positions. Now, he knew the Marines would be coming, and coming hard, to strike his position. His chief of staff came to him, and Andreyev regarded him. “Yes, Anatoly?”

“Comrade General, Colonel Suslov reports he's taken about thirty percent casualties from the shelling. The other regiments haven't reported in yet, but they're likely to be worse off.”

“Our defense was based on being out of range of naval guns, Anatoly,” Andreyev commented. “How close to shore were they?”

“I've talked with a navy officer, Comrade General. He's estimating that they were about five thousand meters off the shoreline. Maybe a little more. And no extended-range ammunition: all of the shells were likely the usual forty-centimeter high-capacity rounds used for shore bombardment.” the chief replied.

The General nodded. “They don't need to use armor-piercing shells here-and I imagine that their magazines are full of the high-capacity shells.”

“That's very likely, Comrade General.” replied the chief. “The 47th has reported in: two of their tank battalions are combat ineffective, and their motor-rifle battalion has taken about fifty percent losses.”

“Which reduces the power of our counterattack, when it comes,” Andreyev observed. “And now that the bombardment has lifted, that allows their carrier planes to return.”

“I'm afraid it does, Comrade General.”

“And the Marines won't advance further until after another round of air strikes goes in?” asked the General.

“That's practically a given,” the chief said.

Andreyev looked at the situation map. The Americans had hardly moved since the first shells landed on his positions. “If I was commanding those Marines, I'd do the same.”


1320 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:


Marshal Alekseyev looked at the collaborationist leadership with contempt, and despite his strong feelings about the whole thing, managed to hide that contempt from President Hall and his cabinet. Though the Ambassador was still supportive of the whole idea, even he knew that the hopes that there would be those in America still friendly to socialism were dashed-likely for good, and that the Northern Theater would be finished in a a matter of weeks, not months. President Hall, not knowing Alekseyev's strong feelings on him and his government, came over to the Marshal, who did maintain his courtesy. “Comrade President,”

“Marshal. The last I saw you, you were a general,” Hall said. “Things change.”

Alekseyev nodded. “They do, Comrade President. Any regrets? Because this may be the last time you see your native soil, you do realize.”

“I do, Marshal, I do. It's that if only I had fewer ties to Moscow, or that if our propaganda had been done properly, people would have understood the promise that socialism has, and that I was only trying to save America from itself,” Hall said. “Instead of a socialist America, living in peace and harmony with the world, and setting an example for others, now, the country is more reactionary than it ever was. And I, along with all of my cabinet, have prices on our heads.”

Alekseyev surveyed the cabinet members, who were talking with some of the Soviet officers, as well as Ambassador Markarev. He knew full well that the bounties were more than justified, and in fact, if he had his way, these....people would not be flown out, and he'd turn them over to the Americans as part of any cease-fire. And he knew that Marshal Akhromayev in Moscow felt the same way. He took a deep breath, and said, “Knowing that you did as well, to state and national officials, it's not a shock that they return the favor.”

“I know, Marshal. But even though they were issued in my name, and I approved them, it was Vice-President Davis' suggestion,” Hall said, gesturing toward her. And Alekseyev nodded, even though she, more than Hall, was someone he'd gladly turn over to General Powell. Davis had a reputation of being a cold, heartless bitch who had a vicious streak of ruthlessness, and the price on her head matched that.

“Yes, Comrade President. But you did approve the idea, and it was Franklin who implemented-or tried to-the suggestion. And the response was to place those rewards on you and your cabinet-without exception. You reap what you have sown, the saying goes,” Alekseyev reminded Hall.

“That's quite so, Marshal. Now, not only I, but the rest of the cabinet, are regarded by the reactionary government in Philadelphia as the worst traitors in American history, and they are supported by the news media, and it appears, the vast majority of the people. No one wants to hear that we wanted to save America from itself, or build a new America out of the old. No! We are seen as puppets of the KGB and the DGI, and the news media even has so-called commentators calling for our summary execution if caught. Without even a trial,” Hall said, tears welling in his eyes.

Now, Alekseyev's contempt almost came to the surface. But he restrained himself. “Given that the PSD also performed such executions, why does that not surprise you? My intelligence staff has seen those broadcasts, and by no means is that feeling universal.”

“True, but it seems like it's the majority opinion. Hall let out a sigh, almost one of relief. “Now the dream is over. We'll continue the struggle from Havana and Moscow, but I'm not much of an optimist.”

Before Alekseyev could reply, a SAF colonel came in. “Comrades, both aircraft are ready. They've been refueled, and are ready for boarding.”

Ambassador Markarev came over. “It's time, Comrade President.”

Hall nodded, and shook Alekseyev's hand. “We did everything we could, Marshal. It wasn't enough. Thank you, for everything.” He turned to the Ambassador. “And you, too, Comrade Ambassador, for all that you have done.” After that, Hall and his cabinet went out to the aircraft, where they were split into two groups. Hall and half the cabinet boarded an An-74, while the other group, led by Vice-President Davis, boarded the North Korean Tu-154. While most of their staff members went with either group, some additional staff, along with some that Alekseyev recognized as PSD members, got aboard the Cubana Il-62. The planes started their engines, taxied to the runway, and one after the other, took off and headed east, out towards Cuba.

“Well, that's the end of that,” Alekseyev observed. He turned to the Ambassador, “That mistake should never have happened.”

Makarev was astonished; oh, he had heard that the Army had been against the formation of the Hall government, and not only the General Staff, but the GRU as well-arguing that the population of the occupied territories would not consider any such government legitimate, but it would only fan the flames of an already active resistance movement. Those objections had been noted for the record, and overruled. Now, Makarev knew that the Army would use this in the ongoing debate back in Moscow, over whether or not to continue the war. While the Defense Council and most of the Politburo were in favor, there were candidate members of the Politburo, members of the Central Committee, and key generals and admirals who were in favor of a settlement. But his boss, Foreign Minister Tumansky, was still in favor of continuing the war. “Comrade Marshal, the government showed promise: it demonstrated how socialism could work in America-”

“It only demonstrated how it could flourish at the point of our guns!” Alekseyev shouted. “In case you haven't been out of the embassy that much, that government's two main bodies-the ALA and the PSD-created more guerrillas than they managed to eliminate, and engendered not only that much more hatred of us, but it turned anyone who associated themselves with that government into a traitor, and even now, the Americans have been very ruthless in dealing with those who cooperated with us. Those who can't prove they were forced to cooperate at gunpoint have little chance in court: either death on the gallows or a very lengthy prison sentence.”

Makarev was shocked. He'd never had any Army officer-of any senior position-tell this to his face. Then again, the Foreign Ministry was a minor player in the struggle between the Army, the Party, and the KGB. “Comrade Marshal, at the time, victory appeared to be only a matter of months-at most a year-away. Creating a government that would show a socialist America as a true partner with the Rodina-”

“Creating a government that is now considered to be the equivalent of the Vichyites in France, you mean. Not even the UN would recognize them-or did that fact ever escape your attention?” Alekseyev thundered. “I thought not. I suggest you get the hell not only out of my sight, but on the next helicopter or aircraft out of here. This area will be back under its previous owners within a day, and the Americans would love to have Hall's chief supervisor-their term, not mine-in custody.” Alekseyev then turned and, with contemptuous ease, walked out on the Ambassador, leaving Makarev babbling in his wake.

As the Marshal and Sergetov left the terminal building, Sergetov turned to his Marshal. “I wonder if he'd ever had anyone tell him that to his face, Comrade Marshal?”

“I doubt it, Colonel. Let's get back to headquarters: you have a meeting to prepare, and I will make my final report to the Defense Council.”