Finis: The End at Brownsville (Repost):

[jemhouston]

Earlier than I thought! But makes sense.

We occasionally do stuff like that.

[Matt Wiser]

U.S. Forces move into Brownsville proper:


0830 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suraykin and his staff walked out of the warehouse that had served as the Army headquarters during the final battle. He had half expected to get killed somehow, but instead, he was going to live, and fully intended to set a good example to his men in captivity. Suraykin and his staff were in their best uniforms, and waited for the Americans to arrive. They didn't have long to wait, for a column of M-60A4-120 tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles came down from the northeast, and reached the freeway and the headquarters. One of the tanks pulled up to where Suraykin and his staff were waiting, and the tank commander climbed down and took off his helmet. General Suraykin noticed he was a Captain, and satisfied about that, walked up to him and saluted. “General Piotyr Suraykin, 4th Guards Tank Army.”

“Captain Jeff Ritter, 5-37 Armor, 2nd Brigade, 7th Armored Division.”

Nodding, Suraykin said, “We've been expecting you, or shall we say, someone from your division. I do have a question: were you at the airport?”

“In fact, General, I was. Those were your guys at the airport, I take it?”

“They were. First 20th, then 38th Tank Divisions.”

“Don't know if anyone's told you this, but General, your men fought hard. We took our share of lumps driving your men out of that airport.” Ritter said.

Suraykin and Isakov smiled. They weren't sure how many casualties they'd inflicted in the final battle at the airport, but at least they'd made the Americans pay a price-even if it wasn't as much as they'd hoped, for the airport. “At least we know that much. Captain, your instructions?”

“Gather your people up here, and get ready to walk north. I'll notify my superiors, and they'll probably send a vehicle or maybe a helicopter for you and any other general officers.” Ritter said. “Have you and your staff had anything to eat since last night?”

“No, Captain, other than some weak tea and some bread,” Suraykin replied.

“We'll get you some MREs-better than nothing, I suppose, but still, they're edible. Mostly. First Sergeant!”

“Yes, Cap'n?” the company first sergeant asked.

Get some MREs and bottled water for the general and his men,” Ritter said, and the first sergeant nodded and went off to fulfill the order. “Best we can do, General, for right now.”

Suryakin had heard from prisoners what the Americans thought of their MRE rations. Some were good, some were despised. Well, he'd find out for himself. Soon, the first sergeant pulled up in a Humvee and brought some MRE boxes. “Sir, this should keep you for a while,” he said, saluting. Suraykin nodded and took the boxes, and Isakov passed out the rations. He looked at his: Beef Stew.


0850 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

Colonel Alexandrov was amazed at the controlled chaos that had been unfolding at the airport since 0800. Right on the dot, several C-130s had appeared-how he wished his side had such capable aircraft-other than the two or three Libyan examples-and began dropping paratroopers. The Americans formed up after landing, and their ranking officer-who identified himself as the Assistant Division Commander of the 82nd Airborne Division, came to him. Apart from a company of paratroop infantry, some of the Americans were airborne pathfinders sent to mark drop zones, while others were U.S. Air Force Combat Controllers sent to find out runway conditions, and get ready to support incoming and outgoing aircraft. Within minutes, the single operable runway was declared open, and C-130s and C-141s began coming in a steady stream. And just like his own An-12s and Il-76s, they didn't bother shutting down: troops and vehicles came out of the aircraft, formed up into units, and then moved out of the airport into Brownsville.

Alexandrov was pleased to see that some of the Americans' initial arrivals were medical personnel. One of their medical officers had come over to him and asked where the Soviets had kept the wounded earmarked for evacuation, and where the nearest field hospital was. Happy to be of service, the Colonel showed the American Captain where his people could best be of help. And the American had replied, “Colonel, it's over now. Those wounded may be POWs now, but they're still people who need decent medical care and food. We'll do what we can to help them.”

While that was going on, the American paratroopers were busy disarming soldiers, collecting heavy weapons, and assembling prisoners so that they could be easily guarded, then sent north. And one thing surprised the Colonel: though the Americans were in full combat gear, they were wearing their airborne berets as they went about their business. Clearly, they wanted to send a message that the 82nd had arrived, and there had better be no trouble from anyone.

Now, he was sitting under guard, in the shadow of a hangar, with other Soviet officers-a mix of air force, Army, and Voyska PVO. The Americans had told him that it would be a while before everyone could go north, but they had provided the prisoners with MREs and bottled water, and since many of the Soviets hadn't had much to eat the past few days, the food and water was gratefully accepted. He'd actually enjoyed his MRE, which had said “Ham and Cheese omelet” and had even liked the fruit punch and coffee that came with it. Then he noticed an American officer coming towards him. A nearby guard saluted, then the officer spoke, “I'm looking for Colonel Alexandrov.”

Alexandrov stood up, “You have found him.”

“Good, please come with me.” the American said. Confused, Alexandrov followed the American officer to a Humvee, where several American officers-male and female, were standing, looking over a map-and that map was of the airport. The American saluted another officer-who was clearly in command of the group. “Sir, I have Colonel Alexandrov.”

“Sir, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Joel Wainwright, XVIII Airborne Corps engineers. We need to know where any and all unexploded ordnance is. It's just as much a danger to your men still here as it is to us.”

Alexandrov nodded. Though some might call it collaboration with the enemy, others would say that the safety of his men came first. “I can show you, Colonel. But I have to warn you: I don't know where all of it is, only what was reported.”

Colonel Wainwright nodded. “Fair enough, Colonel. Why don't you show us?” As Alexandrov began to do so, Wainwright added, “Chances are, we're not going to find all of it, either. Some of it's going to get someone killed, fifteen, maybe twenty years from now.”


0900 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo, Texas:

General Malinsky stood outside his office, watching as UH-60 and CH-47 helicopters flew overhead, heading south. Obviously, this was the 101st Airborne Division making its presence felt, and he wondered why that division had not been committed-unless the division was being held in reserve for this particular eventuality. Well, maybe he'd ask an American officer when the Americans arrived. And he didn't have long to wait, for a group of helicopters flew in and landed on what had been the high school's sports fields. Heavily armed paratroopers came out and secured the landing area, then a senior officer came forward. Malinsky and Isakov went to meet him. “General Malinsky, commanding the Gulf Front,” he said with a slight bow.

“Lieutenant Colonel Pete Fanning, 2-506 Airborne Infantry, 2nd Brigade, 101st Airborne,” the American replied, saluting.

Malinsky nodded, returning the salute, “Colonel, you will find everything here in order.”

“That's good, General. Please wait,” Fanning said as he summoned his RTO. Another Blackhawk, which had been orbiting nearby, came in and landed. Another officer, along with several staff officers, came out. Colonel Fanning walked over to him, obviously reporting to him. Then the officer came over, wearing three stars on his fatigue cap. “General Malinsky?” the American said, “Lieutenant General Gary Luck, XVIII Airborne Corps.”

“General,” Malinsky said, nodding. “Please, this way to the operations room. Everything you need is there.”

“All right, let's go.” Luck said.

Malinsky and Isakov led the Americans into the operations room, where the staff had still been at work, making sure things went smoothly. Out of habit, the staff came to attention. Malinsky nodded, as did General Luck. “General, we need to know if you have any minefields laid-if you were trying to block any kind of helicopter assault. And we need to know about your ammunition dumps: we've got them located, but which ones have any kind of chemical munitions.” Luck said.

Isakov spoke up, “I have that information, General,” and he went over to a desk and picked up two maps. One had the Front's ammunition storage points marked, while another had several minefields. “The first map has the ammunition storage, though all of them have chemical munitions of one sort or another. And the second shows the minefields-at least those that the various armies had reported before things started to come apart.”

Luck picked up the maps and handed them to his intelligence officer. “Pass the information on minefields to the 101st and to 18th Aviation Brigade. Send the material on the ammo dumps to the 101st and to II MAF: there's a couple in their AOR.”

“Right away, General,” the intelligence officer said, going back to the landing zone to get the material flown out.

“General,” Malinsky said, “I thank you for what you've been able to do already for the wounded. Though I fear that your efforts, along with ours, will be too late for many.”

Luck nodded. He'd had that information from his own intelligence sources come in a few days earlier: those who were not in shape to be returned to duty were on the airlift, while those who could be patched up and sent back to the front got priority. Those whose wounds were much more serious, were left undertreated, or in some cases, untreated and allowed to die. “Won't be the first time: but the last time something like this happened was probably in Germany in '45.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Malinsky said.

“General...” Luck said, “I'm curious: where's your political officer and his people?”

“Before the cease-fire took effect, many of those fled. Others shot themselves,” Malinsky said.

“Given as to what many-though not all of them-did, it's not a surprise.” Luck said. “And we got word that you were evacuating your intelligence people.”

“That's correct,” Malinsky said.

“Well....we can't get them all, because a lot of them do have innocent blood on their hands, General.”

“I understand, General Luck. It is...unfortunate that the war turned those who should have simply done their duty, into beasts.” Malinsky said. “Still....General, before I and my staff go north, I would like to offer a toast. Isakov,” Malinsky nodded to the chief of staff, who produced a bottle of vodka and several glasses.

“A toast, General?” Luck asked, incredulous.

“Yes. A toast to peace. At least in this corner of the war. And I imagine that men like you and me have seen and done enough in the last four years.”

“You're right about that. Vietnam, now this.....I've seen enough. I'll tell you one thing, General. As soon as they work out an Armistice, I'm going to retire,” Luck said.

“Then shall we drink to an early retirement?” Malinsky asked.

“Yes. Let's,” Luck said.


0920 Hours: Camp 24, near Laguna Vista, Texas:


Captain Dimitriev watched with the two American senior officers as the helicopters flew overhead, and the prisoners waved to the troops in the helicopters, who waved back. He had made sure that the guards remained in their barracks, with their weapons stacked outside, and the guard towers were unmanned. And the Soviet and ALA flags had been hauled down as well. Not to mention the supplies that had been air-dropped earlier had been distributed: food, medicine, and bottled water. And Dimitriev had one other little bit of cleaning house to tend to after Tsernik's suicide: he'd gone looking for the political officer, only to find that the man had gone. When he'd told this to the senior officers, Captain Pearson had simply scowled, saying, “So the worm took off for Mexico? Good luck getting there,” while Major Caldwell had said nothing.

Then a flight of UH-60s orbited the camp, as if looking for a place to land. After finding a suitable landing site, the Blackhawks landed, and out came heavily armed soldiers, who surrounded the guard barracks and waited in front of the main gate. Dimitriev glanced at the two American officers, and said as he nodded towards the gate, “Shall we?”

The trio went to the main gate, and found American troops there in full battle gear, though wearing their caps instead of helmets. And the Captain who was waiting at the main gate was obviously female. But the M-16 rifle she bore in her hand-and the way she wielded it-indicated that this woman was a combat veteran. “I am Captain Dimitriev, the acting camp commander,” Dimitirev said. “And I have the two senior American POW officers with me.”

The female officer nodded, and gestured to a sergeant next to her. He took out a large set of bolt cutters and cut the chain on the gate, which swung open. “Captain Regan Nyberg, 3-187, 101st Airborne. Order your men to come out of their barracks, hands on their heads, and no funny business,” she said, with an angry tone of voice.

Dimitriev nodded, and walked over to the barracks, covered by the paratroopers. He yelled in Russian, and as Nyberg had ordered, the guards came out of the barracks, hands on their heads. Then Dimitriev handed his pistol to the captain. “Your prisoner, Captain.”

“Go over with your men,” Nyberg said. “First Sergeant, tag all of 'em as POW camp guards, and keep them separate from other EPWs. Let battalion know the guards were still here, and request instructions.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” the first sergeant replied, and the guards were marched off. As they were marched off, a steady stream of now former POWs came out of the camp, hugging the paratroopers who were coming in.

The two senior officers identified themselves, and Nyberg saluted them, and then ordered her troops into the compound. The two gave her a tour, showing her the commandant's office (with the deceased Major Tsernik now attracting flies), the interrogation rooms in the HQ building, with dried bloodstains, the posts in the compound where prisoners were tied and beaten, the isolation area, with sweat boxes, ramshackle POW barracks, the inadequate bathing and sanitary facilities, and the building in the North Compound where female POWs were taken to “entertain” guards and visiting VIPs. Throughout the tour, Nyberg stayed calm, and both Caldwell and Pearson looked at her. “Captain,” Caldwell said, “You don't seem surprised.”

“I'm not. Sad to say, this isn't my first time. I liberated a couple of POW camps last year, west of Houston. They were just like this.” she said.

“Nobody should have to see this more than once,” Pearson said. She'd been in two other camps before being sent to 24.

Captain Nyberg nodded. Then she looked around. “Where's the supply area?”

“Behind the guards' barracks. Why?” Caldwell asked.

“OK, do they have any gas?”

“Yeah, for their generator. Why do you ask?”

“I think I know what she's got in mind,” Pearson said.

“Here's what we'll do: I'll have my first sergeant get the gas and he'll get it spread around these buildings. Before you leave-and I'll either get trucks or see if a helicopter lift can be organized-we'll put this place to the torch.” Nyberg said.

The two senior officers looked at each other, then at her. Both grinned from ear to ear. “I take it that means yes?” Nyberg asked.

They nodded, and then she said. “Good. Let's get it over and done.”


0940 Hours: U.S. 281, Brownsville City Limits:

It had been a long time coming, but now, Kozak's Team was at the Brownsville city limits. The point element, a tank and a Bradley, had stopped at the sign, and to no one' s surprise, the crews got out and took pictures of each other. After a blast on the radio from Kozak, the chagrined soldiers got back into their vehicles and continued south. The reporters, though, did stop. And everyone noticed the CNN crew filming the team's vehicles as they crossed into the city, the first American troops, or so they hoped, in the city in four years.

As her Bradley entered the city, Kozak got on the radio to the battalion commander, reporting entry into the city. And his response pleased her. “Get to the University of South Texas-Brownsville and secure it. That's Soviet Headquarters, Division says. Get there as quick as you can.”

Pleased at the thought of taking the surrender of the Soviet commander and his staff, Kozak acknowledged the order, and told the Team to push on. As the Team, with the rest of the division following along and behind, moved deeper into outskirts of Brownsville, a stream of civilians came out, waving and cheering, while some broke out long-hidden American flags and were waving them at the tanks and Bradleys as they rumbled past. Many of them showed the signs of people who'd been living on an inadequate diet for a long time, and soldiers threw MREs and water to the people they'd fought so hard to liberate. As they pushed on, one thing did occur to Kozak: none of her troops were original members of the 49th, and no one was familiar with the area. When her Bradley came to an intersection, she told her driver to stop. A crowd of civilians came up, clapping and cheering, and Kozak waved and smiled. After she got up and off the Bradley, she felt like her grandfather had in Paris, 1944. And soon, she was surrounded by cheering civilians, not noticing Jan Fields' crew filming the scene. Then she asked, “Anyone here know the way to UT South Texas?”

Several people indicated they did, and one offered his services as a guide: before the war, he'd been a graduate student in biology, and not only knew the way there, but also knew the campus backwards and forwards. “All right, hop on,” she said, climbing back onto the Bradley. The young man, to the cheers from the crowd, climbed onto Kozak's Bradley and simply rode on top. While that was going on, her Third Platoon leader came up on the net. “Six, we got something here.”

“What is it, Three-one?”

“Six, it's an ALA or PSD office; can't tell which. But somebody beat us to 'em. The place is a mess, but the files are all out here, neatly arranged, and in front....”

“What's in front?” Kozak asked.

“Bodies. All wearing ALA or PSD uniforms. Some of 'em are burned or shot up pretty bad, but half of 'em....all shot in the back of the head.” Third Platoon's leader said.

Somebody's just saved JAG a ton of work, was her first thought. Then she asked her guide. “Know anything about that?”

“No, nobody could go out because of the curfew, but we heard a lot of shooting.” the civilian said.

An interesting question: who'd done away with the local ALA or PSD? And that kind of precision ruled out guerrillas. Kozak got on the radio and informed the battalion commander, who immediately ordered Alpha Company to send a platoon to secure the site. Kozak was to continue her advance. As the Team rolled on, she asked the guide, “How far to the campus?”

“Two miles, give or take,” he replied.

This is going to be the longest two miles of my life, she thought. But it'll be worth it, to see the faces of not only the Soviet brass, but the airborne mafia when they see we beat 'em to the Soviet HQ.

[Matt Wiser]

1000 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev looked out the window of his office, and and the sky was full of American aircraft and helicopters. A steady stream of aircraft flew in and out of the Airport, while helicopters came in and landed at various locations, unloading troops and supplies, then heading off. Apache and Cobra gunships flitted overhead, providing cover, while American fighters and attack aircraft circled overhead. It was clear the Americans were not taking any chances.

He also took a look at the city, and from this vantage point, he could see some American columns pushing in, with crows of civilians lining the streets. To the Marshal, it reminded him of films of cities liberated from the Hitlerites during the Great Patriotic War, and he realized all to well that to the Americans, this was their equivalent. Shrugging his shoulders, he went back to the Operations Room, where most of the staff was there, waiting, along with Chibisov and Sergetov. Alekseyev motioned to the two to follow him, and the trio went down to the foyer, and out the front door. “This reminds me of something, Comrades, from reading about the campaign in the west, in 1944.” Alekseyev said.

“What is that, Comrade Marshal?” Sergetov asked.

“Paris, 1944. I am in the position similar to that of General Dietrich von Choltitz, who was the commandant of the city when the French and Americans arrived. All we can do is wait for the Americans to arrive and formally take possession of the city,” Alekseyev said.

Both Chibisov and Sergetov nodded, as an OH-58D Kiowa Warrior and a pair of AH-64A Apaches flew overhead, scouting along the river. So far, there had hardly been any shooting from across the river, which Alekseyev was glad to hear, and hopefully, cooler heads on that side of the river will prevail. Given how determined the Mexicans were in the final days, he frankly didn't expect that to happen, and that when he arrived at whatever senior officer POW camp the Americans sent him to, he'd find out that the Americans had invaded Mexico. And given what the Mexicans had done since 1984, he honestly didn't blame the Americans one bit for wanting to settle those scores in a very serious and direct manner. His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of Humvees coming up to the perimeter. Fine vehicles, those Humvees, he thought, and captured examples had served the Soviets well, and some examples had even been sent to the USSR to help with the design of Soviet light transport vehicles. The occupants of the Humvees got out and began to set up a satellite antenna, and a tripod with what looked like a camera. Curious, Alekseyev sent Sergetov over to see who these Americans were. Clearly, they didn't appear to be military. Sergetov went over, spoke to the Americans, and then came back, with a confused look on his face. “Well, Comrade Colonel?”

“Comrade Marshal, you're not going to believe this..” Sergetov said.

“What?” Alekseyev responded.

“They're not military, but are reporters. One group is a TV news crew for one of the American networks-CBS, he said, while others are from either news services or newspapers.” Sergetov said.

“How did they get here ahead of the U.S. Army?” Chibisov asked.

“The correspondent for the CBS crew, Bob McKewon, said they asked local civilians which way to get here, and they simply drove onto side streets and not the 77-83 freeway, or any other main road. Those are crowded with military traffic as well as crowds of civilians.” said Sergetov. “He said it's the worst traffic jam he's ever seen.”

And General McCaffery's words about the military and the news media came back to Alekseyev. “Well, Comrades, they're here, and there's not much we can do about it,” he observed, noticing the camera being trained in their direction. Then a shout came from the east side of the perimeter. “They're here!”

A column of Humvees, a platoon of LAV-25s, and a platoon of what looked to be Cadillac-Gage Stingrays began to appear at the East Gate. The Americans slowly advanced, turrets swinging back and forth, clearly showing that they were not taking any chances. As they did so, another shout came from the West Gate. M-60A4-105 tanks and Bradley IFVs were approaching. These, too, were moving their turrets, not taking any chances. Both columns met in front of the Soviet Headquarters, and the respective commanders got out. The two talked for a few minutes, shook hands for the TV cameras, then both came to Alekseyev, saluting, a male captain in an airborne beret and a female mechanized infantry captain, still wearing her combat vehicle helmet.

“Captain Mark Hanson, 2-325 Airborne Infantry, 2nd Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division,”

“Captain Nancy Kozak, 3-144 Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 49th Armored Division,”

Alekseyev returned the salutes, as did Chibisov and Sergetov. “I am Marshal Alekseyev. We have been waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” Hanson replied. “I have orders to secure the area for General Powell's arrival. He will be here shortly, once the area is declared secured. Though we're in different corps, Captain Kozak apparently has similar orders.”

“That I do,” Kozak said. She turned to Hanson. “Why don't your men take the east side, and we'll take the west? Marshal, are there any minefields or booby traps we need to know about?”

“Yes, we have some antipersonnel mines out, as an anti-guerrilla measure.” Alekseyev turned to Sergetov. “Go and bring those maps here, Colonel.”

“Right away, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said, and he went back in to get the maps.

Alekseyev noticed the news crews coming in closer and setting up their cameras. Before long, the network crews were on the air, live. He grimaced, but tried not to show it. Then Sergetov came with the maps. “Here are the maps, Comrade Marshal, Captains,”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Hanson said. “I've got an engineer platoon with me, they can get started. Fortunately, there's no mines that may be an immediate danger, but when civilians start to return...”

“Just like in Stalingrad,” Chibisov said. The two American officers looked at him. “It took months of work before many areas of the city were declared safe for people to return. I believe you've got similar issues in San Antonio and Houston, among others.”

“Unfortunately, that's true, General,” Kozak said.

Hanson and Kozak then studied the map further. “Like we said, I'll take the west side, you take the east side. Let's get these guys disarmed and ready to go north.” Kozak said, seeing Hanson nod. “How long until General Powell arrives?”

“When I tell battalion the area's secured,” Hanson said, “Which won't be too long.”


1015 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev watched as a C-130 transport flew over the island, dropping leaflets to the civilians still living there. Just a day before, anyone possessing such a leaflet could expect to be shot, but now, the Americans were getting ready to arrive on the island. He noticed that civilians were coming out of their storm shelters and homes, and many were shaking hands with each other, glad to have made it through the invasion and occupation, and now, he also noticed, some were coming out with long-hidden American flags-possession of which could have gotten the owner sent to a labor camp at the very least-if not summarily shot. Now, the Americans were coming back, and the local population was in a mood to celebrate.

He watched as several CH-46 helicopters came over and began to orbit, obviously searching for places to land. So, he would be surrendering to the U.S. Marines, it appeared. His chief of staff, and Captain Lieutenant Kamarov came to him. “Well, Comrades, it's just about time.”

“Would you rather have fought a useless battle, Major?” Kamarov asked. “I'm just glad that most of my crew has made it, and as far as I'm concerned, that's all I care about right now.”

“Understandable,” Lazarev said, watching as the first helicopters began to touch down, near the Queen Isabella Causeway. They soon lifted off, having deposited their Marines, and soon, more helicopters began to come in. A few minutes later, U.S. Marines began coming up Park Road 100, South Padre Island's main street, and civilians were coming out to welcome their liberators. The Marine point element came up to the 175th's headquarters, and Lazarev and the other two officers went to meet the Marines. “Major Lazarev, 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, Red Banner Northern Fleet,” he said, saluting the Marine Lieutenant who was leading his platoon.

“Major. Lieutenant Robert Greer, 2/23 Marines, 4th Marine Division,” the Marine said, returning the salute. “How many do you have here?”

“I have about 3,000 Naval Infantry, about five hundred sailors from various commands, and several hundred others-air defense, coastal defense, and rear services.” Lazarev said.

The Marine nodded, waving up his RTO. “How many civilians are here?”

“About 2,000, Lieutenant. Some were....relocated, but others were allowed to remain.” Lazarev said.

The Marine officer then spoke into his radio. And a few minutes later, a senior Marine officer came forward. By the eagle insignia, he was a Colonel. Lazarev saluted, and the Marine returned it, saying, “Colonel Sean Bradford, 23rd Marines.”

“Major Lazarev. We have all of our weapons assembled in one location, and have kept the heavy weapons separate.” Lazarev said.

“That's good, Major. Now, do you have any minefields? The beach, especially?” Bradford wanted to know.

“Mines were one thing my brigade was short of. But I can give you a map of my defenses: all of the minefields, such as they were, are marked.” said Lazarev.

“Show me,” the Marine Colonel said, and Lazarev and the other officers brought the Marine Colonel and several other Marine officers into the headquarters. And Lazarev's chief of staff pointed out the mine locations on the map-mostly around the buildings where the Naval Infantry had dug into. One of Bradford's officers took the map and headed out to inform the Marines now moving to take their Soviet opposite numbers into custody. “Major, you're probably wondering if you sat here, twiddling your thumbs, while the real action took place down at Boca Chica.”

“Colonel, the thought had occurred to me.” Lazarev said.

“Well...I guess I can tell you now. We thought a great deal about coming ashore here, and had a plan to do it. But the recon pictures showed your defenses, and so....Boca Chica it was. There was only a single battalion on the beach, and that was a penal unit.” Bradford said.

“A penal unit?” Lazarev was astonished.

“That's right. Now, if they'd been KGB, or maybe your airborne, it would've been a real brawl. Instead, most of them simply raised their hands, while the rest took to their heels,” replied the Marine Colonel.

“I can assure you, Colonel, that no such behavior would have happened here,” Lazarev said. “My orders were clear: defend this island at all costs.”

“And that's one reason we didn't land here. The other one is the demolitions: the Causeway and the Port Isabel oil refinery.” Bradford said.

Lazarev nodded. “I know the causeway was set with demolitions, but I know nothing about the oil refinery.”

“I doubt you did. Anyway,” Bradford said, “Be glad you and your men are alive.”

Major Lazerev simply nodded, and the party went back outside, as Soviet Naval Infantrymen, sailors, and others came out of their positions to be searched, and formed up to be taken off the island. He watched as a Marine officer came up to Colonel Bradford. “Sir, the causeway's secured. But getting all the demo charges off, it's going to be an all-day job.”

Bradford turned to Lazarev, then back to the officer. “All right, get some MREs and water for these men, they'll be here until the causeway's declared safe.” The officer nodded and went off to relay the order.

“Major, sorry about that. But no one's using that causeway until it's declared safe to do so. Don't worry: you and your men will be fed, and anyone who needs medical attention will get it.” Bradford said.


1050 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:


“Captain to CCP!” the boat's PA system barked.

Captain Padorin got up from his chair in the wardroom. He'd been going over his patrol report so far, and wondered if the kills he'd made would balance out the fact that they had been in vain. That's for Caribbean Squadron to decide, he rationalized, but we did everything possible, and it wasn't enough. If Zirinsky was still with them, he might have caused trouble, but that was no longer any concern to Padorin. His only regret was that Zirinsky had not delayed his mutiny solicitation until after the pocket's liquidation: then it would be clear that the man had tried to mutiny in favor of a lost cause. But the Zampolit was not missed aboard the boat, and it was obvious that K-236 was a happy boat at the moment.

Padorin went into the CCP, where Shelpin was standing watch. “What do we have, Shelpin?”

“We have an ELF message for us, Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. “As per the order book, I have ordered the boat to antenna depth, and slowed to five knots.”

“Very good. I have the deck and the con,” the Captain replied. “Present depth?”

“Sixty meters, Comrade Captain,” the helm replied.

“Very well, Helm.” Padorin said.

The boat was soon at antenna depth,and after the ESM mast was raised and showed all clear, the radio antenna was raised. The message came in, and again, it was repeated. “What now?” Padorin asked. “That's the second time in a row they've repeated messages.”

The Starpom came into the CCP-he'd been off watch in his cabin. “Another message?” he asked.

“Right. Now we wait until decoding. Lower antenna, and up periscope.” Padorin ordered.

The periscope came up, and Padorin did a full sweep. “No contacts, down scope,” and the periscope went back down. Then the communications officer came in. “Yes?” Padorin asked.

“Comrade Captain, message from Caribbean Squadron,” the man responded.

Padorin took the message form, and this time, a smile came to his face. “Our search and rescue mission is canceled, Comrades.”

Everyone in the CCP, the Starpom and Security Officer especially, let out a sigh of relief. “What are our new orders?” asked the Starpom.

“Return to previous station in Yucatan Channel, and await further orders,” Padorin said. He turned to the helm officer. “Come left to one-four-zero.”

“Coming left to one-four-zero, Comrade Captain.” the officer replied.

“Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters, and make turns for ten knots.”

“Two hundred and fifty meters, make turns for ten knots, Aye, Comrade Captain.” the man said.

Once the boat was on its new course and at that depth, Padorin turned to Shelpin. “You have the deck and the con. I'll be in my quarters.”


1100 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev and his staff watched as the Americans went about the business of securing the perimeter, checking for mines, and closing up on the Mexican border. He was very impressed with how through and serious the Americans took their tasks, recalling the difference between that and prewar propaganda, which depicted American soldiers as pampered, spoiled, pushovers who were likely to surrender or run away. Now, that may have happened at times in the early days, but whoever wrote those words back then was dead wrong, by and large. Not to mention the fact that there were so many women serving-and in combat units. A female company commander? He'd encountered two in the last twenty-four hours, and he had noticed female soldiers in that infantry company positioned where he'd gone through American lines to meet with Powell. And there were more here: female tankers and mechanized infantry on the west side, and female paratroopers on the east side, and they were just as serious as their male counterparts. For his part, Chibisov commented on how the paratroopers appeared: in full combat gear, but wearing their maroon berets instead of their helmets. It was plain that the Americans wanted not just the Soviets, but any potential troublemakers, as well as the civilian population, to see that the 82nd had arrived, and that the airborne meant business. There had been some scattered shooting, but things went smoothly for the most part, much to everyone's relief. Then the airborne company commander came up.

“Marshal, This area is secured. I've notified General Powell, and his helicopter will be here in a few minutes.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Were the minefield maps useful?”

“Yes, sir. The engineer platoon's pleased, and their company commander is as well. Fortunately, they're pretty easy to clear: either the MON series of Claymore copies, or some POM-Z stake mines. Finding and clearing any antitank mines, though...that's going to be tougher, he said.” Hansen responded.

Then four Humvees, two from the east-the 82nd's area, and two from the west-the 49th Armored's area, arrived. Alekseyev noticed the female mechanized company commander going to the ones from her division, and Captain Hansen going to those from the 82nd. He noticed that the lead Humvee in each had a placard with two stars on it: those had to be divisional commanders. And sure enough, two general officers, one in an airborne beret, and the other in a field cap came together, shook hands, and came up to Alekseyev and his staff.

“Marshal, Major General Robert Gregory, 82nd Airborne Division,” the airborne general said, saluting.

“Major General Wesley Clark, 49th Armored Division.” said the armor officer.

“Gentlemen,” Alekseyev said, returning their salutes. “Two divisions here?”

“Well, Marshal, both of our units were in kind of a race to be the first here, and for all intents and purposes, the first to the International Bridges. Just as your army in 1945 had a race to Berlin and the Reichstag, I believe.” Clark said. “Then there's the traditional rivalry between the airborne and everyone else in the Army,” he said, glancing at General Gregory, who nodded.

“I see.. and General Powell?” Alekseyev asked.

“He's on his way by helicopter,” Gregory said. “He ought to be here anytime, Marshal.” Then came the sound of helicopters. “That should be him,” he said, pointing to four UH-60s coming in close. The four helicopters made a circle, then flared and landed. After the helicopters shut down and the rotors stopped spinning, the occupants came out. General Powell and his staff came out of the first two helicopters, a number of MPs came out of the third, and a group of reporters came out of the fourth. The two American generals saw the reporters and shook their heads. “There's enough of them here already,” Gregory muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Clark replied. “But at least I've got Jan Fields over there,” he said, pointing to the CNN crew with Kozak's company.

“And the General brought Christiane Armanpour and her bunch with him,” Gregrory said. “Oh, well. Let's get on with it.”

Alekseyev watched as the two generals went to greet Powell, and some words were exchanged. Then both generals assembled their respective divisions' honor guards, while the reporters were shown where they could set up. Only then did General Powell come to meet Alekseyev. “Marshal,”

“General Powell,” Alekseyev said. “So it is time.”

“Yes, it is. Again, I'll say it for the record. Your forces put up the best fight they could. Even though the outcome was inevitable, your men fought hard.” Powell said.

“Thank you, General. If your Navy and Air Forces hadn't been as successful in cutting our supply lines, we'd likely still be in our positions that we had at the beginning of the month.” Alekseyev said.

“Probably so, Marshal. So far, things have gone smoothly. Some rough spots-like some guerrillas coming out and trying to take revenge, but those have been taken care of. And I'm curious: who did away with the ALA and PSD here? Some of my commanders have said that those offices-along with some KGB and DGI, were eliminated with precision.” Powell said.

“Let's just say, General, that some of my airmobile troops handled that bit of...housecleaning, for want of a better term,” Alekseyev said.

Powell took the hint. Obviously Alekseyev was referring to Spetsnatz, but still couldn't openly say it. “Well, whoever it was did a very good job.” Seeing Alekesyev nod, Powell said, “All right, let's get on with it.” He turned to the two generals and issued orders.

Two soldiers from the 82nd came forward and lowered the Soviet flag. None of the Americans saluted, though of course, the Soviets did. The flag was folded and presented to General Powell, who then gave it to General Clark, as a present to the 49th Armored Division. Then two soldiers from the 82nd, and two from the 49th, came forward. The pair from the 82nd had the American Flag, while the pair from the 49th had the flag of the State of Texas-recognizing the fact that the 49th had been a Texas National Guard Division before the war. A bugler sounded, and as he did so, the Stars and Stripes were raised, with everyone saluting. After that, the state flag was run up the other flagpole. Then Alekseyev walked over to Powell, removed his service pistol from his holster, unloaded it, cleared the chamber, and presented it to the General, and then saluted. Powell returned it, and only then did he shake Alekseyev's hand.

After he did so, and accepted Alekseyev's invitation to tour the headquarters, Powell went to address the media, and the soldiers from both divisions present. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it has been a long road from that dark day in September, 1985, when we all awoke to the news that not only had we been subjected to nuclear attack, but that the unbelievable had happened: Soviet and Soviet-bloc forces were on American soil. Despite the shock and panic of those early days, the wheels were set in motion so that we would not only resist, but would repel the invading forces. After the Battle of Wichita, the outcome was never in doubt, and two years ago, we started on the long road south, the road to victory. So many good men and women have given so much, and some have given everything they had: not just those in uniform, but those who fought a different kind of war, behind the lines, in the tradition of Frances Marion or Roger Mosby, a guerrilla war the likes of which has not been seen before on American soil. Despite the trials and tribulations, successes and setbacks, the goal has remained the same: the defeat of Soviet and Soviet-bloc forces in America. Now, four years after the outbreak of war, and two years after embarking on the long and bloody road south, that goal-at least in the lower 48, has been achieved. There are no more Soviet or Soviet-bloc forces fighting anywhere on the soil of the Continental United States. While much remains to be done, both here and in the Northern Theater, where we fight alongside our Canadian and British allies, but soon, all of the territories remaining under enemy occupation will be free. Again, it has been a long and bloody road, but this is the payoff. Thank you, and as General Douglas MacArthur said on the deck of the Missouri after a similar ceremony forty-four years ago, 'these proceedings are closed.'”

[Poohbah]

Suryakin had heard from prisoners what the Americans thought of their MRE rations. Some were good, some were despised. Well, he'd find out for himself. Soon, the first sergeant pulled up in a Humvee and brought some MRE boxes. “Sir, this should keep you for a while,” he said, saluting. Suraykin nodded and took the boxes, and Isakov passed out the rations. He looked at his: Beef Stew.

The beef stew wasn't half-bad, as long as you could ignore that it looked exactly like Alpo dog food.

[Matt Wiser]

Not over just yet:


Epilogue:


7 October, 1989, 1400 Hours Moscow Time, Headquarters, 1st Shock Army, outside Moscow, RSFSR:


Marshal Akhromayev went down into the bunker on the base complex. The bunker had been built in the 1970s to enable military units to function in the event of a nuclear attack on the Moscow area, and the facility had seen service during the early days of the war, when the Americans had conducted two limited nuclear strikes in the Moscow area, and in 1986, when the Americans took nuclear revenge for a failed attempt to destroy the American President's bunker on the Pennsylvania-Maryland border. Now, the bunker's facilities were serving a much different purpose, as those in the Army, Party, and the KGB who were determined to end the war and in so doing, save the USSR, were meeting for the first time.

One thing still bothered the Marshal: so far, there had been no announcement on State Radio or Television about the surrender in Texas. The usual military communique simply stated that fighting continued, and that Soviet forces were “resisting gallantly.” What nonsense! General Vitaly Berkenev, the GRU director (who was attending the meeting) had reported that news of the surrender had traveled fast: the Voice of America, the BBC, Radio Liberty, and Radio Free Europe were spreading the news, along with stations in Poland, Turkey, Iran, South Korea, and Japan, and their broadcasts could easily be picked up. Not to mention the fact that in the Baltic Republics, some were able to pick up Finnish or Swedish TV, and those stations had the surrender as their lead stories. He'd spoken about this with Chairman Kosov, who verified Berkenev's reports. And still, that Chekist bastard who's General Secretary won't tell the people! There will come a time, Comrade Chebrikov, mark my words, Akhromayev thought.

Now, as the Marshal entered the bunker's conference room, he saw the Chief of the General Staff, General Pavel Grachev, and the Commander of the Moscow MD, General Mikhail Moisyev, engaged in a serious conversation. General Berkenev, for his part, was talking with General Ivan Morozov, the Commander of the Beylorussian MD, and two of the couriers who'd escaped from the pocket, General Lukin and Major Sorokin, along with General Vitaly Glavchenko, who commanded the Leningrad Military District. Chairman Kosov, for his part, was talking with Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin, two of the candidate Politburo members, and two of the others-Ministers Sergetov and Bromkovsky, were talking with Aleksandr Bessmertnykh, the deputy Foreign Minister whose thankless job of attending UN meetings had proven to be quite a futile effort: no one believed or trusted the USSR, except for its allies, any more. Even the client states in Africa, along with the Syrians, Iraqis, and South Yemenis, were keeping the USSR at arm's length these days.

Then, Chairman Kosov noticed the Marshal. “Comrades, Marshal Ahkromayev is here. Perhaps we can begin?”

Heads nodded and the conspirators, for want of a better word, took their seats. Grachev had chosen a perfect location, and no one would suspect this location, of all places, for such a meeting. The Marshal nodded to two officers at the door, and the entrance to the room was sealed and guarded. “Comrades, I am glad you all could attend. I would like to thank all of you, and not only General Grachev for arranging things here, but General Lukin and Major Sorokin, our two couriers who managed to escape the pocket,” the Marshal said, nodding to those two officers, who acknowledged the Marshal. “I believe all of you have been briefed, either individually or in small groups, by these two, and I trust their information was of considerable value?” Heads nodded around the table, and the Marshal continued. “First of all, our objectives here are twofold. First: we seek to save the State. It is not only Chebrikov, but virtually the entire Politburo, who has driven this country to disaster. So, whoever replaces Chebrikov (the Marshal avoided the term “Comrade”) must be willing to not only bring the country back from the brink of civil war-and some areas of Central Asia and the Caucasus are approaching that brink as we speak. Second, he must also bring an end to the war. This war has gone on long enough. It is time that we came to a peace with America and her allies. We have paid a high price in blood and treasure for a lost war, and there is no point in continuing the fight any longer.”

“I agree, Comrade Marshal,” Kosov said. “In order to do so, we must remove the current General Secretary and the Politburo-except, of course, for Comrade Bromkovsky. And we must do so quietly, if at all possible. Just as it was done in 1964.”

“Agreed,” both Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin said at once. Then Yeltsin-the Party Boss of Moscow-spoke up, “I have seen for myself the effects of this war on our people: the endless shortages, the young men who answer their draft call-and many of whom have never returned, or those who have returned, do so maimed or crippled for life, and the widows and parents of those killed or missing. You all know the parade of widows and mothers that takes place every Friday, from Moscow Party to Red Square?” When several of those present nodded-including Chairman Kosov-he continued. “All of whom are angry bitter, and feel a sense of betrayal. All these people have left of their loved ones is photographs, memories, and a telegram from the Defense Ministry, informing them of the death of their husband or son-in some cases, sons. And this is not just in Moscow: it's spread to Leningrad, Minsk, Kiev, Kazan, Tiblisi, and several other cities, no?”

“Yes, it has,” Kosov said. “And none have been arrested: because if we do that, who knows what's going to happen next? There have already been strikes and protests-largely in Central Asia, but some in the Ukraine and the Caucasus, but they could spread easily-and out of control.”

Heads nodded around the table. Then Ahkromayev said, “Comrades, to end the war, and save the Rodina, we must take decisive action. However, I have no ambitions to become General Secretary. I am a soldier.” He looked at Chairman Kosov; “And I assume Chairman Kosov also has no such ambitions, given that we've had two General Secretaries come out of the KGB, both of whom had roles to play in starting this misadventure?”

Kosov nodded. “That is correct, Marshal. Now, whoever becomes General Secretary is in this room. He is not a soldier or KGB. Before we decide on who, let us hear from those who have escaped from the pocket, General Berkenev for the overall military situation, along with Comrade Bessmertnykh, who can fill us in on the international aspects, then we can come to an agreement on how to proceed.”

Sergetov stood up. “I never thought I'd hear this from the KGB, but I am in agreement with him and the Marshal. Let us have an open and free discussion, and then come to a consensus on how best to carry this out.”

“I agree also,” Gorbachev said. “This war has gone on long enough, and threatens to bring down the Rodina around our ears. To save Russia, we must act.” The discussion that followed was spirited-and honest.

Two hours later, everyone was in agreement: a quiet coup, if at all possible, or failing that, one carried out with a minimum of force. Any of the Politburo members who resisted would be killed, but hopefully all would be taken into custody. The nuclear codes would be safe, with both Ahkromayev and Kosov quietly gaining control of the “football” beforehand. Then a troika of Gorbachev, Sergetov, and Yeltsin would be formed, to gain control of the Party and State apparatus, while the military and KGB supported their move. And if the VV (Interior Ministry) troops tried to intervene, they would have to be dealt with-hopefully with a minimum amount of force needed. Once the troika was in control, their first act would be to arrange a cease-fire with the Americans and their allies, prior to peace talks beginning in Geneva or Stockholm. And some unilateral actions would be taken to show the new government's sincerity, such as releasing all prisoners of war, accounting for those the Allies listed as Missing in Action, and commencing withdrawal from remaining occupied territories.

Just before the meeting adjourned, with an agreement to meet again at the same headquarters, one of General Berkenev's aides came into the meeting room, and passed a note to the General. “Comrades, if I may, but there is a new development. State Radio and Television will be making an announcement momentarily,” He nodded to the aide, who turned on a TV in the meeting room. The familiar scene of Red Square came onto the screen, then came the announcer. “We interrupt our regular programming on television and radio to make an important announcement: 'The High Command of the Armed Forces announces that the Soviet and Socialist Forces in Texas, under the leadership of Marshal Alekseyev, have been overcome by superior enemy forces, due to unfavorable tactical situations, and severe conditions affecting our forces. A decree from Comrade General Secretary Chebrikov declares three days of national mourning, with all public entertainment closed, and flags flown at half-staff in honor of the brave soldiers who have fallen.'” Then the camera shifted to an orchestra, and somber music began to play.

Several of the conspirators shook their heads, and Akhromayev spat. “So it took the bastard two days to decide what to tell the people? We must act, Comrades. Two weeks, three at the most. Before the Northern Theater collapses-and it will do so before winter sets in. And we can save what's left of our nation's self-respect and honor in so doing.”



1200 Hours Central Time, 7 October, K-236, the Gulf of Mexico.


“Comrade Captain, a word?”

Captain Padorin looked up from the plot table and turned to see the boat's medical officer. “Certainly, Doctor.”

“In private, please.”

Both officers left the CCP and went into the wardroom, locking the door behind them. “Yes, Doctor?” Padorin asked.

“Comrade Captain, I have four cases of food poisoning in sick bay right now, and two more suspected.” the doctor reported.

“Are you sure?” Padorin asked. Such cases were rare, but not unheard of, aboard a submarine.

“I'm quite sure. Those complaining of the symptoms ate the same food: canned fruit from Cuba.” the doctor said.

“And right now, most of our food stores are canned.” Padorin said. Wonderful, he thought, seeing the doctor nod. “And your suggestion?”

“Comrade Captain, if a good portion of our food supply is contaminated-”

“Let me guess: the patrol should be terminated.” Padorin finished for his medical officer.

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Captain.” the doctor replied. “Who knows what may be in some of the food stocks?”

And Padorin knew it. “Very well, Doctor. You acted correctly in bringing this to my attention. Let me know how the sick men are doing, when you can.”

“Thank you, Comrade Captain.” And the doctor left to return to his patients. Shaking his head, Padorin went back into the CCP, where the Starpom had the watch. “The Captain has the deck and the con. Bring us to antenna depth.”

The Starpom nodded and relayed the necessary orders. Soon, the boat was at antenna depth. “At antenna depth, Comrade Captain.”

Padorin nodded. “Raise the ESM mast.”

The ESM mast was raised, and “sniffed” the air for radar and radio signals. “Nothing, Comrade Captain. Screen clear.” the operator said.

“Sonar?”

“Sonar clear, Comrade Captain.” the sonar officer reported.

“Very well.” Padorin turned to the communications officer. “Send this to Caribbean Squadron: 'Several crewmen suffering from food poisoning. Portion of food supply contaminated. Patrol being terminated and K-236 returning to base.' Add my name and get that off at once.”

“Immediately, Comrade Captain.” the communications man replied. In a few minutes, the message was coded and ready. “Comrade Captain?”

“Raise the antenna.” And the radio antenna shot up to poke just above the water. The communications officer sent the message. “Any reply?”

“No, Comrade Captain.” the man responded.

“Very well. Lower the mast, and up periscope.” Padorin ordered. The Starpom went and looked through the scope after it was raised. “No contacts, down scope.”

“Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters. New course: zero-nine-five, and make turns for fifteen knots.”

“Two hundred and fifty meters, course zero-nine-five, and make turns for fifteen knots, aye, Comrade Captain.” said the Starpom.

When K-236 was at her assigned depth, Padorin turned to the Starpom. “Maintain course and speed. Navigator: as soon as possible, plot a course for Cienfeugos, once we're clear of the channel.”

The navigator nodded. “Aye, Comrade Captain.”


1400 Hours Local Time: Camp 32, near Holguin, Cuba.


A tropical depression was going over the eastern third of Cuba, and for the American POWs held at camps in this part of Cuba, it meant no work details, either in camp or outside. And that meant that the prisoners had a rest day or two. At Camp 32, which had been built in 1986, the inmate population was a mixed bag: a number of U.S. Navy and Marine personnel from Guantanamo Bay, sailors from a submarine tender that had been at the base when it had been attacked, prisoners captured on the mainland in Texas or Louisiana, and shipped by freighter to the island, and aircrew members shot down in strikes flown against Cuban targets. And depending on where one was captured, and what one had been doing when captured, the regime could vary: those captured at Guantanamo, and also those captured and brought to Cuba, were often used as forced labor, but lived in bays similar to what POWs in Hanoi had called “Camp Unity” at the Hanoi Hilton: bays that held up to 50 prisoners. Downed aircrew, and both officers and enlisted who were considered “bad attitude” cases, were held in cells-the more troublesome were, of course, in solitary confinement, but most prisoners in that part of the camp were in cells that had two to four prisoners per cell. And the camp actually had two wings built with both sections: one area for men, the other for women.

In the women's section, specifically the cellblock areas, most, but not all, were aircrews. In one cell, Air Force 1st Lieutenant Kelly Ann Ray sat on her bunk, glad to be not outside in the rain. She shared the cell with Marine 1st Lieutenant Blanchard Ryan, who had been an A-6 Bombardier-Navigator, and two Navy officers from Guantanamo, Lieutenant (j.g.) Kellie Greer, who had been a deck officer on the submarine tender Prairie, and Ensign Stacy Davis, who also been on the Prairie. Lieutenant Ray had been shot down in an F-4D in May, 1986, while on a strike near Mariel, while Ryan had been shot down in August, 1987, in a strike on the port of Banes. All had suffered brutal interrogations, time in solitary confinement, and had been on their share of work details, and they all showed it. They were filthy, wearing dirty prison pajamas, and were either barefoot or wore thin sandals. None had been allowed to write home, or to receive mail-none of the POWs in Cuba had, and neither had there been visits from the Red Cross. And they had been subjected to lectures (harangues would have been a more apt description) from American leftists who made no secret of their sympathy to the Soviet and Cuban cause, and the penalty for dozing off, or showing any disinterest, could mean time in the hole, or a very nasty “quiz session” with the interrogators. Other than new prisoners, there was no reliable news of the war, and Cuban propaganda was still emphasizing that, despite setbacks, “Final Victory and a Socialist America,” were still within reach of “the Socialist Forces in America.”

Lieutenant Ryan was looking out the barred cell window as the rain continued to pour down. “Too bad this won't last long. The guards hate being out in the rain just as bad as we do.”

“Yeah,” Greer said. “There's one other good thing.”

“What's that?” asked Ray.

“Those cisterns they made us dig? At least they'll get some water.” Greer said. She and Davis had been there the longest, ever since the camp opened.

“To be hoped for,” Davis chimed in. “Too bad they won't let us outside for a few minutes.”

Her three cellmates looked at Davis as if she'd suddenly grown an extra head. “What?” Ryan asked.

“Showers: all we have to do is strip down and stand in the rain. We'd be decently clean for the first time in who knows how long?” Davis quipped, and after a minute, her cellmates broke out laughing. A natural shower beat what the guards allowed: only ten minutes, just enough time to get wet, lather up, then rinse, all under a tepid shower head in a bath stall that was filthy to say the least.

“Quiet! No unnecessary talking!” a voice came from the hallway. The guards were clearly upset about something, as even the few decent guards had suddenly developed a mean streak. And it had showed last night, when the occupants of the cell across from their own had laughed at something someone said, and the guards fell upon them with rubber hoses, beating all four prisoners, then putting them in rear handcuffs and leg irons overnight, and they were still in those today. Ray remembered all too well when they had angered the guards one time-what they'd done to piss them off, she still wasn't sure, but they, too, had been stripped, beaten, and then locked into cuffs and irons-for two weeks, not allowed to bathe, and only being released twice a day-morning and evening-to eat and use their waste bucket.

Outside, the camp PA System was going on as usual, with propaganda broadcasts from Radio Havana and Radio Moscow, intermixed in with anti-war appeals from prisoners who'd been tortured-the slurred speech, mispronounced words, halting phrases, all gave that away. No one blamed them for having to make the statements, for all of the officer prisoners-some more than once-had been forced to make such statements. Sometimes, there would be diatribes from those leftists who supported the Soviet and Cuban cause, or seemingly endless martial music as well. For the aircrews, it was just like SERE training, where POWs from Hanoi lectured about the North Vietnamese doing the same thing in their POW prisons.

Suddenly, things changed on the PA. Solemn music began to play. And all over the camp, prisoners were wondering what had happened. In Ray's cell, the four occupants were whispering to themselves.

“Maybe Fidel's dead?” Ryan asked.

“Maybe....” Ray said. “Or maybe that SOB Chebrikov kicked.”

Greer and Davis looked at each other. “Who knows?” Davis said, and Greer just nodded.

Then an announcer began to speak. “The Supreme Headquarters of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba announces: The battle for the Brownsville Pocket has ended. True to their oaths, the Soviet and Cuban forces in Brownsville, under the leadership of Marshal Alekseyev, have fought heroically and with determination, before being overwhelmed by superior numbers, and a general unfavorable situation confronting them. In no way does this setback weaken our cause, and in a joint statement, Comrade General Secretary Viktor Chebrikov and Comrade President Fidel Castro reemphasize their determination to fight on, and achieve final victory.

“President Fidel Castro, in the Palace of the Revolution, has issued a decree declaring five days' national mourning, with all public entertainment, such as movie theaters, restaurants, and amusement places, closed, in honor of the memory of the heroes, especially the brave soldiers of the Cuban Armed Forces, who have given their lives in the struggle. Long Live the Revolution! Long Live Cuba!” After the statement, the somber music began to play again.

In the cells and bays, prisoners smiled at each other, shook hands, and even embraced. No one, though went further-not wanting to anger the guards any more than they were already. And who knew how they'd react? In Ray's cell, the four occupants looked at each other and grinned. Maybe, just maybe, there was light at the end of the damned tunnel, and soon, they'd be going home. At the very least, treatment would improve, and there'd be an end to the work details. Maybe.


1500 Hours: Headquarters, Soviet Caribbean Squadron, Cienfeugos, Cuba.


Rear Admiral Valery Denisov looked at the message form, with K-236's message, and he shook his head. Food poisoning? That hadn't happened in a while, but anything was possible these days. He got up from his desk and went to his situation map. Apart from K-236, he had exactly two nuclear submarines at sea, and a third in port here in Cienfeugos, provisioning and taking on weapons, prior to another patrol. And he had exactly four diesel boats, but two of them were suspected of having run afoul of American ASW forces, and hadn't been heard from in several days. His surface ship strength was down to exactly three effective combatants, coastal forces excepted. And if the Mexicans came to a separate peace with the Americans, as rumors first spread, then his intelligence officer had informed him that those rumors were very likely to become fact, then Cuba-and his forces-would be next on the Americans' revenge list.

His Chief of Staff, Captain First Rank Oleg Savin, came in to give the Admiral his afternoon situation update, and he had a message from Moscow. “For you, Comrade Admiral.”

Denisov took the message form and scanned it. “That, I can do without. A promotion to Vice Admiral looks good in Red Star, but it doesn't give me much to stop the U.S. Navy when they come in to put Marines on the beaches.”

“Just like in Brownsville, they say. Some of those who've escaped say that there was a rash of promotions before the end.” Savin commented.

“Again, something I can do without, Oleg Petrovich. Now, what do you have for me this afternoon? I'm aware of K-236's situation, so what else is there?” Denisov asked.

Savin went to the map. “K-236 is roughly here, in the Yucatan Channel, and he should be here sometime tomorrow. In the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Haiti, is K-69, a 671 (Victor I) class boat, and south of Puerto Rico is K-60, a 627 (November) type boat. K-69 has had no contact so far, but K-60 has had repeated encounters with American ASW forces, and barely escaped when they found him and the K-131 (Echo II), and the latter was sunk.

“As for diesel boats,” Savin continued, “K-156 (Juliett) was last reported in the Old Bahama Channel, but one of our ELINT aircraft reports intense American and British ASW activity in -156's general location.”

“British?” Denisov asked. That was something new.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. A call sign was intercepted, and it matches one used by an RAF Nimrod squadron. The Bahamas are a member of the Commonwealth, and Nassau International Airport could easily house both British and American ASW aircraft.” Savin reported.

“And someone claimed a kill?”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Admiral.” the Chief of Staff said.

The Admiral grunted and motioned for Savin to continue.

“In the Mona Passage-between the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico, B-28 (Foxtrot) is on station, while B-319 (Tango) was last reported in the Florida Straits. However, he, too, apparently fell victim to American ASW forces out of Key West,” reported the Chief of Staff.

“And here in port?” Denisov asked.

“K-508 (Charlie II) is replenishing his food stores and reloading weapons, and should be ready to sail in two days, and B-397 (Foxtrot) has just arrived; he'll need to be refueled and replenish food stores before going back out.”

“Surface forces?” asked the Admiral.

“We've only one effective modern unit: the destroyer Stoyky (Sovermenny-class), along with the destroyer Dzerky (Kanin-class) and the frigate Gromky (Krivak-class). Several other ships, including the cruiser Vitse-Admiral Drozd (Kresta I) are tied up in various ports here in Cuba, with..”

“I know, unrepairable battle damage. And Moscow wanted us to send a final convoy to Texas, with only those three ships to escort the merchant vessels? Someone there is living in a dream world,” Denisov said. “All right: Naval Aviation?”

“We've two regiments, though both are down to roughly two squadron equivalents due to losses. The 37th Naval Strike Regiment with Su-24Ms, and the 697th Fighter Regiment with MiG-29s. We also have individually assigned Tu-95s, both missile carriers and RT reconnaissance aircraft, and a couple of Il-20s. A very depleted squadron of Mi-14s handles shore-based ASW, while several Ka-25s and -27s from sunken or damaged ships supplement them.”

“In short, Savin, when the Americans come, we'll be overwhelmed,” said Denisov. It was not a question.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.” replied Savin. “Both carrier-based aircraft, and aircraft flying from bases in Florida, would suffice. The Cuban air defenses will be completely overwhelmed, and as soon as possible, the Marines come ashore,”he said, seeing the Admiral nod.

“When?”

“If the Mexicans quit the war, as is very likely, in theory, it could be a couple of weeks. If I was CINCLANT, however, I'd wait until the end of Hurricane season: that's 30 November. Anytime after that, but the aerial preparations can start as soon as the assets have redeployed and are in place.” Savin reported.

“Thank you, Savin. Send this to Moscow: acknowledge my promotion, and request information on when the Americans can be expected to invade Cuba. Perhaps the Naval branch of the GRU has some idea....The generals at Group of Soviet Forces Cuba certainly don't.”

“Right away, Comrade Admiral.”

[Matt Wiser]

And so it ends:

1600 Hours Eastern War Time: U.S. Military Academy Annex, Garrison Lake, New York:


Several buses and a staff car, under Military Police escort rolled up to the gate of the Annex, which had been acquired by the U.S. Army after the war began. Though originally intended to train officer candidates coming from universities and Colleges in New York and Connecticut, the Army had wound up putting the facility to use for a much different purpose, for despite its failure in Operation ADVENT CROWN, several Soviet Generals had been captured during that ill-fated offensive, and the Army needed a place to hold high-ranking Soviet, and later, Cuban, Nicaraguan, and East German officers, in a location that where they could be held with accommodations equal to their rank. And so the Army had built numerous cottages for the high-ranking prisoners, with barracks for enlisted prisoners to serve as orderlies, along with appropriate dining, recreation, and other facilities. The camp also housed high-value prisoners of company and field grade-those who had relatives in the Soviet system-including several sons of Central Committee members or sons of high-ranking officers still serving in the USSR. Despite the amenities, it was still a POW camp first and foremost, with fencing, watch towers, and armed guards.

The staff car pulled up to the camp headquarters. The driver of the car got out,opened the door for its two occupants, and saluted. Marshal Alekseyev and Colonel Sergetov returned the salute as they exited the car, and the camp commander came to meet them. Both noticed that the American officer, a brigadier general, walked with a serious limp, using a cane with his left hand, and had several scars on his face and neck from burns. Clearly, this was an officer whose injuries prevented a return to front-line service, just like a number of camp commanders on his side. The American officer saluted. “Marshal, I am Brigadier General Martin Fleming, the camp commander.”

“General,” Alsekseyev said, returning the salute.

“Marshal, this is a bit awkward, as we've never had so many senior officers fall into our hands at once, so please understand if the other generals had to ride in the buses. It's not exactly Geneva, but it's the best we could manage on short notice.”

“I understand, General,” replied the Marshal.

“Good, Marshal. Please follow me. Your baggage will be taken to your quarters. It's not exactly a resort, but we've had no complaints from the Red Cross-or from any of the others held here.” Fleming said.

Alekseyev nodded as he and Sergetov followed the commander into the headquarters, and to his first-floor office. The two Soviets noticed the usual activity one found in any military office, only this office had a number of people who were clearly too old for front-line duty. Sergetov whispered to Alekseyev, “Comrade Marshal, I'd swear that a couple of the NCOs at those desks could have fought in the Second World War.”

“I see you noticed, Colonel.” Alekseyev replied as Fleming's secretary opened the door for the trio.

General Fleming limped over to his desk. “Marshal, Colonel, please, have a seat,” he said, and the two Russians sat down in the chairs in front of the desk. “I trust the trip from Texas was satisfactory?”

“Apart from a noisy C-130 cargo plane and a box lunch, yes, it was,” Alekseyev said.

“Again, Marshal, we're not used to hauling high-ranking officers in such quantities,” Fleming said. “Now, this is still a POW camp, but things here are relaxed. Everyone's locked in their cottage or barracks at 2100, and let out again at 0700. The mess hall is open for meals at 0800, 1200, and 1800. Other than that, there's no set routine. No roll calls, nothing of that sort. Those held here are simply allowed to sit out the war as comfortably as possible, and whatever activities take place are often those begun by the prisoners themselves.”

“I see, General,” Alekseyev said. “Such as?”

“There is a library, gymnasium, recreation hall, all for your use. There's also a walking trail, and just as long as you don't cross the warning stakes, you're fine,” Fleming said, “For the younger officers, there's opportunities for sports, and some also take correspondence courses-which have been arranged with a couple of civilian colleges in this part of New York-courses such as English literature, law, history, and so forth. Anything to keep the mind busy, even if it's a gilded cage....”

Both Russians nodded.

“And Colonel Sergetov, you're probably wondering why you're here?” Fleming asked. Seeing him nod, Fleming went on. “You're not the first son of a high official-whether in the Party or the military-to fall into American hands. There's quite a few generals' or Admirals' sons here, along with sons of several Central Committee members, or regional Party officials as well.”

That many? Sergetov thought to himself. “I'm surprised.”

“Don't be, Colonel. Though most of those we have want to sit out the war here, some have not. They're in a place where conditions are more strict, but still in line with International Law. You'll share a bungalow with an officer of equal rank, and each general officer has one to himself, and also,” Fleming said, nodding to the Marshal, “is allowed an enlisted prisoner to serve as an orderly. Since you are clearly the senior ranking officer here, Marshal Alekseyev, you may have two, if that is your decision.”

“If the other generals are allowed one, then I shall have one as well. No exceptions for me, General. You do understand?”

“Completely, Marshal. If you have any complaints, speak to one of the officers, and I will be informed.” Fleming said, reaching for his speaker phone. “Major Lewis, please come in.”

The office door opened and a blond female Major came in. She saluted General Fleming, and the two Soviets. “This is Major Lewis. She'll escort you to your quarters. Her Russian is impeccable: she was a Professor of Russian Literature at Syracuse University, and as a young girl, was in Moscow with her father, who was a Foreign Service Officer at the Embassy, back in the early 1960s.”

Alekseyev and Sergetov nodded. “Thank you, General.”

“Any final questions?” Fleming asked.

“Yes, if you don't mind my asking,” Alekseyev said. “I take it you were wounded? Our side, sad to say, had a number of prison commanders who were wounded at the front and were no longer fit for front-line service-and sometimes, took that out on the prisoners in their charge.”

“Yes, I was, Marshal. I was Assistant Division Commander of the rebuilt 2nd Armored Division. Wichita: I was in an M-113, going from one unit to another, when an Mi-24 found us. A salvo of rockets, and the APC caught fire, then exploded. Two crewmen dragged me to safety, only they were wearing Nomex fire-retardant tankers' suits and gloves. I was merely in BDUs, and received burns over thirty percent of my body, and shrapnel in my left knee. Ever since, I can't get into or out of an armored vehicle quickly enough, and so the Army sent me here.”

“I see...well, as one combat soldier to another: you did your duty, just as we did ours,” Alekesyev said, putting out his hand.

Fleming shook hands with the Marshal, and said, “Again, Marshal, if you have any issues, please, don't hesitate to ask to see me. Though that's been few and far between in the past.”

“Of course, General,” Alekseyev said, saluting.


1540 Hours Central War Time: 324th Soviet Field Hospital, Brownsville, Texas:


Lieutenant Colonel Dherkov was amazed: despite the Americans being busy with their own casualties, not to mention tending to the needs of the civilian population, they had enough resources-and people-to tend to the Soviet wounded. That contrasted very much with his side since 1985, where Soviet and Soviet-allied wounded had been given priority, and the civilians-not to mention prisoners-got short shrift. Now, a company from the 101st Airborne Division guarded the hospital, and American medical personnel, and some from America's allies, were treating Soviet wounded.

Conditions had improved, but were still poor by American standards. The first American medical personnel-a battalion surgeon and his medics-to arrive had been genuinely appalled at the conditions-the filthy latrines, squalid wards, dirty linens, and the shortages of just about everything. It was so bad that the Americans had brought in one of their own field hospitals-what they called a MSH, or Mobile Surgical Hospital, and set up shop across the road from the Soviet facility. Those Soviet wounded who could be moved were transferred over to the MSH, and then evacuated when able, just as if they had been Americans. Those who couldn't be moved were taken in to some of the school buildings that either hadn't been used, or were still relatively clean, and given the best care that the Americans could provide. And it wasn't just Americans: some doctors from the Irish Brigade, which had not been in at the finish, but had been ready to go if needed, had come down to help, along with some South Korean and Taiwanese medical staff.

Then an American officer came over to Colonel Dherkov. “Colonel, would you please come with me?” the American said. Puzzled, Dherkov followed the American captain to a Humvee, where another American officer, this one a Brigadier General, was standing, “General? I have Colonel Dherkov.”

“Colonel, I'm Brigadier General Richard Collett, XVIII Airborne Corps' chief surgeon.” the general said, putting out his hand.

Dherkov nodded and shook hands with the general. “General, I must say, I am pleased at how your people are taking care of the wounded. A far cry from our own practice with enemy wounded, I greatly regret to say.”

Collett nodded. He knew that the Soviet practice with American wounded had been to leave them to their own devices. Few seriously wounded Americans had made it to POW camps, and fewer still survived captivity. “The difference between our two systems, Colonel,” said the General. “Now, this used to be an elementary school, right?”

“That is so, General,” Dherkov said. “I imagine the schools will want their property back as soon as possible.”

“Not this one: this place is such a hazard to local health. I doubt any school district is going to want to reopen a place like this,” Collett said, turning to his aide. “Tell the civil affairs people that this particular school is not a candidate to reopen. When they rebuild, use the property across the street; there's plenty of room for a new campus.”

“Yes, sir.” the aide replied.

“Colonel, there's how many unburied bodies here?” Collett asked.

“About two hundred. Plus those in the....terminal ward-another three hundred or so.” Dherkov replied.

“All right.” Collett said. He turned to another officer. “Get Colonel Tucker, the 101st's officer in charge of EPW handling. I need five hundred EPWs here, ASAP.”

“For what purpose, General?” the staffer replied.

“Grave digging. Tell the prisoners they'll get double-no, make that triple rations if they'll dig graves for their countrymen-full biohazard protection, the works.. And get the wounded out of here as soon as we can.”

“Yes,sir.” the major replied.

“Once we've cleared out the wounded, and taken care of the dead, Colonel, you'll probably go to an EPW camp to work in the camp infirmary, along with the other medical staff. But this place...” Collett said. “After it's cleared, burn it to the ground. Raze it completely.”

Dherkov nodded, while Collett's aide said, “Yes, Sir.”

Collett looked at Dherkov, “Colonel, there's one other thing: why did your people expend a lot of effort-and scarce supplies, on one officer? I've seen a chart your people had on a tank officer: burned over sixty percent of his body. The only way he'll live out the week is if he gets to a burn center-and the nearest one taking patients is in either Phoenix, Tuscon, or New Orleans.”

“I know the officer you're referring to, General.” Dherkov said. “We had no choice: he is the son of a Central Committee Member. The KGB told us to do whatever it took to get him in condition to fly out, but we never did have the chance to get him out of here.”

“Let me guess: they said 'if he dies, you die'?” Collett asked.

Dherkov shook his head. “Not quite that, but, General, shall we say.....serious consequences could result if he died in our care.”

Of all the.....Collett thought. Now I've heard everything. It's bad enough the KGB did that to civilian doctors, but their own people? He shook his head. “He's at the MSH, and he'll get what care they can give him. I'm afraid he likely won't make it to a burn center, but they'll try anyway.”

“Thank you, General.” said Dherkov. “May I ask about the female staff who were evacuated from here? I have no idea if they got to Mexico or fell into your hands.”

Collett nodded. “I personally don't know, Colonel. But I will find out. Rest assured, if they did get captured, they're safe, and on their way to a prison camp. They'll be treated well.”


1100 Hours Local Time, 8 October 1989, Soviet Naval Base, Cienfeugos, Cuba:


Admiral Denisov watched as K-236 sailed into the harbor. Though the arrival was subdued, he saw that the boat was flying four victory pennants, signaling ships sunk, from her radio mast. Since the boat had ill crewmen aboard, ambulances were waiting to whisk the sick men to the base hospital, while Denisov and his staff were waiting to talk to the Captain and his senior officers. Soon, the boat tied up at the pier, and the gangway was put up. And quickly, the forward hatch opened, and sailors began gingerly lifting stretchers up, as eight crewmen were sick enough to warrant hospitalization ashore. Also leaving the boat was a single Air Force officer, who Denisov assumed had been shot down near the boat's patrol area, and picked up. Lucky man, Denisov thought, because as far as he knew, that was the only known survivor picked up by a Soviet vessel.

After the ambulances had left, Denisov went up the gangway, saluted the colors, and asked, “Permission to come aboard?”

Captain Padorin returned the salute, “Permission granted, Comrade Admiral.”

Padorin received the Admiral, and took him and his operations officer below, into the wardroom. After he locked the door, only then did Padorin feel he could speak honestly. “Permission to speak freely, Comrade Admiral?”

“By all means, Padorin,” Denisov said. “It's your boat.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral. First of all, I'd like to know whose idea was it to have us that close to the coast?”

“I have no idea, Padorin,” Denisov said. He'd been just as exasperated about that as Padorin had been. “All I know is that the orders came from Moscow.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral. Despite the successes we had on the patrol, making that rendezvous was highly unlikely, at best. The ASW activity we encountered was the worst I've ever seen.” Padorin said.

“So I gather. And you encountered the battleships. That's something you'll tell your grandchildren about.” Denisov said.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. There's one other thing.....”

Denisov noted the shift in Padorin's tone of voice, and the way he trailed off. “What is it, Captain?”

“Comrade Admiral,” Padorin said, coming to attention. “I have to report that Comrade Zampolit Zirinsky attempted to solicit a mutiny, after our encounter with the battleships.”

Denisov and his operations officer exchanged glances. A political officer attempting a mutiny? Nothing of the sort had happened since the mutiny on Storozhovoy in 1975....”You're sure, Comrade Captain?” the operations officer asked.

“Absolutely, Comrade Admiral. My Starpom, Security Officer, and all of my department heads are willing to so testify, if necessary.” Padorin said.

“And where is Comrade Zirinsky now?” Denisov asked.

“He was court-martialed at sea, convicted, and set out a torpedo tube, Comrade Admiral,” Padorin reported. “However, the log entry says that the Political Officer suffered a fatal accident while in the engineering spaces, and was buried at sea.”

The Admiral and the operations officer exchanged glances. “I see...” Denisov said. “Well, Captain, you did act correctly in this matter, though I would have preferred that Zirinsky answer the charges in a more formal setting. But, as I said, you did act correctly,” said the Admiral. He went on to add, “Unfortunately, we don't have any spare Zampolits available, so you'll be responsible for the political education and stability of your crew.”

“I understand, Comrade Admiral,” Padorin replied.

Denisov nodded. “Good. Now, your weapons stores will be replenished, though the Klub missiles are in short supply: we've only eight left. The torpedo supply is adequate, and I assume that's all you require?”

“That is so, Comrade Admiral. More missiles would be...good to have, while we're out of Type-65s,” Padorin said.

“You can have four missiles, and the Type-65s you need. To make up for the missiles, you'll get four TEST-96 torpedoes. That'll have to do, I'm afraid.” Denisov told the captain.

“Understood, Comrade Admiral. How long do I have to complete the turn-around?” Padorin asked.

“You can have four days. I'm sure your sick men will have recovered by then, and you can give your crew some time ashore,” Denisov said. “Be ready to sail anytime after the 12th.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral.”


After they left the boat, and began walking towards their staff car, Denisov turned to his operations officer. “Andrei, the boats still in port?”

“Yes,Comrade Admiral?”

“Hold them. No sailings until the 12th. I need to talk with General Morozov in Santa Clara. There's rumors of an armistice going around, and we need to determine contingencies in the event something happens.”

The operations officer was surprised. “Comrade Admiral?”

“What if there's an Armistice and Castro refuses to sign? He's been raging for days on Cuban State TV that no matter what, he won't agree to an Armistice under any circumstances. If that's the case, and the Americans do come, we're caught between the Cubans and the Americans,” Denisov said. “That's not a pleasant thought.”

“Understood, Comrade Admiral.”


0800 Hours Local Time, Headquarters, Group of Soviet Forces Cuba, Santa Clara, Cuba:


Colonel General Sergei Morozov was not a happy man, though he tried not to show it in the main conference room at his headquarters. He was the commanding general of the Group of Soviet Forces Cuba, and he knew full well that his situation had the potential to become another Brownsville. Morozov normally ran the Group as an oversized advisory and training command, assisting the Cubans with forming new units, and helping them to achieve the Soviet training norms the Cubans had adopted. Now, though, since 1987, he'd been devoting more and more attention to the possibility of an American invasion of Cuba, more so since the Americans' offensives in 1988 and 1989. Some on the General Staff had felt that the Americans would not finish off the Soviet forces in Texas without clearing their flank first, and that meant invasion of Cuba, even if it was a limited one, to ensure a secure Straits of Florida. Instead, the U.S. Navy had simply bullied its way through, and when the Soviet and Cuban navies and air forces had tried to stop them, the damage inflicted had been minimal, while the cost in lost ships, submarines, and aircraft to the Soviets and Cubans had been frightful. And now, with the fall of Brownsville, a U.S. invasion was now certainly within the realm of possibility, though it was expected that it would not occur until after the end of the hurricane season, which was 30 November.

It also struck Morozov as ironic that, with the cream of the Cuban Army either having been destroyed in America, or stuck in Mexico, unable to get home due to the Americans' control of the sea, he now possessed under his command the most effective heavy combat force on the island. Though there were some Cuban units that were well-trained and well-equipped, due to the fact that they had not deployed to America, such as the 101st Armored Division, they were deployed in the Havana area, as well as near key cities such as Mariel, Matanzas, Banes, and so forth. Most of the remaining Cuban regular forces were mainly training and support commands, while infantry were largely reservists and militia.

His own forces, though, were a mixed bag. Morozov looked at Lieutenant General Vladimir Khrenov, who commanded the Eleventh Guards Army. The Army Headquarters, as well as its army-level artillery, air defense, engineers, and other support units, had been intended for Texas, but due to the shipping shortage-and the depredations of the U.S. Navy-they had only gotten as far as Cuba. And he didn't envy Khrenov one bit. Two of his divisions had come with him from their home station in the Kallningrad region: the 1st Tank Division and the 1st Guards Motor-Rifle Division. Both were well equipped with T-72 tanks, BMP-2 infantry vehicles, and their men were well trained by Soviet standards. Another division, the 41st Guards Tank Division from Uman in the Ukraine, was also well equipped, with T-64Bs and BMP-2s, and Khrenov also had a well-equipped independent motor-rifle regiment, the 501st, with the only T-80s on the island, as well as his own air assault battalion, the 139th. Also available to him was the prewar Brigade Cuba, though it was currently engaged in its advisory and training role. However, three other divisions were not so well off as the rest of the Army.

One division, the 16th Guards Motor-Rifle Division, was from Vilnius, and was woefully underequipped, with only a single MR battalion with BMP-1s, while the rest were in BTR-60Ps with open tops, their tanks were T-55s, and all of the artillery was towed. Not to mention that most of the division's rank and file were Lithuanian. The 83rd Guards MRD from Rovno in the Ukraine was also in bad shape, with its tanks being forty-year old IS-3Ms, towed artillery, and old BTR-152 APCs. After he'd inspected the division, Khrenov had asked General Morozov why a division in this poor material condition had been chosen for this deployment, and Morozov had no answer. The last division, the 49th MRD from Saatl in Azerbaijan, was in the same shape material wise as the 83rd, but had a worse problem: most of the division's manpower was from Azerbaijan, and was considered to be potentially unreliable. If it came down to it, a serious fight might result in the division disintegrating. Once more, Morozov cursed whoever in the General Staff had sent this division over, not that it would do him that much good.

Now, Morozov was meeting with his senior commanders. General Khrenov was there, as commander of the 11th Guards Army, of course, while Admiral Denisov represented the Navy. The Air Force was represented by Major General Ilya Mikhailov, with Major General Boris Osipov from the Voyska PVO mission there as well. There were two other participants: Major General Grigor Goncharov, who was the Soviet Military Attache from the Soviet Embassy, and via conference call, there was Marshal Ahkormayev, the Defense Minister himself. Though Morozov initially resented the intrusion of the Marshal, the Defense Minister indicated to him that the fate of the Soviet forces in Cuba was of paramount importance to him, saying “We cannot afford a second Brownsville.” The Marshal had also indicated that he merely wished to listen in, but would, if asked, speak as well. Morozov felt that the Marshal had something in mind, but couldn't pin it down. But at least someone in Moscow would be paying attention-something he had heard had definitely not happened in Texas.

“Comrades, are we ready?” Morozov asked, “And Comrade Marshal, can you hear me?”

Heads nodded around the table, while Ahkromayev said, “Perfectly, General. You may begin.”

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said. “Comrades, our position here in Cuba is....tenuous at best. With the surrender of Alekseyev's forces in Texas, the Americans have options that they are now free to pursue. Option one: invasion of Cuba; Option two: invasion of Mexico, or Option three: a combination of naval blockade and an air campaign to force both to sign a separate peace-and on American terms. Now, Comrades, what can we do in the event of Option one?”

General Khrenov spoke first. “Given how much preinvasion air and naval bombardment is likely to be coming, there's not that much we can do. Though our forces are employing the usual maskrikova techniques, once we begin our movements to counter the invasion itself, we'll be exposed. Not to mention having two divisions whose manpower is....questionable, at best.”

Morozov nodded. “Thank you, General. Air Force?”

“Right now, both my aircraft and the Cubans are able to mount defensive combat air patrols, and scramble to defend Cuban airspace proper,” Mikhailov said. “When the Americans get serious about preinvasion preparations, we'll contest the sky as best we can, but the odds are not very good. We'll be out of aircraft by the third or fourth day. And what we have left for offensive operations? Not that much: a few Su-24s, some Su-25s, and MiG-27s. That's it. And they're needed to mount attacks on any invasion shipping-assuming they're not caught on the ground.”

“Ossipov? Air Defense, if you would,” Morozov asked.

“Both the Army-level air defense units and those missile batteries that my troops man are the best remaining on the island. We've had to move some of them about-to cover gaps in the existing Cuban network. A determined campaign to eliminate the air defenses, however......” The Voyska PVO man shook his head.

“I see...” Morovov noted. “And last, but not least, Admiral Denisov?”

“I have three nuclear boats and two diesel boats left. And exactly three surface ships: one modern missile destroyer, one old gun-armed destroyer, and a single modern frigate,” Denisov reported. “Not including coastal forces. And none of the surface ships would last very long-all we'd do is have a death-and-glory ride out of harbor to face the U.S. Navy, and good ships and men would be lost for no reason.”

“Comrade General, that's our forces,” Goncherov, the military attache, said. “The Cubans are a decidedly a mixed bag: several good divisions and brigades that didn't deploy to America, a few reserve divisions-largely equipped with 1960s leftovers-or worse: T-34s and IS-2 or IS-3 tanks, and the balance are militia.”

“How long, Morozov, could your forces-and the Cubans-hold out?” Ahkromayev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, do you want it good or bad?” Morozov replied.

“How long, General?”

“Best case would be about three weeks. A worst case scenario would be ten days for all organized resistance to end. Not just ours, but the Cubans, too.” Morozov answered, and heads around the table nodded in agreement.

“All right,” Ahkromayev said. “Now, there's some efforts underway to bring about an Armistice. Mainly through back-channel dialogue. If the Cubans agree, it's not a problem: we simply gather your men and their equipment, load them on the ships and aircraft, and return home,”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Goncharov said. “That would be the best case. If, however, Fidel keeps his word, and refuses to sign any armistice agreement unless the Americans agree to his demands?”

Morozov nodded. He'd been thinking about that himself. “That's going to be a problem, Comrades. I believe that in 1962, when Castro was refusing to initially go along with the agreement that withdrew the missiles, he was told that our forces in Cuba would stand aside.”

“Are you suggesting, General Morozov, that a similar note be sent to both Castro brothers?” Ahkromayev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, it may be necessary to do just that. Even if the Cuban generals want an end to the war, Fidel may not. He wants the Americans to come to Cuba, I think, and he gets what he's wanted all along: a final confrontation with the Americans.” said Morozov.

“I agree with General Morozov,” Goncharov said. “He's wanted that for a long time, and now....”

“Very well,” Ahkromayev said. “Morozov, make preparations for several contingencies: invasion, an air-naval campaign without invasion, an armistice agreed by all, and a Soviet-American-Allied one only. Make sure that any equipment you have to leave behind is not...sensitive or classified. One thing you'll probably have to do, if the Americans don't do it for you, is to ensure that the Lourdes intelligence facility is inoperative. I know the Americans have bombed it several times, but we've repaired it, and they come back again. Make sure the facilities are wrecked, and all secret equipment and documents are destroyed.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said. “I've already had some discrete preparations made in that regard.”

“Good. Now, Comrades,” Ahkromayev said. “If the Americans attack prior to an Armistice, you will give the best account of yourselves possible,” and Morozov noted the heads nodding in agreement. The Defense Minister went on, though. “If, however, there is an Armistice, it's highly likely there will be terms that are going to be very bitter for us. However, given the general situation, we are in no position to argue. If, however, there is a Soviet-American Armistice only, make sure the Cubans don't get their hands on the ships, the attack aircraft, and the more...sensitive Army equipment. Is that understood?”

“It is, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said.

“Good. I'll get out of your hair, and let you get on with your jobs. And rest assured, I am working to see to it that you and your men do return home to the Rodina. One way or another.” And with that, Ahkromayev signed off.

Morozov and his generals talked for most of the morning. Finally, several contingency plans were agreed to, and sealed orders prepared for them. One thing they did agree on also: whatever did happen, they would leave Cuba and return home with their heads held high. They had come to do their duty, and would continue to do it until ordered home, or other circumstances dictated.

In Ahkromayev's office, the Defense Minister was talking with General Grachev, the Chief of the General Staff, and General Berkenev, the GRU Director. “Comrades, that was...interesting. Now, Grachev, how long do you expect Cuba to hold out-with or without our forces?”

“With our forces? Two to three weeks, Comrade Marshal. Without? The size of the island does facilitate a guerrilla war, and it has in the past, as we do know. But given the shortages of equipment and trained troops? Two to four weeks to terminate organized resistance.”

Akhromayev nodded at that. The Cuban Military Attache had told him the same thing-with the required bombast cut out. “When, Berkenev?”

“The Americans can redeploy air and naval assets relatively quickly, and they do have the forces available to maintain the blockade of Mexico at the same time. Moving ground forces, and assembling the amphibious shipping will take longer, though,” Berkenev said. “However, they can begin the preparatory air campaign sooner rather than later.”

“How soon for the actual invasion?” Akhromayev asked.

“No sooner than 30 November. That's the end of Hurricane season.”

Akhromayev nodded, and settled back in his chair. “Comrades, this only reinforces my belief that this war must end as soon as possible. I have no desire to see any more good Russian boys die in far-off lands for no real purpose. We've lost: there's no way that can be hidden much longer.”

Both generals nodded. “And those in Mexico?” Grachev asked.

“Hopefully, when we do conclude an Armistice, arrangements can be made for them to return home. Though their equipment....the Mexicans are welcome to it to use in their civil war.” Ahkromayev decided. “Now, status of military preparations?”

“General Moisyev reports that the 1st Shock Army is ready to use its contingency plans to move into Moscow, should those be necessary. And the 16th Spetsnatz Brigade is ready as well...their targets have been identified, and preparations on that score are underway.” Grachev said.

“And the military prison on Gogol Boulevard is ready to handle those taken into custody,” Berkenev reported. “Though given the age of the targets, the cellars will likely remain unused.”

“Never assume anything, Comrades,” Ahkromayev reminded the two generals. “That's partially what got us into this mess in the first place. Though I do hope that things can be handled without resorting to those who work in the cellars.”

Both generals nodded.

“Very well, Comrades. Continue with your preparations, and a target date will be coming very soon.” Ahkromayev said.

[jemhouston]

More trash about to be taken out.

[Rob2022]

So what exactly happened in the coup?

[Matt Wiser]

They missed three key targets: the GOSPLAN chief, the Party Ideologist, and Pugo, the Interior Minister. That man rallied the MVD troops, some KGB not in Kosov's faction, and about half of the Army in European Russia. This led to the Second Russian Civil War. The irony is that both the Soviet Government (the coup plotters considered themselves as such) and the "State Emergency Committee of the USSR" (Pugo's forces) both accepted the Armistice once the Northern Theater surrendered.

[jemhouston]

Did they have any choice once reality put a sledgehammer into their collective heads?

[Wolfman]

Did they have any choice once reality put a sledgehammer into their collective heads?

I don’t think so.

[Matt Wiser]

The coup plotters were going to do it, period. Pugo, though, had no choice. He couldn't continue the war once Northern Theater threw in the towel and Soviet Forces in Mexico were tied up due to Mexico asking for a cease-fire on its own.