Finis: The End at Brownsville (Repost):

[Wolfman]

Good riddance to bad rubbish…

[Matt Wiser]

The very bad day is now a very bad night....

2240 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


General Alekseyev was catnapping in his office. Before taking his nap, he'd written a letter to his wife and two daughters, for Major Sorokin to take out with him. He'd also reminded the staff to do the same, and Sorokin would take as many as possible out as well. Alekseyev had also written a personal letter to Marshal Akhromayev, and Sorokin would be under orders to personally deliver that letter to the Marshal. He'd been asleep for about an hour when there was a knock on the door. “Come in!”

General Chibisov entered. “It's you, Pavel Pavlovitch.” He saw that Chibisov had a message form in his hand. “And what is it now?”

“Comrade General, we're to stand by for a very important message from Moscow.” Chibisov reported.

“What?” Alekseyev asked, shaking the sleep from his eyes.

“That's all this is: a warning message.” Chibisov said.

General Alekseyev went over to his desk. He poured himself a cup of Cuban coffee. “Warning about what?”

There was another knock on the door. Colonel Sergetov came in. “Comrade General, here's the first part of the message,” he said, handing Alekseyev the form.

Scanning it quickly, Alekseyev turned to Chibisov. “Congratulations on your promotion to full General, Pavel Pavlovitich.” Alekseyev then handed Chibisov the form.

Chibisov read it. “And may I be the first to congratulate you, Comrade Marshal.”

Alekseyev snorted. “Marshal....our dear Chekist General Secretary has read about Hitler and Stalingrad, it seems. He's presented me with my cup of hemlock, but I'll be dammed if I'm going to drink it.”

“It would seem so, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov said, looking at Colonel Sergetov, who nodded.

“I have no intention of shooting myself for this Chekist bastard. He got us into where we are now, and I have no intention of becoming a martyr for this asshole!” Alekseyev thundered.

“Comrade Marshal, there's more.” Chibisov said.

“Oh?”

“Yes, there's a list of a hundred or so officers who are to be promoted one grade. Malinsky, Suraykin, Petrov, Lukin, Dudorov, Admiral Gordikov, and so on. Every division commander is also on the list.” Chibisov said.

“Just like Hitler.” Alekseyev said, remembering the shower of promotions the Bohemian Corporal had rained down on his doomed Sixth Army at Stalingrad.

“Quite, so, Comrade Marshal. Several of these promotions will be posthumous, however.”

“All those mean is that the family gets a larger pension back home.” Alekseyev snorted. “All right, inform those on the list, and let's get back to work.”

The three returned to the Operations Room, where there was applause for the new Marshal. “Thank you, Comrades. A proper celebration will have to wait until the campaign is concluded.” Alekseyev said.

“Meaning, in the officer's section of an American prison camp,” Chibisov whispered to Colonel Sergetov, who nodded.


2300 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:


Explosions sounded nearby, waking both Generals Petrov and Lukin from their sleep. Getting up, Petrov went to the window, and saw a pair of fireballs very close by. “What the hell?” Petrov asked.

Lukin saw it as well. “What was that?” He went to the phone and called the airlift operations center. “General Lukin here. What just happened?”

Petrov came back to see Lukin hanging up the phone. “Well?”

“One of the hangars being used for supply storage just went up. Fortunately, there were few casualties, and this time, we caught a break.”

“Oh? And just how did we catch a break in this instance?” Petrov asked.

“The hangar in question was storing all the crap we got on this airlift that we couldn't use.” Lukin said.

Petrov looked at him. Then he broke out laughing. “Well, when the Americans come, we'll have to thank them for that. Hitting that did us-and them-a favor.”

“Indeed so, Comrade General.” Lukin said.

The sound of jets interrupted their conversation. Both ducked for cover, and explosions sounded. Some antiaircraft fire was heard, and Lukin stuck his head out the window to see a couple of Igla missiles fired. And just as soon as it had started, the raid was over. “Comrade General, we'd better get over there,” Lukin said.

And both Generals did get over to the ramp area. An An-26 that had come in earlier that day-and had been unable to leave due to a mechanical issue-was burning brightly, while a Tu-154 had been blown in two, and both halves were fully engulfed in flames. Fire and rescue parties were moving to extinguish the fires, while medical personnel tended to the casualties. Some they left, obviously dead, while others were carried over to the nearby field hospital. Even at this distance, both generals could hear the shreiks coming from there. Petrov turned to a SAF Colonel. “Get this cleaned up as soon as possible.” This facility has to be operational again at first light.”

The Colonel nodded. “Right away, Comrade General!” The man said, running off to issue the order.

“They'll be back, Comrade General,” Lukin observed.

“Just like Stalingrad: you're in von Richtofen's shoes, and I feel like Milch,” Petrov said. “Two professionals doing an impossible job.”

The sound of aircraft coming in forced everyone to take cover. Several more bombs rained down on the airport, blowing the old control tower apart, and wrecking the last remaining air-search radar. Now, all the Soviets had were a couple of Osa-M missile launchers without missiles to give any kind of raid warning. “If they keep this up, we're screwed,” Petrov said.

“No argument there, Comrade General. We've got a couple of days: three at the most.” Lukin commented.


2315 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suraykin looked at the message form. So he was now a Colonel-General? Well, at least if he was killed, his family in Smolensk could expect a bigger pension, and his sons could expect to get into whatever Military College they chose, but that was the only good thing about his sudden promotion. He'd also found out that all of his divisional commanders had been promoted one grade, as had a couple of his senior officers: his operations officer and his intelligence officer. Shrugging that off, he went from his command vehicle to where his operations people had set up their maps and work space. There, he found his Chief of Staff, Golvoko.

“Congratulations, Comrade General, on your promotion,” Golvoko said.

“It's also an invitation to swallow a pistol and then pull the trigger,” Suraykin observed. “Moscow doesn't want who knows how many general officers going into American captivity when this is over.”

“I imagine that was foremost on their minds,” Golvoko observed.

“Yes. Now, what's going on with the 105th Guards Airborne, and 52nd Tanks?”

“So far, the airborne's holding. Though American helicopter gunships-those Apaches-have been active, ripping up the division's rear area and have eliminated most of their combat vehicles.” Golvoko said.

“Which means it'll be literally building-to-building and room-to-room,” Suraykin noted.

“Yes, Comrade General.” Golvoko said.

“And 52nd Tanks?” Suraykin asked.

“Holding, but barely. Even with 6th Guards Motor-Rifle supporting them.” Golvoko said.

“Not for long, Golvoko.” Suraykin noted. “If they go, that's an easy way to outflank the 105th Guards Airborne.”

“Move the counterattack force?” asked Golvoko.

“No, not yet. I want to know where to commit it, first. And even if we put out one fire, there's likely to be two more coming up, and that means trouble,” Suraykin noted.


2335 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:

Captain Padorin led several officers into the torpedo room. And right behind them, with Security Officer Shelpin pushing him forward with a pistol in his back, was Zirinsky, the Zampolit. The torpedo officer and his men were there, and they had opened Tube six, one of the 65-centimeter tubes. Normally, they launched Type-65 torpedoes, or the 86R/88R ASW standoff weapons (NATO SS-N-16 Stallion), but now, they would also launch something else. Captain Padorin, the Starpom, Chief Engineer Guriev, and several other officers were present as Shelpin shoved Zirnsky to the waiting torpedo tube. Then the Captain spoke.

“Zirinsky, you have been charged with attempted mutiny, which is a capital offense. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Only that I did my duty. As the ship's political officer, it is my responsibility to relieve the commanding officer if he is failing in his duty to the State.” Zirinsky said.

“On the contrary, when you sound out other officers as well as warrant officers, that indicates a mutiny was your real plan. Do you have anything to say in response to this?” Padorin asked.

“I....I only wanted to know how they would feel if you were to be relieved, nothing more!” wailed Zirinsky.

Padorin turned to the other officers. “How many here were so approached by the prisoner? A show of hands, please.” And eight hands shot up.

Seeing this, Zirinsky turned pale. He was sweating profusely, as Paddorin asked the next question: “And how many can say truthfully that he was advocating or soliciting mutiny?” Again, all eight hands rose.

Captain Padorin then said, “Let the record show that these officers so reported that Zampolit Zirinsky was soliciting mutiny. This is a capital crime under Soviet Military Law, and based on the evidence, I find him guilty as charged.”

“NO!” Zirinsky wailed. Then he went into hysterics, sobbing uncontrollably. Shelpin then stuffed a rag into his mouth to stop his wailing, then nodded to Guriev.

The Chief Engineer then smacked Zirinsky on the head several times with a large wrench. He did so until blood came from Zirinsky's ears, eyes, and nose. However, he was still alive, if unconscious. “Shall I finish him, Comrade Captain?”

“No.” Padorin said. He nodded to the torpedo officer and his men. “Put him in that tube.”

The torpedomen did so, closing and sealing the tube when finished. “Tube ready, Comrade Captain.”

“Good.” Padorin said, nodding. “We're finished here. Back to your posts.”

The group broke up and returned to their duty stations. Padorin, the Starpom, and Shelpin went back to the CCP. As they did so, the officer of the watch shouted. “Captain in CCP!”

“Carry on,” Padorin said. He turned to the weapons officer. “Yuri, flood tube six, and open outer doors.”

“Comrade Captain,” he nodded. The Weapons Officer now knew who was in that tube. After a minute, he reported. “Tube ready in all respects, Captain.”

“Fire.”

And with that, Zirinsky left K-236. Padorin then entered in the log that the Political Officer had met with a tragic accident while in the engineering spaces, and his body had been disposed of at sea.


0005 Hours, 3 September 1989; Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:


“Congratulations on your promotion, Comrade General,” General Isakov told Malinsky.

“Full General. Hmph. I wish Moscow had just instead decided to send us a few more planeloads of supplies,” Malinsky said. “A lot of good those mass promotions do us. Now, what's happening with 28th Army?”

Isakov pointed to the map. “General Dimitriov reports that a division not previously known to be with XVIII Airborne Corps has now been identified: it's the 7th Armored Division, last known to be with VI Corps with Schwartzkopf's Fifth Army.”

Malinsky frowned. One of Schwartzkopf's best divisions down here already? “He's sure of that?”

“Yes, Comrade General. No prisoners, but his Spetsnatz company brought back a couple of bodies, and they had the shoulder patch of the 7th Armored.” Isakov said.

“Where was this?” Malinsky asked.

Isakov pointed to the map. “Right here, at the Rio Grande Valley International Airport, and near our old headquarters.”

“So. Either Powell's asking for help.....” Malinsky thought out loud.

“Or, Comrade General, he's had that division all along, and has only now committed it.” Isakov said, finishing the thought.

“More than likely, the latter,” Malinsky said. “What's Dimitriov doing to counter the penetration?”

“He's committed his last reserve: the 120th Guards Motor-Rifle.” Isakov said. The 120th “Rogachev” Guards Motor-Rifle Division was considered prewar to have been one of the best divisions in the entire Soviet Army. Its combat career in North America had been stellar, though it had been shot to pieces at Wichita, and had been rebuilt twice more since. Still, its reputation preceded it, and even now, it was one of the most respected units in the Army.

“They're in for a fight, Isakov,” Malinsky commented. “The 7th Armored Division is one of Schwartzkopf's best. And, as I recall, they were the first to receive the M-60A4 with the 120 millimeter gun.”

“Yes, Comrade General. They took the 249th Motor-Rifle Division apart, and could threaten Suraykin's right flank.”

“Warn Suraykin, if you haven't already.” Malinsky said.

“Already done, Comrade General,” Isakov said. “However, that puts whatever counterattack that Suraykin has in mind to support the 105th Guards Airborne in danger.”


0020 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th Guards Tank Division, 4th GTA, near Harlingen, Texas:

Major Krylov sat in his T-80K command tank. Normally, in the regiment, he would be in his command vehicle, directing the battle, but now, he decided to take over any counterattack his regiment mounted personally. Instead, his deputy commander would run things at the regimental command point, while he led his men into battle one more time. And this time, he knew full well from what the divisional commander had told him and the other regimental commanders, it would likely be their last battle.

Krylov had been commanding the regiment since the previous summer. Though the division had not seen serious combat since an attack in support of the failed Midland-Odessa offensive, he and his men were almost all veterans. Krylov had also made sure that his men conducted themselves in a manner befitting that of a Guards unit, and that their conduct towards the civilian population reflect that. It also ensured that his regiment had more guerrilla attacks that spring in support of the American Spring Offensive than any other in the division.

Now, his regiment was on standby to move out. An American breakthrough to the northeast was threatening the right flank of the Army, and threatened to split the 4th GTA from the 28th Army entirely. Though the Americans could see better in the dark than he or his men could, it was hoped that the factors of surprise and of numbers, especially if the full division was sent in, could restore the situation. For a while, anyway, or so the divisional commander hoped. And they'd be facing the M-60A4s-the hybrid of a tank with an M-60 chassis and an M-1 turret. Though slow, they were deadly, and his regiment had had a few encounters with them in the past year.

“Comrade Major,” his deputy radioed. “We're getting a warning order.”

“Very well,” Krylov called back. And he got his radio onto the division's frequency. And he didn't have long to wait.

“All Volga Units, this is Kuban Ten,” the divisional commander radioed. “Move out. Objective is the Rio Grande Valley International Airport.”

Krylov switched to the regiment's radio. “All units, this is Dagger One. Move out.”

And with that, the regiment's tanks cranked up their engines and began to move. The division was headed right for the Americans, and they wouldn't know what hit them. Memories of their past successes in 1985-86, where Krylov had been a company commander, came back. We may be down, Yankees, but you haven't won yet. Just you wait and see, he thought, as the 20th Tanks headed into battle one more time.


0030 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:


After disposing of the Zampolit's attempted mutiny, Captain Padorin returned to his mission. He had K-236 come to antenna depth to listen for any messages, and was about to lower the antenna when a message came in. “Get that message decoded quickly!” he ordered, and had the boat remain at antenna depth. The communications officer disappeared into his spaces, where not even the Captain could go, and was busy decoding the message. After a few minutes, he returned with a message form. “Comrade Captain, message from Fleet Command.”

“Thank you, Gennady,” Padorin said. Then he read the message. “Well, they want us to report on the American amphibious force, but to take no action. Our primary mission is more important.”

“That's a change,” the Starpom said. “You'd think someone would want us to have a go at the amphibious group.”

“I'm just as curious,” Shelpin said. Though he was KGB, he'd paid rapt attention in sub school to not only the technical side, but the tactics as well. “Who is so bloody important that we'd have to let those amphibious ships go?”

Padorin nodded. “That, Comrades, is a very good question.” He turned to the navigator. “Where did we encounter the amphibious force, and the battleships?”

The navigator checked his chart. “Right about here, Comrade Captain,” he said, pointing.

Padorin and the Starpom looked at it. “Very well. Plot that position, and we'll get it off to Fleet Command.”

The navigator did so, and Padorin went to his cabin to compose the message. Then he summoned the communications officer. “Get this off to Fleet Command at once.”

“Right away, Comrade Captain,” the officer said.

After the message was sent, Padorin made a periscope sweep “No contacts, scope clear.”

“Orders, Comrade Captain?” asked the Starpom.

“Make your depth 250 meters. Speed: ten knots. Course two-seven zero.”

K-236 dove and headed west. One thing Padorin quickly noted; with the Zampolit gone, the boat was a much more happy one, and a lot of crewmen were breathing easier with Zirinsky out of the way.

[Matt Wiser]

0055 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th GTD, near Rio Grande Valley International Airport:


Major Krylov led his regiment forward, towards the airport. Off in the distance, he could easily see the flashes of gunfire, and fireballs of exploding vehicles in quantity. The only problem was, that there was no way to tell who was getting the worst of the fight. He called his deputy in the regimental command vehicle. “Dagger Two, this is Dagger One. Anything from division?”

“Dagger One, negative. Orders are to advance to contact, and report upon encountering the enemy.” his deputy replied.

“Acknowledged,” Krylov responded. He then ordered his regiment's reconnaissance company forward, and right behind that, his motor-rifle battalion in BMP-2s. Somewhere out there, the Americans were lurking, and he didn't want the first sign of the enemy to be exploding vehicles. And his regiment's air defense battery, with the Strela-1M missile vehicles (SA-9B Gaskin) and ZSU-23-4 mobile AA guns were at the alert; with AH-64s reported, it was vital that the air-defense troops not only gave early warning of an attack, but successfully defend the regiment as it advanced.

“Dagger One, this is Hammer,” one of his battalion commanders called. “We have friendly vehicles to our right flank.”

“Stand by, Hammer,” Krylov radioed. “I'm coming over.” Krylov ordered his driver to move to the east, and he found Hammer One, Captain Vassily Reiter, with another officer, and a command BTR-70. “Who have you found, Vassily?”

“Comrade Major, this is Major Loginov, 356th MRR, 120th Motor-Rifles.”

“Major, where is your unit headed?” Krylov asked, shaking hands with the newcomer.

“I would ask you the same thing: we're supposed to be searching for an American attack, but so far, we've found nothing,” Loginov replied.

“Stand by, Major.” Krylov said. He mounted his tank, and called his regiment's command vehicle so he could speak to his deputy. While he was waiting for the deputy, things on their right flank exploded violently: other units from the Rogachev Guards had found the Americans. And T-64Bs and BMP-1s from the latter began to explode. “Dagger Two, We've found the enemy as well as the 120th Motor-Rifles. Does Division have any new orders?”

“Dagger One, affirmative. Continue to move and support the 120th, and maintain contact with them if at all possible.” the deputy radioed.

“Copy, Dagger Two.” Krylov said. “Major Loginov, my regiment will be on your left. We will support you.”

“Understood!” Loginov said as he mounted his own command vehicle.

Unkown to either officer, other elements of 7th Armored Division were watching. A Bradley troop from the division's cavalry squadron was taking note, and relaying the information back to Division HQ. And as these Russians advance, they'll be in for a rude surprise.


0110 Hours: Headquarters, 4th Guards Tank Army: Harlingen, Texas:


“So, Comrades. General Powell has thrown us a surprise.” Suraykin said, pointing at the map.

His intelligence officer nodded. “We had assumed that Fifth Army was in reserve around San Antonio, Comrade General. If, however, Powell has secured at least one division from that Army...”

“It's possible there are others,” Golvoko said, finishing for the intelligence chief.

“Very possible, Comrades,” The intelligence man said.

Suraykin pointed again. “That weakens our counterattack plan to support 52nd Tanks and the 105th Guards Airborne. And I'm sure that whoever is commanding XVIII Airborne Corps had that in mind when he unleashed the 7th Armored.”

The operations officer came up. “Comrade General, 20th Tanks has met up with the 120th Guards Motor-Rifle from 28th Army. And they're moving to contact the enemy.”

Suraykin nodded. “That puts the Americans here, right at the airport.”

Golvoko looked at the map. “It does, Comrade General. If this breakthrough had happened just a day or so earlier....”

“If it had, we'd be moving to meet it, instead of having a prepared defense,” Suraykin said. “And any chance of fighting a delaying action would be gone. A meeting engagement would've been trouble. Especially in daylight.”

“Quite so, Comrade General,” Golvoko agreed. “What about 38th Tank Division? Do they move to support the 20th?”

“No. We still need some kind of counterattack force. And apart from the 41st Independent Tank Regiment, the 38th is all we've left.” Suraykin noted. “We'll need them to assist the 105th Guards.”


0125 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekeseyev (it was still a new thing, thinking of himself as a Marshal of the Soviet Union, he thought) looked at the situation map. Clearly, this penetration was a serious one, and Malinsky was worried. If the Americans could split the 28th and 4th Guards Tank Armies, they could bypass Harlingen, get to U.S. 77-83, and not only block the 4th GTA's line of communication, but that of 8th Guards and 3rd Shock as well. And according to Malinsky, 28th Army had committed its last reserves, the 120th Guards MRD, while Suraykin had sent in half of his counterattack force, the 20th Tank Division. He turned to Chibisov. “Thoughts, Pavel Pavlovitich?”

“This has to be a way for Powell-or at the very least, XVIII Airborne Corps-to divert Suraykin's reserves away from the junction. Once they do that, I'd wager that the 105th Guards Airborne-and the 52nd Tanks-will be in a heap of trouble before too long. If 52nd Tanks goes, that leaves 6th GMRD to stop the 24th Mechanized Division, and they won't be in any shape to do that for very long,” commented Chibisov.

“My thoughts exactly. That means Suraykin has to move his remaining reserves to assist 6th GMRD, and leaves the 105th Guards to fend for themselves. And whoever is behind 29th Infantry Division can simply pass through, blast a way forward, and be down the highway before anything can be done about it,” Alekseyev observed.

“And we have to keep 47th Tank Brigade and Andreyev's 76th Guards Airborne available to counter any amphibious landings,” Chibisov said.

“Correct. Now, let's hope that doesn't happen. Powell had a chance for an amphibious operation at Corpus Christi last year, and from what our intelligence said, the Marine generals were pushing for one. He refused, and the Americans' own Joint Chiefs of Staff supported his decision,” Alekseyev said.

“Comrade Marshal, that was last year. Now, such a landing can decide the issue-and in a few hours,” Chibisov noted.

“True. But the threat of such a landing ties down those two units, which could be used elsewhere,” Alekseyev said. “

Admiral Gordikov came in. He was now a Vice-Admiral, and like the others, knew what Moscow was thinking when the promotions were issued. And like the others, he was a professional to the end. “Comrade Marshal, here's a message from Caribbean Squadron Headquarters in Cienfuegos,” he said, handing a message form to Alekseyev.

Alekseyev took it. “So, one of our submarines had an encounter with the American amphibious force?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Gordikov said. “The position puts them only six hours or so from the beach at the eastern end of Highway 4.”

“Four battleships?” asked Alekseyev.

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Marshal,” Gordikov said. “Plus a heavy cruiser, and several destroyers.”

Chibisov noted, “That's a lot of firepower.”

“It is, Comrade General.” Gordikov said. “And they can stand off the beach and use those guns to rip into any counterattack. Granted, it was over forty years ago, but they did the same thing in their landings in Sicily, at Salerno, Anzio, and of course, in Normandy.”

“And any counterattack force would be pounded from the air by carrier-based aircraft, and smashed up by naval guns,” Alekseyev said. It was not a question.

“That would be so, Comrade Marshal.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Colonel Sergetov!”

His aide came up. “Yes, Comrade Marshal?”

“Go down to General Andreyev and bring him here. I have his final orders.”

“Right away, Comrade General,” Sergetov said. Then he left to find Andreyev.

“We've got a day, maybe two,” Alekseyev commented. “Not much longer than that.”

Both Chibisov and Gordikov nodded. “Admiral, you've done all you can here. Do you still wish to stay?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. There are naval personnel who will never make it out of here, and a final sortie-with missile boats and minesweepers would be throwing lives away for no purpose-even if there weren't mines in the way-we'd just be targets for carrier-based aircraft. If they can't leave, then neither will I.” Gordikov said.


0140 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:


General Malinsky was actually getting some good news for a change. His Air Force liaison had just gotten off the phone, and had come over to him. “Comrade General?” the Air Force man asked.

“Yes?”

“Good news, for a change, Comrade General. Additional air support is available, beginning at first light.” the SAF Colonel said.

“What kind of sorties will we get?” Isakov asked.

“Ground-attack and some fighters, Comrades. Including some Il-102s.” the Colonel replied.

“I thought those were prototypes only,” Malinsky said.

“A squadron's worth of preproduction models was sent over in one of the last convoys to make it to Mexico, Comrade General. They should make their combat debut tomorrow.”

Malinsky nodded. “And the rest?” he wanted to know.

“Su-17s and -22s, and some -24s for night work, Comrade General. We're just about out of Su-25s, but a few can make it from Matamoros International Airport, which is where the Il-102s are flying from.”

“And the airlift?” Malinsky asked.

“It resumes at first light. Air drops first, then actual landings. Drop Zones to be marked as usual. However, no drops near the 105th Guards Airborne, despite their requests. They're too exposed to both enemy fighters and SAMs.” the Colonel said.

“Good, Comrade Colonel,” Malinsky said. He turned to Isakov. “Notify all commanders about the increased air activity beginning at first light. And I'll be in my office getting some sleep. You, too Isakov. Tomorrow will be a busy day. Wake me, however, if there's anything serious.”

“Of course, Comrade General.”


0200 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th Tank Division; Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Texas:

Major Krylov pushed his regiment forward, moving towards the sight and sound of the guns. Off to his left, near what had been a private military school prewar, the rest of the division was moving forward, but where were the Americans? Clearly, the 120th GMRD was in contact, but so far, his regiment, and the division, was chasing ghosts. Then his reconnaissance company came in. “Dagger One, this is Mace. Contact front! Probable Bradleys and..” A burst of static ended the transmission. Apparently, the company commander had been found himself. Krylov peered through his periscope, and noted a burning vehicle, then two more vehicles, almost certainly his own, exploded. He called his battalion commanders; “All Dagger elements, this is Dagger One. Contact front. Engage at will: independent fires on contact.”

His battalion commanders acknowledged the order, and the 8th GTR moved ahead. Though his own night sights were the best the Soviet Union had, they were still a generation behind the Americans, with their Thermal Sights on tanks, Bradley IFVs, and on both aircraft and attack helicopters. Where were they? His tank came across his reconnaissance company, and he saw two BRDMs and a BRM burning, and a tank from the company was also disabled. But the rest of the company had moved forward. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose.

“Contact front!” one of his battalion commanders called. “Engaging!” And several T-80s began to fire. And that fire was returned, for numerous tanks began taking hits and exploding.

“Hammer, Dagger One. Say type of enemy.” Krylov called.

“Dagger, Hammer. Tanks. M-60A4s with the 120. We're....” and the transmission stopped.

Then another call came on the radio “Enemy helicopters!”

Krylov peered through his periscope. Yes, he could see several helicopters out there, their flare dispensers showing where they were. And they were firing. And more tanks took hits and erupted in fireballs. Krylov noted where the enemy tanks were, and called for his regimental artillery to fire on that location. Quickly, 122-mm shells began falling. Then another call came from the regiment on his left, the 155th Tank Regiment. “They're coming on our left!” The Americans had laid a trap, and were outflanking the 20th Tanks. A chill came down Krylov's spine as he heard that.

“Rapier, this is Dagger. Do you need assistance?” Krylov called the 155th.

“Dagger, this is Rapier. Affirmative. There's at least a brigade coming in on us. And...” the transmission disappeared in static. Either the 155th's commander had been hit, or enemy jamming was taking hold.

“Dagger two, contact division. Is there a change of plan?” Krylov called his deputy.

“Stand by, we're talking to them,” was the response. Then another call came that chilled him. “Comrade Major! Enemy tanks to the front!” That was his gunner talking.

“If you have a target, engage at will,” Krylov told the gunner, who began laying on a target. But before he could fire, another American tank, unseen by either Krylov or his gunner, targeted him and fired.

The 120-mm sabot round pierced the side armor, and penetrated the crew compartment, throwing out spall as it did so. Hot fragments whirled around the crew compartment, shredding fuel and hydraulic lines, as well as the crew. Neither Krylov or his crew had any chance to complain, for a few seconds later, the propellant for their 125-mm shells exploded, blowing the turret off the tank, and leaving a burning tank hull.


0220 Hours: 398th Coastal Defense Missile Battalion; North of Boca Chica State Park, Texas:

Captain Kokarev and his deputy scanned the horizon with their night-vision glasses. They'd been alerted that the American amphibious group was likely on its way, and Kokarev had ordered his men to their positions. The missile radar was still off, though. No need to attract attention until it was necessary, Kokarev felt. “Anything?” he asked his deputy.

“Nothing so far. Wait, though....ships to the left. Bearing zero-seven-zero.” the deputy said.

Kokarev turned to that bearing. He saw a sight that chilled his heart. Two battleships and a heavy cruiser were closing on Brazos Island. The only Soviets there were air-defense troops manning a radar station and a SAM site, though the defenders were a Cuban infantry battalion. Slowly, surely, the three ships turned as if they were off a practice range, and then they began to fire.

“Mother of God...” Kokarev said as 40-centimeter and 20-centimeter guns opened fire on the island. For several minutes, shells rained down on Brazos Island, and the defenders there could do nothing but hug the ground, and get into their bunkers.

“What are your orders, Comrade Captain?” the deputy asked.

“Hold fire. Do not turn on the radar. I'd rather wait until they come for us. And when they do...at least we'll get four missiles off,” Kokarev replied.

The bombardment continued for a half-hour. Then, just as it had started, the ships ceased fire and sailed off to the east. As they did so, Kokarev scanned the area to the northeast, and again to the east and southeast. Nothing else in sight. “Why didn't they shell us?” he asked.

“Perhaps they're waiting on something else?” the deputy said.

“Something else....an air attack to take us out...” said Kokarev. “Get the men to cover. Now!”

As the Soviets went for their bomb shelters, Kokarev remained in his command bunker It wasn't an air attack that came in, but something almost as bad: helicopters coming in from the sea, and landing on Brazos Island. He watched as CH-46 and CH-53 helicopters landed on the island, and U.S. Marines spilled out onto the island. He was an interested spectator as a battalion-sized force of Marines quickly and efficiently cleared the island, and within a half-hour, it was over. Kokarev picked up his field phone and called this in.


0240 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev was in his office with General Andreyev. Now that his special mission was completed, the Marshal had a new task for the General.

“Once the warheads are on the freighter, Andreyev, you'll have a new assignment.” Alekseyev said.

“How may I serve the Marshal?” Andreyev asked.

“You'll be in command of a grouping consisting of not just your division, but the 47th Tank Brigade. The 76th Guards Air Assault Division and the 47th are the only full-strength units left,” Alekseyev said, pointing at the map.

“And my task is?”

“You'll be my personal reserve. Not Malinsky's. Where and when you go into battle, is my responsibility, no one else's.” Alekseyev said.

“I see, Comrade Marshal.” Andreyev replied. “Do we back up Malinsky, or guard against an airborne attack?”

“Both, and one additional mission,” Alekseyev said. He pointed at the end of Highway 4 on the map. “There, Andreyev, the U.S. Marines may land, either today or tomorrow. If they do, you're our only hope of delaying them. Rest assured, I will not split your force, and your paratroopers will go into combat with armored support.”

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal,” Andreyev said.

“One other thing. Moscow issued a whole raft of promotions along with mine. Your name was on the list. Congratulations, Lieutenant-General Andreyev.” Alekseyev said.

“Right now, Comrade Marshal, I don't know whether to thank someone or curse someone. This was Moscow's idea?” Andreyev asked.

“It was.”

“Then, Comrade Marshal, someone in the Kremlin has read about Hitler and Paulus. And not only did the failed artist promote Paulus, he promoted a whole slew of senior officers one grade,” Andreyev said, remembering his history courses at Ryazan's Airborne Academy.

“True, General. Quite true. And the sense of deja vu does come up,” Alekseyev commented. “Do you wish to refuse the promotion?”

“No, Comrade General, I won't. But I'll take your congratulations over Moscow's any day of the week.” Andreyev said.

There was a knock on the door. It was Colonel Sergetov. “Comrade Marshal, I'm sorry to disturb you.”

“What is it, Colonel?” Alekseyev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, the Americans have bombarded Brazos Island, and have landed Marines there.” Sergetov reported.

“Situation?” Alekseyev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, neither the beach defenses, nor the air-defense radar there, answer radio calls. Our coastal-defense troops along Highway 4 report that the battle has been decided. Two battleships and a heavy cruiser shelled the island, then helicopter-borne Marines landed. They appear to be mopping up at the moment.” Sergetov said.

“I guess I'd better get back to my division, Comrade Marshal.” Andreyev said.

“Go, then. Wait for my orders to move,” Alekseyev said.

Andreyev saluted and left the office. “Comrade Marshal, there's one other thing.” Sergetov said.

“And that is?”

“General Chibisov ordered me to see you to bed. As he pointed out, tired generals make mistakes. A few hours' sleep is what you need, “ Sergetov reminded his Marshal.

“As always, Chibisov is correct. And tell him to get some sleep himself-and you, too.” Alekseyev said.

“Of course, Comrade Marshal.”

“I don't think the Americans will land this morning, anyway. That was just a prelude. This afternoon, though...” Alekseyev said as he laid down on his office couch, “Still, notify Admiral Gordikov and have him get the Cherepovets ready for her final voyage.”


0315 Hours: Cuban 2nd Army Headquarters:

General Perez looked at his map again. He had just been awakened by his Chief of Staff after only three hours' sleep. The main concern was his left flank: it was slowly, but surely, giving way. His only reserve, a tank regiment augmented with some Soviet air-assault troops, would have to be committed. And he knew which division they would be facing. “That's the 49th Armored on our extreme left, correct?” Perez asked his Chief of Staff.

“Yes, Comrade General.” the Chief replied.

Perez sighed. He knew full well that the 49th had been battered in the early days of the war, and now, it was here at the end. His intelligence officer pointed out that although the division had been rebuilt, there were still many officers and soldiers who had been in the early fighting, members of the Texas National Guard, and those soldiers had not only lost fellow soldiers, but family and friends, to the invasion. And the members of the division not only vowed revenge, they practiced it. But to shore up his left flank, he had no choice. “Luis, move the 214th Tank Regiment, with the Soviet airborne troops, into a blocking position along Highway 281.”

“Right away, Comrade General,” the Chief said. “Are they to hold, or is this a delaying action?”

“The latter, Luis. Delay as long as possible.” Perez said. “I know, that may be difficult at best, but we've no other choice. There's a time and place for last stands, and right now, this isn't it.”

“Understood, Comrade General. I'll issue the order.” the Chief replied.

“One more thing,” Perez told the Chief.

“Yes, Comrade General?”

“Tell the regimental commander he doesn't need to ask permission to withdraw. It's a delaying action, remember. He's to fight it as he sees fit.” Perez said.

[Matt Wiser]

A very bad night becomes a day that's just as bad-if not worse-for the Soviets and their lackeys:



0325 Hours: South Padre Island, Texas:

“Comrade Captain,” one of Kamarov's lookouts said, shaking him awake.

“Yes, what is it?” Captain Lieutenant Kamarov said groggily.

“Movement offshore.” the lookout responded.

“Let me see, and get Major Lazarev,” Kamarov said.

The lookout nodded, and grabbed the field phone as Kamarov peered through the night glasses. “What bearing?” Kamarov asked.

“Zero-nine-five to one-zero-five, Comrade Captain,” the lookout replied.

Kamarov turned the glasses through those bearings. “Are you sure, because right now, there's not a thing here.”

“I'm positive, Comrade Captain. It was moving north to south.”

A few minutes later, Major Lazarev came into the room. He'd gone up five flights of stairs, and had been asleep when the phone rang. “Well, what's going on now?” he asked.

“I hate to have awakened you for what might be a false alarm, Major,” Kamarov said. “But one of the lookouts thought the saw movement offshore.”

Lazarev asked, “Are you certain?”

“The lookout is sure of it, but right now, I don't see...wait. There is something out there. Two ships.” Kamarov checked the bearing. “Zero-nine-five and zero-nine-seven.”

Lazarev came to see for himself. “Can you identify the ships?”

“Not yet. They're too far away. They may be playing their games again.” Kamarov said. “Have a look.”

Lazarev knelt down and peered through the glasses. Sure enough, there were two ships on the horizon. He wondered if they were connected to the firing they'd heard earlier, for someone to their south had caught hell from a bombardment earlier that night. “I can't tell, either.”

“Someone got shelled earlier tonight,” Kamarov reminded Lazarev. “If I was in command, I'd have an ASW group watching the battleships and cruiser. I'd bet that's what those two ships are.”

“For once, I hope you're right.”


0350 Hours: South of Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Texas:


Captain Ivan Popov had his hands full. He had been the deputy commander of the 8th Guards Tank Regiment, but now, with Major Krylov's death, he was now in command. After the Major's tank went off the air, and cries for help came from the other battalions, he pulled the regiment back, and rallied the survivors. What had been a nearly full-strength regiment only an hour earlier had now been cut down to only a battalion's worth of tanks and hardly any BMPs, for the motor-rifle battalion had been virtually annihilated. And the regimental artillery had also taken a mauling, for a dozen of their 2S1 122-mm guns had been hit by either counter-battery fire or by air attack, and clearly the 8th GTR was in no shape to continue forward. He also knew that he may have no choice but to keep going once he rallied the regiment.

Popov went from tank to tank, talking to the crews, and doing the same to the motor-rifle troops-now a short company, and he'd also spoken to the artillerymen. The regiment's air-defense battery was gone, as was the reconnaissance company, and the engineers had been cut down by half. And it wasn't over yet, Popov knew. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his Zampolit, Senior Lieutenant Viktor Gruishin. “I see you're still alive, Comrade Captain,” chimed the Zampolit.

“Right now, I'm not sure if I'd rather be alive, or dead,” Popov replied, not caring if the Zampolit decided to file a report on him.

However, this time, he need not have worried. Grushin, though a Party man through and through, was trained as a tank officer, and knew full well what had happened to the regiment. “I've got the same feeling myself. What happened?”

“The Americans laid on a trap for us. And the 120th Guards Motor-Rifle. And we paid for it, dearly.” Popov said. He waved his hand towards the north. “And it's still going on for those poor bastards,” pointing out the 120th's positions amidst the flashes of gunfire and the sounds of both aircraft and artillery fire.

“That explains why they didn't overrun the airport when they had the chance,” Grushin said. “The Americans wanted us to move down those runways-and want to bet they had them zeroed in by their artillery?”

“I thought the same thing myself, only after they shot us to pieces,” Popov said. He noticed one of the regimental staff coming “Yes, what is it?” he asked with a lot of irritation in his voice.

“Division is on the line, Comrade Captain. They want to speak to the regimental commander-whoever he is.” the staffer replied.

Popov and Grushin went into the regimental command BTR. A staffer handed Popov a radio “This is Kuban Ten, who am I speaking to?” the voice over the radio asked.

“Captain Popov, former deputy commander of the 8th GTR, and acting commander now.” Popov replied.

Major General Mikhail Boborov was on the other end. “I see...Captain,what happened to Major Krylov?”

“I regret to say that he was killed in action. His tank took a direct hit and blew apart,” Popov responded.

Boborov's sigh could be heard on the other end. Unknown to Popov, that sigh meant that two regimental commanders had been killed already, and the morning was still young. “Understood. Can you continue the mission?” Boborov asked.

“Negative, Comrade General,” Popov replied. “I only have a battalion's worth of tanks, most of my artillery is gone, and no air defense. I can hold here, or act as a flank guard, but that's all I can do.”

“I'm not angry with you; your neighbors to the left are in the same shape. Be prepared to act as a flank guard, and hold until then,” Boborov said. “The rest of the division will pass through your lines and continue forward. Any questions?”

“None, Kuban Ten.”

“Very well, Dagger. Kuban Ten, out.” And Boborov cut the link.

“Now what?” the Zampolit asked, and the Regiment's Chief of Staff asked the same thing.

“We hold here, and act as a flank guard.” Popov said.

“Hold with what?” the Chief of Staff asked.

“I know, but the rest of the division will pass through us and the 155th and continue forward.” Popov said.

The Zampolit and the Chief of Staff exchanged glances. “After what happened to us? Good luck with that,” the chief replied.


0410 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:


General Golvoko looked at the situation map, and digested the information that Boborov had just relayed to him. The 20th Tank Division's attack had failed, with heavy losses, and it appeared that the 28th Army's attack with the 120th Guards Motor-Rifle Division was being chopped to pieces. Like it or not, he had to wake General Suraykin. He'd been awakened himself only a few minutes earlier by a staff officer when the bad news came in. Golvoko went to Suraykin's command vehicle and knocked. “Come in.”

“Comrade General,” Golvoko said. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but we have news of 20th Tanks' attack at the Rio Grande Valley Airport.”

“And?” Suraykin asked.

“Their first attack has failed, with heavy losses,” Golvoko reported.

Suraykin got up. He still marveled, after all this time in America, that anyone could go to a sporting-goods store and get a sleeping bag. It was a lot more comfortable than sleeping on the hard floor of a command vehicle, and he had thanked the staff officer who had “liberated” one for his general. “Show me, Golvoko,” he ordered.

Both generals went to the map, where Golvoko pointed out the battle results. “The two regiments involved from 20th Tanks have been shot to pieces: each has only a battalion's worth of tanks left, and not much else.”

“What's Boborov doing now?” Suraykin asked.

“He's going to try again: his two remaining regiments, one tank and one motor-rifle, will pass through and continue forward.” Golvoko reported.

“If he pushes any more forward past the airport, he'll have an open flank,” Suraykin commented. “And it won't take long for 7th Armored to find that out.”

“Not long at all, Comrade General,” Golvoko agreed. “Do you want him to continue the attack, or assume a hasty defense?”

Suraykin thought for a minute. “Only as far as the northern end of the airport. Any further, and he will have an open flank. If this was 1985, I'd tell him to push as far ahead as possible, but not today. I don't want to take the chance that he'll be pocketed, along with the 120th Guards Motor-Rifle, and caught in a cauldron battle.”

“Understood, Comrade General,” Golvoko replied.

“Get me some of that Cuban Coffee, Golvoko,” Suraykin said. “Four hours' sleep isn't enough. And what news from the air force?”

“They still can fly missions from the Matamoros airport, Comrade General. Front Headquarters tells me that we'll have more air sorties beginning at first light. One final supreme effort, they said.”

“The Air Force had better. Though I do understand their problems: they're running out of planes and operational airfields. Not a good time to be an aviator.” Suraykin said, remembering his time at the Freunze Academy, where the problems of air force/army cooperation had been a subject of not-inconsiderable attention. “And the airlift?”

“It resumes at first light.” Golvoko said.

Suraykin looked at the map. The 105th Guards Airborne was still holding, as was 52nd Tanks and the 6th GMRD. But only just. And 24th Tanks was also teetering. He turned to Golvoko. “One more day. That's all we need. Just one more day. When the Army's fuel and ammunition is exhausted, I'll notify Marshal Alekseyev directly.”



0430 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, U.S. Highway 281, west of Santa Maria, Texas:


Colonel Carlos Herrera scanned the horizon with his night-vision sight. He commanded the 214th Tank Regiment, and found it unusual that he now had two short battalions' worth of Soviet air-assault troops under his command, but in these times, nothing should have surprised him. Colonel Herrera had looked at his orders again, and he knew that this time, last stands were not in the cards-unless the Americans forced him into one. General Perez had been most specific on that. And he knew that coming down 281 was at least a battalion, with the rest of that battalion's brigade on its left. Delay, delay, delay, those were the orders of the day. He turned to Major Pavel Murayev, the commander of the Soviet air assault group. “Can your men give us some warning?”

“No problem, Comrade Colonel,” Murayev said. “I'll have them fire off a flare, then fall back to the main defense line. Like you, I'm not ready for a last stand just yet.”

Herrera nodded. “Excellent. As for the civilians in Santa Maria....” He turned to his chief of staff. “Who's in charge of the town?”

The chief consulted his notes. “Some rear-area troops, Comrade Colonel. Mostly ours, but a company's worth of Nicaraguans as well. The vast majority are unfit for front-line service.”

“Tell the town commander to order all civilians to take shelter. Anyone seen outside will be shot.” Herrera said.

“Immediately, Comrade Colonel.” the chief replied.

“What else is in the town?” Herrera asked.

“A Soviet S-75 SAM site, Comrade Colonel.” the chief responded.

“Is the site operational?” asked the Colonel.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel, it is.”

Herrera paused for a moment. “Raoul, tell the site commander to be prepared to destroy his radar, communications equipment, and all secret documents. No, tell him to do it now.”

“Comrade Colonel?”

“If we can't hold here, we fall back. And the site commander won't have time to destroy what needs to be denied the enemy. Tell him to do it-fast.” Herrera said.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” said the chief, who went off to issue the orders.

Herrera nodded as the chief left. He looked around, and saw the shapes of T-72G tanks taking up positions. He had two battalions of T-72s, the last Cuban T-72s left in Texas, and one battalion of T-55s delivered in a convoy in June, before the Americans turned the Gulf of Mexico into a shooting gallery. His regiment also had 24 2S1 122-mm guns, and a motor-rifle battalion with BMP-1s, and the late arrival of the Soviet airborne troopers was a welcome addition. However, he could not count on the town garrison: when his chief mentioned “unfit for front-line service,” he meant it. Reservists out of uniform for twenty years or more, and Nicaraguans, though motivated, had castoffs from the 1950s in terms of heavy equipment and heavy weapons. If we can delay for an hour or so, then we'll fall back, and do it again, he thought. But Colonel Herrera also knew that the end was only a matter of time.


0450 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

General Petrov looked around. The last American attack had been two hours earlier, when two aircraft, type unknown, had swept over the field and left two dozen Mark-82 bombs in their wake. Three valuable aircraft-two Il-62s and an Tu-154, had been destroyed, and another hangar blasted apart. This time, though, that hit had been costly, for many wounded men had been sheltered there, hoping for a place on a flight out. And another bomb had wrecked a nearby fuel storage tank, sending up a large fireball as the jet fuel inside exploded. His engineering officer came up to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade General, we've gotten the wrecks cleared. The runways are being double-checked right now, as we speak. If there are no....complications, I'll declare the field ready by 0530.”

“Good, Comrade Colonel. You've moved the bodies from that hangar?” Petrov asked.

“That is underway, Comrade General.” the Colonel said.

“Good. It's an hour until first light. We should have airdrops beginning then. Make sure the drop zones are marked.”

“Absolutely, Comrade General.”

“Good. Carry on, Colonel.”

The engineering colonel went off to his tasks, while Petrov went back to the hangar where he and Lukin had their work space. He found Lukin on the satellite phone to Havana. “Well?”

“First aircraft were wheels up at 0430 our time. An hour and a half away.” Lukin reported as he hung up.

“That's a start. Airdrops first?”

“Just as yesterday, Comrade General.” Lukin said.

“A drop in the bucket, Lukin,” Petrov spat. “Whose bright idea was it to try a resupply operation like this by air?”

“Someone who didn't read about the Stalingrad airlift,” Lukin replied.

“You have no argument from me on that,” Petrov said. “And when do they expect landings?”

Lukin looked at the wall clock. “0700, Comrade General. No sooner than that.”

“Lukin, you've got a son and daughter-in-law in Leningrad, with a grandchild on the way. I'm divorced. Today, you're leaving on one of the aircraft.”

“Comrade General! My duty....” Lukin said.

“I have something to send to friends at Air Force Headquarters and in the VTA. Something that has to go by courier. You're it. Pack and be ready to go sometime in the afternoon. Cuba if at all possible, but Mexico City in a pinch. And that's an order.” Petrov said firmly.

“I...I understand, Comrade General.” Lukin said. “I'll take letters from those on the staff who are staying.”

“Thank you, Lukin.”


0515 Hours: K-236, the Gulf of Mexico.


“Captain to CCP!” the intercom barked.

Captain Padorin jumped out of his bunk and into his shoes. A minute later, he was racing for the Central Command Post. “What is it?”

Captain Lieutenant Yevgeni Milstein turned to face the Captain. “Comrade Captain, we have a sonar contact, surface, bearing zero-nine-five relative, range about 15,000 meters.”

“Any identification?” Padorin asked.

“Not yet, Comrade Captain.” Milstein replied. He was a young officer, only a year out of the Academy, and this was only his second cruise. Combat was a lot different than what the lecturers there had told him it would be, but his eagerness was still evident in his tone.

Padorin went into the sonar compartment. The senior operator was on watch again, and he was listening. “Many ships on that bearing, Comrade Captain,” he said.

“It's the outer perimeter of the amphibious group?” Padorin wondered out loud.

“I think so, Comrade Captain,” the operator replied.

Padorin turned to Milstein. “Battle Stations. Silently, if you please.”

Milstein nodded. “Battle Stations, aye, Comrade Captain,” and the lights turned red, and the alarm buzzed. Officers and crew raced to their stations, as Padorin took over the con.

The weapons officer came in and checked the tube status. “Comrade Captain, we've got two Type-65s left, and four Klub missiles. Full load of standard torpedoes as well.”

“Very well,” Padorin said. He turned to the navigator. “How far are we from South Padre Island? That's our secondary pickup point.”

“At ten knots? About fifteen hours, Comrade Captain.” replied the navigator.

Padorin looked at both his Starpom and Shelpin. “We still have that potential rendezvous on shore: that is our first responsibility.” He turned to the helm: “Come right: course three-five-zero. Maintain ten knots, and make your depth two hundred meters.”

“Someone is playing with us back home,” the Starpom said. Padorin looked at him, and saw Shelpin nod.

“Not just that, it's the Americans,” Padorin said. “If they keep this up, there's no way we can make the pickup point-either the main one at Brazos Santiago Pass, or the backup at South Padre Island.”

“Mother of...” the Starpom said. “And if they're landing at South Padre Island....”

Even Shelpin, the KGB officer, knew it. “If that's the case, then forget about the pickup. Whoever we were supposed to get out is going to be out of luck.”

“Exactly. I'm not risking this boat just to save a few Party types-or American collaborators-from the end there.” Padorin said. He turned to the navigator: “Plot a course around that amphibious group. Then we'll make a run west. If, of course, the Americans will allow us.”


0540 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th GTD, south of Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Texas:

Captain Popov watched from his command vehicle as tanks and BMP-2s from the 144th Motor-Rifle Regiment moved forward past his depleted regiment's positions. So far, he'd watched as the 120th GMRD on his right got shot to pieces, and the 356th MRR from the 120th, which had been on their flank had came back-what was left of it. He'd talked with that unit's senior surviving officer, a captain like himself, and it had been the same story: move forward until contact, but it had been the Americans who'd initiated the action, and that was that. Tanks, Bradley IFVs, and attack helicopters had come down on the entire 120th, just as they'd done with his division, and now....he'd be lucky to hold what he had.

Now, seeing the fresh regiment come up, maybe they might push the Yankees back. But Popov was surprised to see them halt just as they reached the northern edge of the airport boundary, and the motor-rifle troops stopped and began to dig in. This isn't an attack, now, he realized. Hasty defense. And they'll be coming. Soon, he knew, as he looked to the east as the faint light of dawn began to break. His thoughts were interrupted by the Zampolit, who was now his deputy commander-and not just for political affairs, deputy period. “Are the men ready?” Popov asked.

“As ready as they can be, after what happened last night,” Grushin said.

“The Americans saw us coming; how they did, I have no idea, but they were waiting for us, and shot us to hell. There's no way around that.” Popov said.

Grushin nodded sympathetically. He'd been a popular Zampolit, acting as morale officer when not engaged with military duties, and he knew many of the men personally. “No arguing there, Comrade Captain.”

“Get the men fed: who knows when they'll have their next meal,” Popov told his Zampolit. “And after that, have them stand to. The Americans will be back,” he said, motioning to the north.

“Right away, Comrade Captain.”

“And Grushin,” Popov said.

“Yes, Comrade Captain?”

“If you have to, destroy your identification papers that show you're a Political Officer. The Americans may not like that, if you get caught. Wouldn't want you dragged behind a motorcycle by those maniacs in the 13th Cavalry, and then left for the ants.”

Grushin laughed. “If I have to, I'll just throw them in a burning vehicle. I imagine there'll be plenty of those about.”

“Good.” Popov said. Then his chief of staff came up. “Yes?”

“Comrade Captain, division has told all units to hold at their present positions. We're to let the Americans come to us instead.” the chief replied.

“Hasty defense. Just as I thought,” Popov said as he turned north and saw the 144th MRR digging in.” He turned back to the chief. “How long until they get here?”

“No word on that, Comrade Captain.”

[Matt Wiser]

A new dawn, and a new (very) bad day for the Soviets:



0605 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, West of Santa Maria, Texas:

Colonel Herrera stood in the hatch of his regimental command vehicle, a converted BTR-60. Though he had a T-72K command tank at his disposal, he felt that this time, he needed to see “the big picture” and not what the limited view from a tank's periscopes offered. Instead, his deputy commander manned the tank, and relayed his observations from his location with Third Battalion, the T-55 unit. Fortunately, Third Battalion was not yet threatened, but as the sun began to rise, his forward outposts reported dust clouds approaching down Highway 281. The Americans were coming. Right now. He turned to his regiment's air-defense officer. “Your guns and missiles are ready, I trust?”

“Ready, Comrade Colonel,” the captain replied. Four ZSU-23-4s and four Strela-1M (SA-9) missiles were all he had to defend against air attack, other than Strela-M missiles (SA-14) carried by the motor-rifle troops, and probably some Igla (SA-16) in the hands of the Soviet air-assault troops. Not much if A-7s or A-10s decided to come calling, let alone those dreaded Apache gunship helicopters: it had been Apaches that had reduced his Third Battalion to a remnant back in May. Shrugging his shoulders, Herrera focused his attention on the issue at hand, and he saw it before anyone else did: a green flare fired ahead of his positions. That was the signal from the Soviet air-assault troops that the enemy was approaching. “All units, do not fire until I so order,” was his response.

Then commanders of both First and Second Battalions began reporting tanks and Bradleys approaching. He turned to his regimental artillery officer. “Put some fire-fused for airburst-on them. That'll get their attention, and maybe cause them to slow down.” And within moments, 122-mm guns began firing. Then the Soviets came on the line. “Estimated battalion strength at least, with a second battalion on their right. Falling back now,” was the call from the Soviet air-assault commander. And he was doing just what Herrera wanted: get information, fall back, and then get ready for some kind of fight in the town. But no heroics: just another delaying action. Hopefully, they could keep this up most of the day.

His Second Battalion came on the line next: “M-60A4s and Bradley fighting vehicles. Range now estimated at two thousand meters.” It was time.

“Commence firing. Independent fires at will.” And Cuban tanks and IFVs began to fire. The Battle of Santa Maria was on.

In her Bradley, Captain Kozak was initially surprised at the volume of fire coming from her front. The battalion scout platoon had reported T-55s and some infantry, but now, it looked like a full regiment of armor was in front of her. She ordered her Bradley platoons to fall back, and the tank platoons to cover them. And she got on the line to her Air Force FAC to get some air support, while her FIST began to call down artillery-both HE and smoke. Her battalion commander approved, and began to work the rest of the battalion to the left and right of the enemy (they didn't know if it was Soviet, Cuban, or whoever) to try and pinch them out. It was shaping up to be a busy morning.


0620 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

“Comrade General, it's Gordonov,” the operations officer told General Suraykin, holding up a phone receiver as he did so.

“Give him to me,” Suraykin said, and he picked up the receiver. “Yes, Gordonov?”

“Comrade General,” Gordonov said, “Right now, we're holding, but just. It's building-to-building now, and some have changed hands more than once.”

“I see.. And any sign of heavy forces behind the 29th Division to your front?” Suraykin asked.

“No, Comrade General. My division's reconnaissance has been out, and though most haven't reported back-and probably because they're dead, some have reported. No sign of heavy armor behind the 29th Division. Not yet.”

Suraykin tuned to his Chief of Staff, “Golvoko, get our Spetsnatz company out. Their mission is to locate any heavy armor coming up behind the 29th Division. This will have to be a ground insertion.”

“Right away, Comrade General.” And he went off to issue the order.

“Is there anything else, Gordonov?” Suraykin asked.

“We do need those airdrops, Comrade General. Right now, we've got enough to hold for maybe twelve hours, but if you expect us to hold any longer...” Gordonov's voice trailed off.

“The Air Force says it's impossible: the drop zones are too exposed to enemy air defense and fighters. We'll get some drops further back, and try and get what you need.” Suraykin said.

“Comrade General, with all due respect,” Gordonov said. “We need those supply drops. It's not just food and ammunition: we need medical supplies. My medical people are running out, and we can't even evacuate our casualties, and they're heavy.”

“I realize that, but the Air Force stands firm. No drops that close to the front lines.” Suraykin reminded his subordinate.

“Then, Comrade General, when can we expect a counterattack to relieve us?”

Suraykin looked at the map. So far, no sign of additional American pressure on the 20th GTD, nor the 52nd Tanks and 6th GMRD. The final calm before the storm? “If things don't develop elsewhere, by noon.”

“That's cutting it close, Comrade General, but we can hold until then.” Gordonov said.

“Good luck, and hopefully, I can move the counterattack force sooner.” Suraykin replied.

“Thank you, Comrade General. We'll be here. Gordonov out.” and that was that.

Suraykin hung up the phone and went to the map. “What's going on opposite 52nd Tanks and 6th GMRD?” he asked Golikov.

His chief of staff replied, “Not much. They're probably waiting until full dawn, then resume the attack.”

“Get on to the Air Force: even if you have to talk to General Petrov. We need drops close to the 105th if at all possible.”

Golikov nodded. “Right away, Comrade General.”


0640 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

General Petrov was in his office with General Lukin. “Here, Lukin. Everything about the airlift. What we needed, and what we received. Not to mention an appraisal of the mistakes made,” he said, handing Lukin a report he'd compiled a few days earlier, and had been waiting for the right moment.

“I understand, Comrade General. I've spoken with the staff, and they've provided me with their input.”

“Good. And did you get their last letters?” Petrov asked.

“Of course, Comrade General. You are divorced, but you have children, don't you?” Lukin asked.

“Yes,” Petrov said. He pulled two envelopes from his desk drawer. “One for my son: he's at the DA Air Academy at Tambov; he's an instructor pilot there. One for my daughter: she's living with her mother in Minsk.”

Lukin took the letters. “I'll see that they are delivered. Personally, if at all possible.”

Petrov nodded, just as a staff officer came in. “Comrade Generals, the first aircraft are coming in.”

Lukin looked at the wall clock. “They're early.”

“These are from Mexico City, Comrade Generals. Four Il-76s, two An-12s, and several An-26s,” the staff officer replied.

“Lukin, get on one of those. I don't care which one.” Petrov ordered. “I know, it's not headed to Cuba, but anyplace in a storm.”

Lukin nodded. “Yes, Comrade General. And may I say, it has been an honor to serve under your command. We did our best, but it wasn't enough.”

Petrov put his hand out, and Lukin shook it. Then Petrov saluted Lukin, as if he was the senior officer. Lukin returned it. “Comrade General.”

The two officers then went outside. A full dawn had broken, and it promised to be a beautiful day. The first plane came in: an An-26 with Soviet markings. It taxied up to the ramp, let down its vehicle ramp, and cargo pallets came out. The two Generals looked it over.

“Canned food, some medical supplies, and clips of 5.45 ammunition,” Petrov observed. “We can use all of it.”

“Indeed,” Lukin said. “Where's the pilot?”

“Right here.” an SAF Major said. He noted the two Generals. “Comrade Generals!”

“Major, this is General Lukin. He's being flown out of here on my express orders. Get him to Mexico City, or wherever your destination is in Mexico.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the pilot said.

Petrov looked around. There were about forty or so specialists designated for evacuation. “Get those men on this aircraft,” he ordered. “Lukin, best of luck. Get that material to those who need to see it. And give them my regards.” And then Petrov went to the next aircraft, an An-12.

Lukin turned to the pilot. “You heard the general. Get those men aboard, and let's get out of here.”


0705 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

General Chibisov had arisen a few minutes earlier, and after shaving, he looked at the map in the Operations Room. So far, other than the failed attack by the 20th GTD and 120th GMRD, things were calm. For the moment, anyway, he knew. No doubt General Powell was thinking about the next round, even as combat continued throughout the night and into the morning. And the American amphibious force had moved-putting Marines ashore in a heliborne assault on Brazos Island. He was thinking, Now where are you going? Marshal Alekseyev should sleep some more, he thought. Today will be a very busy day, and he needs his rest. Colonel Sergetov came to Chibisov. “Comrade General,”

“Colonel. Is the Marshal still sleeping?”

“Yes, Comrade General. He is. Shall I wake him?” Sergetov asked.

“No. Not yet. He needs his rest. I know: four hours isn't enough for both of us. But he needs his rest even more. Today, I fear, he'll need all the strength he can muster.” Chibisov said.

“Quite. No word from our troops on Brazos Island, I'm afraid,” Sergetov said. “Either they're dead or prisoners.”

“That was an interesting operation. We thought they'd come at dawn, not in the middle of the night. And they surprised us,” Chibisov commented. “No warning at all, and the naval gunfire was enough to prevent the coastal-defense troops from noticing the helicopters until it was too late.”

“So where will they come next?” Sergetov asked.

General Dudorov came in. “The amphibious force?” he asked.

Chibsov turned. “Correct. And good morning, General.”

“Not much is good this morning, Comrade Chief of Staff,” Dudorov replied. “And things will get worse.”

“No doubt about that,” Chibisov agreed. “Now, the amphibious force?”

“There's only two possible landing sites. Either South Padre Island, or the Boca Chica area: that's the east end of Highway 4. They have sufficient forces at sea to mount either operation, and possibly both.”

Chbisov and Sergetov looked at each other. Two landings? “One would have to be a diversion. The Queen Isabella Causeway between Port Isabel and South Padre Island is rigged for demolition, and no doubt the Americans know it,” Chibisov noted.

“Yes. Any attack on South Padre Island would be a diversion. Get us to move Andreyev's grouping to counter that landing, and leave the Boca Chica area wide open,” Dudorv commented.

“What about an airborne or heliborne assault?” Chibisov asked.

“Either one is possible, and shouldn't be discounted. If they mount a simultaneous airborne and amphibious attack, they have us in the coffin, and the nails are being driven.” Dudorov said. And both Chibisov and Sergetov knew it. Then the operations officer came over. “Comrade General,” he said, handing a message form to Chibisov.

Chibisov scanned it. “Of all the....Don't wake the Marshal over this. He can sleep a little bit more.”

Perplexed, Sergetov asked. “What is it, Comrade General?”

Chibisov handed it to Sergetov. “Read it.”

Sergetov scanned the message. The General Secretary had issued an Order of the Day. He was encouraging the troops to continue fighting, and that their sacrifices would be long remembered in the history of the Soviet Union, and their work would help bring about final victory in the coming year. “The workers and peasants of the Soviet Union stand behind our soldiers in Texas, and all of us stand with you in your hard struggle.” Sergetov returned it to Chibisov. “Of all the...”

“Yes. Wake the Marshal at 0745, if you would, Colonel. I think I know what his reaction to this will be. And get Major Sorokin. The Marshal will want to see him one last time before Sorokin leaves.”


0720 Hours: Brownsville-South Padre Island International Airport:

General Lukin watched as some forty men, designated as specialists, got aboard the An-26. Most were officers from special branches such as communications, air-defense, missile officers, and so on. Others were now planeless pilots or navigators from the Air Force, and there was even a naval officer. Some were also acting as couriers, from various headquarters, and he counted himself among those. Finally, several walking wounded whose injuries would not heal sufficiently to return to duty came aboard: a number had two broken arms, while others had lost hands or feet due to injuries. When the last had come aboard, Lukin went to the cockpit to talk to the pilot. “We're headed for Mexico City?”

“Not yet. Monterrey first: they're not flying near that field-the air defense is too strong from their viewpoint, or so we've been told,” the pilot said.

“Was there any fighter activity on the way in?” Lukin asked.

“Not at all. No F-4s, F-15s, F-16s, or F-20s. They may still have been at breakfast,” the Major said.

“That's good enough. Let's go.” Lukin said, strapping himself in to a jumpseat behind the pilot. “You're the pilot, I'm just a passenger.”

Nodding, the pilot radioed for takeoff clearance. When the green light flashed, the copilot pushed the throttles forward, and the Antonov rolled down the runway and into the air. Staying low, the pilot made a 180 turn and headed southwest. Lukin nodded his approval, and put on a headset. “Low level all the way?”

“That's right, Comrade General. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” the Major said.

General Lukin looked out the navigator's port side window. He watched a second An-26 follow them, and an An-12 lifted off and headed east as well. Then he saw in horror as a missile, what kind he didn't know, came in from the east and slammed into the An-12, blowing the cockpit apart, and sending the big transport spiraling down into the ground in flames, exploding in a fireball on impact.


0750 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev went into his private washroom. He had found out when he inherited the office after Marshal Kribov's death that it had belonged to the University's president, and the man had wanted a private washroom. Despite the lack of power in the city, the headquarters was still running on a generator, and he was able to wash and shave. When he was finished, he came into his office. Colonel Sergetov was there, waiting. “Comrade Marshal,” he nodded.

“Good morning, Ivan Mikhailovich,” Alekseyev acknowledged his aide. “What do we have at this moment?”

“The Americans are pressing the Cuban 2nd Army, again. And Suraykin reports that the counterattack at the Rio Grande Valley International Airport has failed. He's ordered the division that conducted it to assume a hasty defense, though they're not falling back as yet. The 105th Guards Airborne is still holding the junction, though they're beginning to run short on everything: airdrops have been requested but refused: the drop zones are too close to enemy lines.” Sergetov reported.

“And our other forces?” Alekseyev asked.

“General Malinsky reports that 28th Army's counterattack with the Rogachev Guards has also failed, and the division has been severely handled. As with Suraykin's counterattack, the division has assumed a hasty defense pending further orders. Eighth Guards, Third Shock, and Cuban First Armies continue to hold, even if they're barely holding on,” said the Colonel.

“Hm. And at sea?”

“The landing at Brazos Island, you know about; our coastal-defense troops south of there report the Americans have finished mopping up. General Dudorov reports that two landings-one at South Padre Island, and the other at Boca Chica-that's the east end of Highway 4-are now a distinct possibility. He suggests ignoring the former: that's more likely to be a diversion from the main assault at Boca Chica. If the Americans pull off an amphibious assault with an airborne drop-as was done so many times in Europe during the last war, we'll be finished-and soon.”

“I see,” Marshal Alekseyev replied. “And the airlift?”

“General Petrov reports it has resumed, though the aircraft landing so far are coming from Mexico City. Aircraft from Cuba should be arriving by now.” Sergetov reported.

“We'll know soon enough, as to how many are arriving,” Alekseyev commented.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said. “The ambassador to the Hall government wishes to see you as soon as possible: he's got a list of people in that government that are supposed to leave.”

“That's just great. How many, besides Hall and his cabinet?”

“About two hundred and fifty,” Sergetov said.

“I'll see him at 1000. Now, there's two people I'd like to see as soon as possible. Get Major Sorokin here one last time; make sure he's got everything he needs.”

“That has already been taken care of, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said. “And the second?”

“I'd like to talk to our guest over breakfast, Ivan Mikhailovich. Have a meal ready at 0830, and bring her here. See to it personally.” Alekesyev said.

“Of course, Comrade General. Is this between the two of you, or do you want service for four?”

“Yes, Colonel. Yourself, and General Dudorov.” Alekseyev nodded. “Anything else?”

Sergetov hesitated, then he pulled out a folded message form and handed it to Alekseyev. “This came in not long ago. General Chibisov felt it wasn't worth waking you.”

Alekseyev took the form. He read it, and began to crumple it as he did so. “Of all the....More nonsense from that Chekist bastard! More Party blather. It's the same kind of bombast Hitler gave just before our final offensive against Berlin.”

“That was General Chibisov's view, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said.

“Good. Don't bother passing that message down the chain of command. Our commanders have more important things to worry about.”


0810 Hours: Port of Brownsville, Texas:

General Andreyev watched as the vans carrying the nuclear warheads arrived at the port. Thirty-six warheads in all, that he and his regiment had “liberated” from the KGB....and now, those warheads would get ready for their final voyage. Now, he was looking for a naval officer: Marshal Alekseyev had told him that a naval officer would be taking the Cherepovets out, but he couldn't leave until the warheads were actually in the freighter and it had cast off. “Comrade General?” he heard a voice say.

“Yes?” Andreyev turned to see a naval officer saluting him.

“Captain Second Rank Romonov, at your service, Comrade General. I'm to take the freighter out for her final trip.” the navy man said.

Andreyev returned the salute. “I see. You've been told what your mission is?”

“Yes, Comrade General. By Admiral Gordikov himself,” Romonov replied.

“Then let's get to it.” Andreyev said.

The navy man nodded. “Of course, Comrade General.”

Andreyev waved his right hand, and the warhead vans drove up to the dock. They were still guarded by paratroopers from the 234th Guards Air Assault Regiment, and would remain so until the ship sailed. “I'm told that these vans must be loaded into the ship. It's that important.” said the General.

“So I've been informed, Comrade General.” Romonov said as the dock hands-all Soviets-began rigging the vans to be loaded aboard. “It'll take three or four hours, Comrade General, but he will be loaded by noon.”

“Good. Because I'd like to rejoin my division. But Marshal Alekseyev's orders were precise: Until you sail, that cargo is my responsibility.” Andreyev reminded the naval officer.

“May I ask what the cargo is? The Cherepovets won't be going far, but I've been told that the cargo must be denied to the enemy.” Romonov asked.

“You may not, Captain.” Andreyev said.

“I see,” Romonov said. “There's something else, and you'd be surprised to see it.”

“What?”

“Have a look at the other side of the waterway. It's been happening off and on since yesterday. Small groups of men-some ours, some Cubans, have been building small rafts and trying to get down the waterway to the ocean, and make a run for Mexico,” Romonov said. “Some were caught by the Commandant's Service, but others....they made it into the waterway.”

“And what happens when they reach the open ocean?” Andreyev asked.

“I imagine the Americans find them. Either that, or they face a lonely, lingering death out on the open sea.” Romonov commented.

Andreyev wasn't surprised: there had been a small trickle of deserters trying to get into Mexico ever since the pocket had been formed. Now some were willing to take their chances on the water-and try to make a run for the Mexican coast. If the Americans picked them up, well...a trip to an American POW compound meant they were going to live. If not....well, he'd rather face his adversaries one final time in battle, than take his chances on the open ocean. “As a sailor, what would you do?” asked the General.

“If I had a choice?” Romonov asked, seeing the General nod. I'd rather find a fighting ship: even a corvette or a patrol boat, and face the U.S. Navy one final time, than try a homemade raft on the open water. At least I'd die a sailor's death, and not have to worry about sharks, exposure, the sun, thirst....and so on.”


0825 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, Santa Maria, Texas:

Colonel Herrera was actually pleased. He'd forced the approaching Americans to deploy, and form up for an attack, instead of trying to take the town off the march. He'd used the time to get his most exposed units back into the town, and the Soviet air-assault troopers had prepared some positions in the town proper, though a stand was not on their agenda. Herrera had emphasized the need to delay the Americans, and not make a stand, unless they found themselves surrounded, and his battalion commanders understood it.

Now, his Third Battalion had fallen back to just east of the town, while Second Battalion had done so along the river. First Battalion had also pulled back to the center of town, along with his motor-rifle troops and the Soviet airborne. Major Murayev had come to him with an idea, and after having it explained, Herrera was all in favor of it. “Comrade Colonel,” his chief of staff said, “Everyone's ready.”

“Good. Tell the artillery to fire one final volley, then displace. Is Major Murayev ready?”

The chief nodded. “Yes, Comrade General, he's ready. And that artillery mission will fire immediately.”

Herrera saw his 122-mm guns fire one final salvo, then the 2S1s and their ammo carriers displaced. As they did so, Major Murayev came to him. “Comrade Colonel, we're all in position.”

Herrera looked at him. “You do know that standing and fighting isn't an option?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Colonel.” Murayev said. “What we've done is steal something from the Americans: something they did in 1986. See for yourself, when it happens.”

Colonel Herrera nodded. His battalion commanders were reporting that American armor was closing in again, a mixed battalion of tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles. And it was likely that the brigade that battalion belonged to would not be far behind. He called his armor: pull back to their third line. And the Cuban armor did so.

In her command Bradley, Captain Kozak watched the Cubans pull back. Strange. They didn't usually pull back without a serious fight, and she suspected a trap. Her battalion commander didn't agree, and ordered his units forward. As her company team advanced, she told her platoon leaders to be on the alert. And soon, she was proved right.

Major Murayev watched the M-60A4s and Bradley vehicles come into the town from two directions. One company from the west along 281, the other from the north. His air-assault troopers had studied this tactic after being on the receiving end of it in the Ozarks in 1986, and had returned the favor several times since. Murayev knew that the two companies would expect to close a pincer, but there was nothing in the presumed pocket to be trapped. His men were all on the east side of town. He turned to a trooper with a Metis (AT-7 Saxhorn) missile launcher. “Watch for a command vehicle, then fire. Don't wait for my order.”

“Yes, Comrade Major,” the trooper replied.

Kozak watched as Team Bravo came in. Two Bradley Platoons and a Tank platoon. She knew Team Bravo's commander, who rode in his Bradley, as did the Exec. As she came up, the man waved at her. Then she saw it. “Missile! Missile! Missile!” she yelled over the radio as she saw a missile heading for her counterpart's Bradley. And her gunner began firing 25-mm HE rounds back at the missile operator. But it was too late, as the Metis missile slammed into the Bradley, and it fireballed, killing everyone inside. Then a second missile tracked another Bravo Bradley, and it, too, exploded.

Murayev ducked as 25-mm rounds exploded around him. The missile operator died when a 25-mm round struck him in the chest, and another trooper was also killed by the 25-mm fire. Then machine-gun rounds began splattering all around him and his men. Murayev grabbed the guidance unit from the dead man, and two soldiers grabbed the reload missiles, and they worked their way out of the building, where two captured pickup trucks were waiting. Other air-assault troops were also getting out the same way, and by the time the Americans realized what had happened, Murayev's men were already gone.

[Poohbah]

Everyone is getting their last licks in

[Matt Wiser]

Not over just yet...

0830 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Colonel Sergetov and two soldiers went up to the floor where the American was being held. When he arrived, he found two guards sitting outside the former faculty office. He nodded, and one of them unlocked the door. Commander Carlisle sat up; to her, this was unusual. When she was allowed to walk the hall, it was Dudorov and one of his officers who did that. “Commander, will you come with me, please?” Sergetov asked politely.

She got up and came outside. “Let me guess: another conversation with Dudorov? He's been very persistent.”

“No. But please follow me,” Sergetov said, and she did, with the two soldiers following behind. They went down the stairs and then to Alekseyev's office. Sergetov knocked, and he heard, “Come in,” and he opened the door, and stood aside after he did so. “Commander,” he motioned to her.

Commander Carlisle went into the office. She recognized both officers already there; Dudorov, who'd had several conversations with her, and Alekseyev, the theater commander. Only now, she noticed, he had a single large gold star on his shoulder boards: and that meant Marshal of the Soviet Union. “Well,well. Either this is a promotion party, or there's something else in mind.”

Alekseyev laughed. “At least our guest has a sense of humor.” He stood up. “Have a seat, Commander. I've been wishing to have a talk with you, but other matters-and your lack of appetite last night-have prevented that.”

She sat, and thought that even if it was an act, the Russians were going out of their way to be very polite. Something's up, she felt. “You do realize, I've told you what I'm allowed to, and anything else is a waste of time.”

“Of course, but anything you do know is now out of date,” Dudorov said, nodding at Alekseyev. “Consider this a polite conversation between adversaries.”

Commander Carlisle noticed that. “Perhaps,” she nodded.

Colonel Sergetov joined them at the table, and the Marshal's orderlies brought in breakfast. “Comrade Marshal, this may be the last good breakfast any of us, the Commander excepted,may have,” he observed.

“Quite so, Colonel,” Alekseyev said. The meal was actually larger than what they'd been having lately: boiled eggs, toast with jam, sausage, and some Cuban coffee. He nodded to Commander Carlisle. “Your efforts at breaking the airlift and the convoys have succeeded only too well.”

“That's one thing I can take back, when this is over,” she said.

“Yes,” Alekseyev said. “And speaking of which, there is something that you may be able to help me with.”

“Oh, and what is that, Marshal?” Carlisle asked. “A naval aviator may not have anything that could help a Marshal.”

Alekseyev looked at her. “On the contrary. You are aware of the reputation that units such as the 42nd Infantry and the 49th Armored Divisions have. Not to mention those maniacs who call themselves the 13th Armored Cavalry Regiment?”

She nodded. “I've seen them on CNN. Can you blame members of the 42nd, for example? Many of them lost relatives or friends in the New York bomb, and to them, the war is personal. No surprise they promise revenge, and they get it.”

Alekseyev sighed. It was similar to the Red Army in the Great Patriotic War, and expecting the Americans to act otherwise might have been unrealistic. “I'll admit, we had the same thing in 1944-45 in Germany. Not only did we preach revenge, but practiced it.”

She nodded. “And what does this have to do with me?”

Alekseyev looked at Dudorov. “Commander, there are a number of female members of the Soviet military here. I'd like to evacuate them to Mexico when the time comes, and when it does come, you will be with them.”

“What?”

“By the time they're evacuated, the end for us may be very near. I don't want to see those women-many of them are doctors and nurses, or clerical staff, falling into the hands of units like the 49th Armored or the 13th Cavalry. You will accompany them as far as a ribbon bridge into Mexico.” Alekseyev said.

“And then?” Carlisle asked.

“You'll be given a safe-conduct pass just before they cross the border. Show it to any Soviet or Cuban officer you encounter, and they'll direct you to American lines. Now, if for whatever reason, the convoy is intercepted by your own forces, you'd be able to vouch for them, and see that they're treated well.”

Commander Carlisle looked at all three Soviet officers. “You're serious?”

“Very,” Alekseyev said gravely. “I know, our hands are not clean in these matters; and certainly, our own behavior towards prisoners hasn't been worthy of any kind of humanitarian awards. But I want you-and your superiors when you do reach your lines-one way or another-to see that we're not all barbarians.”


0850: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:

Generals Malinsky and Isakov looked at the map. Today would be the day of decision, both knew. Soon, both realized, their war would have between twenty-four and forty-eight hours left. Malinsky turned to Isakov. “What do we know about 28th Army's attack?”

“Not much, other than the 120th Guards Motor-Rifle has been roughly handled. The division is down to less than fifty percent strength.” Isakov reported. “The rest of the Army is still holding.”

“And Suraykin's counterattack?” Malinsky asked.

“20th Tanks was shot up at the Rio Grande Valley Airport, Comrade General. They have had to halt and assume a hasty defense.” Isakov said, pointing at the map.

Malinsky nodded. “And the highway junction?”

“The 105th Guards Airborne is still holding, but just. Suraykin reports that he'll have to move his counterattack force-now down to 38th Tanks and 41st Independent Tank Regiment, to assist them. That is, if a crisis doesn't develop with 52nd Tank Division and the 6th Guards Motor-Rifles.” Isakov said.

“All right, Isakov. Get whatever help from the Air Force that you can. I know, they've promised whatever they have available, but get onto them anyway.” Malinsky said.

“Understood, Comrade General,” Isakov said.

“And the Cubans?” Malinsky asked.

“Their 1st Army is holding-but just. They've had to give some ground, but as long as that wildlife refuge is on their right flank, with all those wetlands, the terrain prevents any kind of amphibious end run around them. Their 2nd Army is in worse shape: they've got two divisions coming against them, and one of them is the 49th Armored. By noon, General Perez says, he's going to have to start giving ground, or he may be outflanked,” Isakov reported.

Malinsky knew it, and nodded. “I'd rather he give ground than be outflanked. Soon, we'll have to pull them, as well as 3rd Shock Army, back at any rate. Start thinking about a line running from Highway 83 west of Harlingen down to the river. If, that is, we still hold the 77-83 junction.”

“I'll get right on it, Comrade General,” Isakov said.

“One other thing: I know Alekseyev hasn't issued the order, but let's get things moving on it anyway. Pass the order to all of our female officers and soldiers: be ready to evacuate on one hour's notice.”

“Are you sure, Comrade General?” Isakov asked.

“Yes, because if Powell does get Highway 281, all of our ribbon bridges to Mexico will be gone in short order, and even though it's a two-lane highway, that would be enough for a charge down the road and into Brownsville,” Malinsky noted.

Isakov nodded. “It will be done, Comrade General.”


0910 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:


General Petrov watched as two An-124s lumbered overhead, with Su-27s providing fighter escort. Supply parachutes blossomed as their cargoes were dropped, and the pallets drifted to earth underneath. So far, today had been mixed, with several aircraft getting in from Mexico, and most of those had gotten out, including General Lukin's aircraft, but one An-12 had been shot down, and an An-22 inbound from Cuba had been shot down as well: the big plane crashing into Loma Alta Lake after F-14s had gotten into the transport stream. Several other transports had also been destroyed further out to sea, and not just to fighters: one had reported being fired on by a SAM, and that meant an American ship doing the deed. And he knew full well there was nothing that could be done about that. Then one of his staff came to him, “Comrade General?”

“What is it?”

The staffer held out a message form. “From General Lukin: he says he's arrived safely in Monterrey, and should be in Mexico City in a few hours.”

“Excellent. First stop on the long way home. He's lucky-as are those who flew out with him.” Petrov commented.

“Yes, Comrade General. We've also gotten word from Havana: two Il-62s and two Tu-154s are en route: they're on a special assignment, with specific people to be evacuated on at least two of the aircraft,” the staffer reported.

Petrov looked at him. “What do you mean? Specific people?”

The staffer nodded. “Yes, Comrade General. Orders from Moscow. The Hall Government, and not just their cabinet, is to be evacuated to Cuba.”

“Of all the....Orders from Moscow?” Petrov asked.

“Yes, Comrade General.”

Petrov dismissed the man. So many in the pocket deserved to leave before the Americans arrived, and those very people who were last on his list were being bumped to the front of the line at Moscow's insistence. Not good: there were so many key personnel who needed to get out, along with wounded, and Moscow wants its “liberation government” out instead? If this is that Chekist bastard's idea, maybe, just maybe, there will be a reckoning for such things, even if he didn't live to see it.


0930 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment; U.S. 281, east of Santa Maria, Texas:


Colonel Herrera watched from the top of his command APC with his binoculars, scanning the town of Santa Maria. He noticed that the Americans were getting themselves organized again, and that they would soon be coming this way. Only this time, out in the open with not much cover, things would be different. Last time, his regiment had fought a delaying action and escaped with minimal losses. Now, his regiment was fully exposed, and American aircraft and helicopters would be out in force. Colonel Herrera turned to his Chief of Staff. “Well, now. They'll be coming for us again, and soon.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel. This position, though, is good. A dried-up creekbed with a small bridge, and the regimental engineers have wired it for demolition.” the chief replied.

“Not good enough, though,” Herrera replied. “I'd like it if this was wider, and there was another town.”

“I understand, Comrade Colonel,” the chief said. “Do you want outposts beyond the creekbed?”

“No. They may not have a chance to get back to our side,” Herrera said. “Where's Major Mureyev?”

The Soviet air-assault officer came up at the mention of his name. “Right here, Comrade Colonel.”

“This time, your tactic won't work here. The creekbed's too narrow, a bridging vehicle can replace that bridge easily, and there's not much in the way of cover.” Herrera noted.

“True, Comrade Colonel,” Murayev agreed. “But we do have a few more missile teams that can cover the bridge, and my troops can make life exciting for those at the bridge itself.”

“Only if the Americans don't send helicopters out in front, and whoever is running that brigade isn't going to be caught napping a second time,” Herrera said. “Be ready to fall back when I give the order.”

“Comrade Colonel, If I may....” Murayev's voice trailed off, then he yelled “Air attack! Helicopter gunships incoming!”

Herrera watched the sky: sure enough, four AH-1S Cobra gunships were coming in, and they had spotted his regiment's positions. “Take cover!” he yelled.

The Cobras from the 49th Armored Division's aviation brigade came in, and picked out the tanks and APCs of the 214th. They called in the target position, and maneuvered for TOW missile shots. Quickly, TOW missiles began firing, and within minutes, two dozen of his regiment's vehicles-tanks, APCs, engineer vehicles, and two of his 2S1 howitzers were all burning wrecks.

Herrera and the officers around him stood up, and shook themselves off. “They'll be back,” one of the staff said, and he had no reason to disagree.

Major Murayev spoke up, “Now what, Comrade Colonel?”

“We do the best we can. Make sure that bridge is rigged to blow. Wait until the Americans come close, then blow it in their faces. I'll have artillery drop some HE and smoke on the position, and fall back under cover of the artilery fire. That will cost them time as they deploy for an attack, and by the time they've done so, we've fallen back to the next position,” Herrera said.


0950 Hours: K-236; the Gulf of Mexico:


Captain Padorin watched the sonar display. Though K-236 had skirted the American amphibious force, the sonarmen had picked up other ships to the north and northeast. And he was concerned: that ASW group he'd tangled with earlier might still be around-and looking for blood. “Any identification?” Padorin asked the sonar operators.

The senior operator replied, “Nothing definite, but I'm sure at least one carrier is to the northeast. It sounds like John F. Kennedy, but I'm not entirely sure.”

Padorin frowned. “One carrier? What else is out there?”

“Escorts-several of them. At least one Spruance, maybe two, Comrade Captain,” the operator responded.

Padorn stepped out of the sonar room. He found his Starpom and Security Officer in the CCP, waiting. “Well, Comrades. We've stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“Comrade Captain?” Shelpin, the Security Officer, asked.

“We've dodged the amphibious group, only to find one of the carriers. And there's two more carrier groups out there as well,” Padorin said.

The officers in the CCP looked at each other. Three carriers? First the battleships, now this. Something to tell their children about-provided they lived, of course. Then the navigator asked Padorin, “Do you want their position so we can report it later?”

“By all means. I don't know when we'll be able to do so, but plot the estimated American position,” Padorin replied.

“Right away, Comrade Captain,” the navigator responded.

Padorin went over to the chart. “That places the amphibious force off both South Padre Island and Brazos Santiago Pass,” he said, pointing at the chart.

“They're blocking any way in,” the Starpom observed.

“Correct. And I'm not risking this boat on an extraction unless those ships move away-a hurricane is something we could use,” Padorin said, unknowingly echoing General Petrov ashore.

“Not much chance of that,” the navigator chimed in. “We're past peak hurricane season.”

Padorin nodded. “Right. Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters, and maintain speed, ten knots. Course, zero-nine-zero. Let's get away from the coast.”


1005 Hours: Port of Brownsville:


General Andreyev watched as another one of the warhead vans was loaded onto the Cherepovets. About bloody time. Whoever in the pocket wanted to use the dammed things ought to be skinned alive and left for the ants, he thought. He looked around for the 234th's air-defense officer. If American aircraft came over and noticed the activity, they might assume the freighter had just arrived, and would likely try and sink her right then and there at the dockside. It didn't take him long to find who he was looking for. “Major!”

“Yes, Comrade General?” the air-defense man replied.

“Keep a sharp watch for enemy aircraft,” Andreyev reminded the man. “I can't express that enough.”

“Understood, Comrade General.”

“Good. You've got your Shilkas and Strela-1Ms, and how many with shoulder-fired missiles?” Andreyev asked.

“As many as I could equip, Comrade General,” the major said.

“Excellent. Until that ship is loaded and on its way, we're responsible for defending it. Is that clear?” Andreyev reminded the major.

“Absolutely clear, Comrade General,” said the major.

“Good,” Andreyev said. He turned to Colonel Suslov, the 234th's regimental commander. “Suslov, any sign of our....other enemy?”

“None, Comrade General. I imagine they're wondering who it was that took the warheads. Also, they're probably got something more important on their minds-like saving their own skins.” the Colonel replied.

Andreyev nodded. “An interesting observation, Comrade Colonel.”

[Matt Wiser]

1020 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th GTD, Rio Grande Valley International Airport:


Captain Popov watched as the positions to the north of his regiment were pounded. American artillery fire rained HE and submunition rounds on the two regiments holding the northern edge of the airport, and only lifted to allow air strikes to go in. Those devilish A-10s, A-7s, Skyhawks, and Intruders came in with bombs, rockets, and where possible, cannon fire. Popov shook his head. How long ago was it that the situation was reversed? He'd been a Junior Lieutenant in 1985, and remembered his unit at the time-he'd been with an independent tank regiment in 28th Army then-doing the same thing to the Americans they'd faced-with MiG-27s, Su-25s, and Mi-24s wreaking havoc. How things change, he thought. Then he noticed Grushin coming up. “Ah, Grushin. Anything new?”

“No, Comrade Captain, nothing yet. Though our comrades to the north are getting a pounding,” said the Zampolit.

“You've been a front-line Zampolit, not one of those Party stooges in the rear; what's your take on all of this?” Popov asked.

“Comrade Captain, things are....different. When we came here, I was just as idealistic as the next one. Hoping we'd find a willing populace that would welcome the promise of Socialism and what it could do here, instead....” Grushin's voice trailed off.

“Instead, we acted like it was Germany in 1945, with rape, looting, pillage, and murder. Not to mention rounding up anyone who not only posed a threat, but anyone who even shot a hostile glance at us,” Popov remembered. “Not the way one wins over a civilian population to our side.”

“Indeed, Comrade Captain. And, as much as I hate to say it, their people responded as ours did in 1941, when the Hitlerites invaded the Rodina. Just as we fought for Mother Russia, they fought here for America.” Grushin said. “Party dogma to the contrary.”

The regiment's chief of staff came up. “Comrade Captain, message from division.”

“And?” Popov asked.

“The two advance regiments now report a ground attack. We're to be ready for any attempt to encircle or flank them.” the chief said.

Popov nodded. “All right. Have everyone in their vehicles or fighting positions. If the Americans do try a flanking attack on the 144th, we'll be ready. “

“Right away, Comrade Captain!” the chief said as he went to issue the order.

“Grushin,” Popov said.

“Yes, Comrade Captain?”

“I'll be in a tank. I want you in the command BTR. The staff is in their own vehicles. I don't want you doing what you did last year near Austin: going from vehicle to vehicle, hole to hole, talking to the men. No time for that now.” Popov said. “I know Krylov liked the idea, but this time's different.”

“Comrade Captain..” Grushin started to say.

“I know, but if anything happens to me, and the regiment's chief of staff, you're in command.”


1045 Hours: 324th Field Hospital, Brownsville, Texas:

Lieutenant Colonel Dherkov read the message again. He looked at his clerk. “So, the next notice is the evacuation order?”

The clerk nodded. “Yes, Comrade Colonel.” He'd taken down the message himself.

Dherkov swore. “All right, get Captain Chernova here. If she's in surgery, don't pull her out, though. If she's available, have her report to me.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel. Right away,” the clerk said. He went off to the gym-now the OR-to find the Captain, who the senior ranking female on the staff. A few minutes later, he came back, with the female officer, who had just finished an operation. “Captain Chernova, Comrade Colonel,” the clerk said.

“Galina, we need to talk. I want you to walk with me,” Dherkov said.

Chernova nodded. “Is this the evacuation order?” she said, as the two started to walk around what had been an elementary school prewar.

“No, but it's the final warning. The next message will be the actual order to leave.” Dherkov said. “I know you want to stay, and many of those with you want to stay as well, but this comes from the top.”

An ambulance pulled up near where they were talking. Even ten or twenty meters away, one could hear the screams from those inside. Doctors, nurses, and medics went to the vehicle-its engine still running-to unload the human cargo and offer what aid they could. She looked at the ambulance, then at Colonel Dherkov. “Comrade Colonel, it's scenes like those that make me want to stay. What little comfort we can give them, they need. What will happen to their morale if they find out all the nurses and female doctors have left?”

Dherkov looked at the same scene. As the first ambulance left, a second pulled up. This time, there wasn't much screaming, for these were burn cases. None of them could expect to live long outside a major burn center, and the airlift was their only hope. And that hope was shrinking with each passing hour. “I can tell you, it's worse if you stay, and fall into the hands of those maniacs in the 13th Cavalry-or the vengeful New Yorkers from the 42nd Infantry,” he said as those patients were tended to.

“I know, Comrade Colonel.” Chernova said. “Do we all have to leave?”

“The orders are firm on that, I'm afraid.” Dherkov said. “Nobody wants to take a chance on you-and the other women-falling into American hands.” She started to speak. “Yes, I know, the Americans say they treat all prisoners well, but remember what we did in Germany after a battle was over-or here, in 1985-86, for that matter..”

Chernova knew. Her grandfather had been an infantry colonel in Berlin during the final battle. He'd told her about how Soviet soldiers had treated German women-and German wounded as well-though Grandfather Sasha had made her promise not to tell anyone what he'd just told her. Not to mention her own experience in America in those early days. “I understand, Comrade Colonel.”

“Good. Galina, I hope you do. Personally, if it was up to me, I'd let you stay and take your chances. But that's out of my hands. And I'm responsible for you and the other female staff. I'd rather you all took your chances on the evacuation then with those lunatics when they get here-which may only be a couple more days.” Dherkov said.

Chernova nodded. “So do we fly out, or go to Mexico?”

“Mexico, almost certainly. There's too many people waiting for flights out, and not enough planes.”


1100 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suraykin glanced at the operations map. It was time, now. The 105th Guards Air Assault Division was being ground down more steadily than he'd thought, and despite the situation with 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle Division, it was obvious: the counterattack force had to go to the aid of the 105th. Suraykin turned to his chief of staff. “That's it, Golvoko. Move the counterattack force. Notify 38th Tank Division to move to the Highway 77-83 junction to relieve the 105th Guards Airborne. The 41st Independent Tank Regiment is under operational control of 38th Tanks for this operation.”

Golvoko nodded. “Right away, Comrade General.”

“How much in the way of supplies have we received from the supply drops?” Suraykin asked.

“Several tons: food, bottled water, ammunition-mostly small-arms, but some 122 artillery shells and 125 tank rounds,” Golvoko reported.

Suraykin looked at the map again. “Send what you can from that to the 105th: they've been hanging on for dear life since last night. Any vehicles returning from that supply run can bring out their wounded.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

General Suraykin turned to the operations officer, “Get me General Gordonov. I'll inform him personally.”

A couple minutes later, the operations officer handed Suraykin the phone. “General Gordonov, Comrade General.”

“Gordonov? This is General Suraykin. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Comrade General. However, the Americans are making it very hard to hear you: we've had to move division headquarters three times since last night,” Gordonov said, with the sound of artillery fire and small-arms fire in the background.

“Gordonov, the counterattack force is heading your way. They should be there in an hour or so.” Suraykin said.

“Thank you, Comrade General. Any longer, and the only ones holding here would be dead.” Gordonov replied.

“They'll also be bringing you some supplies-food, ammunition, and some medical supplies. And your wounded will be evacuated south.” Suraykin told the airborne general.

An explosion came over the line-a loud one. “Sorry about that, Comrade General. They've been dropping heavy stuff: one-five-five and two-oh-three all morning.” Gordonov said. “My wounded will come out?”

“That's right. Just hang on for one more hour, and 38th Tanks will be there. After that, there are no more reserves.” Suraykin said.

“Understood, Comrade General. We'll be here-those of us still alive, that is. And thank you again.” Gorodnov said.

“Good luck, Gordonov,” and with that, Suraykin hung up. He looked at the map again. “Has 38th Tanks begun to move?”

“They've begun to move out, Comrade General. The 41st is closer, though.” Golvoko said.

“Just hope the air force can help out-if they can't, that counterattack force will get mauled before they even reach the front.”


1120 Hours: Port of Brownsville:

Captain Romonov watched as the last warhead van was loaded into the Cherepovets' number four hold. With that, the ship's final cargo was secured. And it was time for the final voyage to begin. He turned to the freighter's first officer. “Start engines.” Then he went to the bridge wing and waved at the airborne troops who had guarded the warheads until loading was complete. He knew they were warheads of some type, but he didn't know exactly what. All he knew was that the warheads could not be allowed to fall into American hands.

Two tugs-operated by Soviet Navy personnel, edged the freighter's bow into the shipping channel, and the Cherepovets got underway. “All ahead one-third,” Romonov ordered.

“All ahead one-third, aye,” the quartermaster responded.

“Steady as he goes.”

“Steady as he goes, aye.”

As the freighter moved towards the Gulf, Romonov looked to starboard. He noticed a shipbreaking yard, and both Soviet and Cuban military personnel scavenging hulks for metal plates, or anything else that could be used to help shore up a bunker. Others, it appeared, were trying to build rafts, preferring to take their chances on the water than on shore. In their position, he didn't blame them at all. Though he'd prefer to take one of the remaining naval units out and face the U.S. Navy one final time, instead of risking a lingering, lonely death on the open water. Though he knew that wasn't very likely, given the fact that the Americans had mined the safe-passage channel through the Soviets' own minefields.

“Make turns for ten knots,” Romonov ordered.

“Ten knots, aye,” the quartermaster acknowledged.

“Captain?” the first officer asked. “Is that wise?”

“The sooner we've gotten to where we're headed, the better.” Romonov said.

The freighter moved down the waterway, and soon got to the entrance to Port Isabel's harbor. And Long Island soon appeared on their port side. The third officer, who was acting as navigator, looked up from his chart. “We're here.”

“Helm, ninety degrees to port.” Romonov ordered.

“Ninety degrees, aye.” the helmsman replied.

The Cherepovets swung until the ship was completely blocking the shipping channel. Both Port Isabel and Brownsville would be closed to shipping of any kind until the Cherepovets was cleared.. “Drop anchor,” Romonov ordered, “And open the valves, leave all watertight doors open. Engine-room staff topside.”

The first officer nodded, and then relayed the orders. The second officer came up from below. “All set, Comrade Captain.”

“Very well. Lower the boats, and all hands over the side.” Romonov said.

The abandon-ship drill went flawlessly, and only Romonov and the second officer remained aboard. The man showed Romonov the plunger. “Ready, Comrade Captain.”

Romonov pushed the plunger, and a muffled explosion sounded from below. Then the two officers jumped over the side and swam to one of the boats. As he was pulled into the boat, Romonov ordered, “Get to Port Isabel, now!”

As the boats headed to shore, everyone turned to watch. The Cherepovets settled down on an even keel, stern first. And she sank. Slowly, but surely. Until only her upperworks and cranes were above water.


1130 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th Guards Tank Division, Rio Grande Valley International Airport:


Captain Popov watched through his binoculars from the tank hatch. Though it wasn't a specialized command tank, it would have to do for his purposes. The tank commander had been wounded, and it had been easy to take over the vehicle, and now, it was his. But not for long, he knew. Popov saw the two regiments to the north under attack, and this time, it wasn't an air attack: the Americans were coming for them-tanks and mechanized infantry. Though his battered regiment was technically a flank guard, he knew that any counterattack would also involve his regiment, and thus was likely to be his last. His regiment's chief of staff came on the line. “Comrade Commander, division says to be ready to move within five minutes.”

“Understood,” Popov replied. He waved over to the BTR command vehicle, where his Zampolit was situated. And Grushin waved back. Popov waved him back, and Grushin knew it. It would be so easy to take out both vehicles, and leave the 8th GTR leaderless, and then wipe out the survivors at leisure.

Then the chief of staff came back. “We're to move. Forward.”

And Popov ordered the 8th Guards forward. He'd read about the British in the Crimean War, and that cavalry regiment that had charged headlong into Russian guns-and had been wiped out in the process. Now, his regiment was in a similar position, and was moving headlong into enemy armor. While the counterattack would be short, they would try anyway.

Artillery fire began to fall around the 8th Guards, but Popov paid it no heed. It was HE, not those irritating ICM rounds with those submunitions that could strip reactive armor off of tanks, or knock treads off. Or knock out an engine if there was a lucky hit to the tank deck. He reached for his radio: call signs were meaningless now, so he simply said, “Motor-Rifle troops ahead. Tanks to support.”

BMP-2s moved ahead of the T-80s, and they began searching out targets. Up ahead, they could see vehicles exploding in fireballs as the 144th MRR attempted its own counterattack, and its regimental guns began direct fire. Popov called for artillery fire ahead of his own unit, and the remaining 122-mm guns started to pump out shells. “All Dagger units, let's get them. Independent fires on contact,” Popov radioed.

Subunit commanders acknowledged, and T-80s began searching out their own targets and firing. Popov looked for a target, and found one: a Bradley. “Gunner, hard core. Bradley front!”

“Identified. Hard core loaded.”

“Fire.”

The big 125-mm gun roared, and the Bradley exploded. “Target destroyed!” the gunner shouted.

“Reload hard core,” Popov said. “Tank at eleven!”

The reload took its time, and as Popov watched, the American tank was laying its own gun on a BMP-2. That tank gun-a 120-mm, roared, and the BMP was just blown apart. The gunner shouted, “Hard core loaded! Target identified! Range one thousand.”

“Steady. And fire!” Popov shouted.

The T-80 fired, but the shot missed. Then the M-60A4 turned its turret, and Popov fired the T-80's smoke grenades, covering the tank in white smoke. Then Grushin came on the line, “We're hit! We're....” and the transmission stopped.

“Reload!” Popov shouted.

The driver moved the tank forward, and poked out of the smoke cloud. The tank was still there. And Popov's gunner tried to lay the gun on the American, but this time, the M-60A4 spoke first. And the 120-mm sabot round tore through the left side of the T-80, ripping into first the ammunition, then the crew compartment. Within two seconds, the T-80 exploded, but Popov and his crew never had a chance. They died as the tank fireballed around them. And their deaths preceded those of most of the 8th Guards Tank Regiment's survivors by minutes. The Soviet force was smashed, and the Americans began to push forward.


1155 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:


General Isakov had just finished talking with General Rybikov at 28th Army. The Rogachev Guards had been overwhelmed, and it looked like the 20th Guards Tank Division was suffering the same fate. He knew that this would mean that Suraykin's counterattack would have to go elsewhere, but he'd also have to notify Malinsky. He went to the small office-which had served a professor of some kind before the war, and found his general, who was having a small lunch. “Comrade General,” Isakov reported.

“Isakov. Do come in. I know it's not much, but I insist.” Malinsky said. Lunch was a can of fruit cocktail, some canned fish, and some bread, along with a bottle of water. And both knew that those on the front lines were lucky to get even that, given all of their supply issues. Malinsky noted the expression on his chef of staff's face. “What is it?”

Isakov sat down. Before he took a bite, he said, “20th Guards Tanks has been overwhelmed at the Rio Grande Valley Airport. Suraykin will have to divert most of his counterattack force to block the penetration.”

Malinsky looked at him. He had his own operations map in the office, for when he had to talk to Marshal Alekseyev. “Show me.”

Isakov did so. “The 7th Armored Division has punched a hole-that endangers both 28th Army and 4th Guards Tank Army. If the Americans realize it, they can put whatever follow-on forces they have, and get in behind both armies.”

“Anything new? The Air Force has been out.” Malinsky noted. He'd been talking with his air force representative often that morning.

“They do report some movement along Highways 77 and 281, but what, they're not entirely sure.” Isakov said.

Malinsky finished his fruit cocktail.”Get whatever air force assets you can, and get them up there. Notify Suraykin to get 38th Tanks up to a blocking position, and have 28th Army get what they can: the Rogachev Guards were their last reserves, correct?”

“Their last reserve division, Comrade General.” Isakov said. “They do have an independent motor-rifle regiment available, and they can commit their remaining engineers as infantry, if necessary. As can the 4th GTA.”

“Then have them do so.” Malinsky said.

“And the 105th Guards Airborne?” Isakov asked.

“They'll have to make do with a single tank regiment, instead of a reinforced division,” Malinsky noted. “And as long as that amphibious force is off the coast, there's no way we'll get the 47th Tank Brigade or the 76th Guards Air Assault Division.”

Isakov nodded. “Understood, Comrade General.” He got up to leave.

“Isakov,” Malinsky said.

“Yes, Comrade General?”

“Select two or three officers from among the staff: men who are only sons, or have the most children at home. Have copies made of all of our documents about the last few weeks-especially the medical and supply situations, and designate them as couriers. Get priority passes for them on the airlift, or failing that, into Mexico. And see to it that all the staff have a final chance to write home. They'll also take the private letters out with them.” Malinsky said.

[Matt Wiser]

And a extremely bad day is about to become catastrophic for the Soviets and their lackeys in the Pocket:


1205 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Major Sorokin knocked on the door of Marshal Alekseyev's office. “Come in,” he heard. Entering, he found the Marshal having lunch. Alekseyev was having some soup-likely from a can, and some canned fruit. “Major, come and have a seat. Have you eaten?”

“Thank you, Marshal,” Sorokin replied as he sat down. “I suppose this is my last meal in America-or maybe, if I don't get out of here, my last meal, period.”

“Don't worry about the latter. You're going to Mexico instead of Cuba, first,” Alekseyev said. “General Chibisov has arranged transport from Monterrey to Mexico City for you. Just get on a plane for Monterrey.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. That, you don't have to worry about,” Sorokin said.

“Good. Now, you do know your mission, once you arrive in Moscow?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. First, to brief Minister Sergetov, and the other candidate members of the Politburo. Especially Gorbachev and Yeltsin. After that, Marshal Akrohmayev, and both the Chief of the General Staff, General Grachev, and his deputy, General Moisyev.”Sorokin replied.

“Very good, Major,” Alekseyev said. “If the two generals so enable you, also brief the commanders of both the Moscow and Leningrad Military Districts. There's been quite a few officers getting reassigned to Leningrad because the climate in Moscow....has, shall we say, gotten unhealthy.”

“Shall I mention those two officers to General Grachev?” Sorokin asked.

“Use your own judgment, Major.” Alekseyev said. “But when you brief the candidate Politburo members, emphasize that we were promised full support, and have gotten very little. And show those photographs and videotapes to them. I imagine, from what Marshal Akhromayev has said to me, that the Defense Council isn't going to be interested, though some of the full members of the Politburo may be.”

Sorokin checked his briefcase. Yes, everything was there. Including the private letters that staff officers had entrusted to him. “Do you have anything for your family, Comrade Marshal?”

Alekseyev smiled. He pulled out a letter to his wife, and separate letters for his daughters. “Just these. All are in Leningrad: my wife is visiting her sister, and both daughters are in university there.”

Sorokin put those in the briefcase. He looked at the wall clock. “Comrade Marshal, if I'm to leave today....”

Marshal Alekseyev stood up. “Go, then. When you get to Moscow, I don't care how, but you must show that we could have ended this a year ago, and ended this war with our honor intact-though not much else. And who knows how many would still be alive if we had done so?”

Major Sorokin got up to leave. “I will, Comrade Marshal. And may I say, it has been an honor to be under your command.” And he saluted the Marshal for the last time.

Alekseyev returned it. “Good luck, Major. And give my regards to the Rodina.”


1220 Hours: 159th IAP, over the Gulf of Mexico:


Major Dimitri Volkov scanned his radar, then scanned visually to his left and right. His wingman was in position, as was the other element. His flight of four Su-27s had left San Antonio de Los Banos in Cuba, escorting several Il-62s and Il-76s into the Brownsville pocket. And from his past escort flights, he knew the Americans were waiting for him. Every mission, the Americans had been out in force: land-based F-15s, and carrier-based F-14s and F/A-18s. And more often than not, the escorts had been diverted from their charges, and the American fighters had gotten into the transport stream and wreaked havoc. In one fight, he'd been distracted by a pack of F-15s only a hundred kilometers from the coast, only to have four Tomcats get in behind him, and knock down four transports and another pair of escorting fighters. And to add insult to injury, not only did the F-14s get away, but the F-15s had played with him enough that he'd never managed to get a shot off.

Now, the group of transports and their escorts were still an hour away from Brownsville, though they'd passed the halfway mark. Due to the range limit, the Su-27s could only carry six AAMs: four R-27 missiles (two each radar and heat-seeking) and two R-73s on the wingtips. And, in a touch of irony, he'd been advised that he only had fuel for fifteen minutes' combat, before he'd have to break off and head back to Cuba, or make a one-way down to either Monterrey or Victoria in Mexico. His intelligence officer had even noted that the Americans might have had that pattern identified, and force the Soviet fighters into combat early, then force them to break off, and then go for the transports.

So far, the flight across the Gulf had been uneventful. On some days, it had gone exactly that, but on others....he and his fellow fighter pilots had been fighting for their lives, and had been helpless to protect the transports. Then a “bing-bing” sounded in his headset, while his RWR display noted a radar at his one o'clock position.

“Falcon leader, this is Falcon three. Radar at one o'clock.” his second element leader reported.

“Copy three, I see it.” Volkov replied. “Either an E-2 or E-3. They know we're here now.”

The Soviet flight continued on ahead. With no A-50 AWACS in-theater to give them the big picture-the only two left in North America were in Cuba, providing air defense coverage for the island-they'd have to use their own radars to pick up threats. And soon enough, there were: eight targets on the scope. “Falcon flight, Falcon leader: Crows at twelve o'clock!” (crows: Soviet slang for enemy fighters). Then his RWR lit up with a missile lock. That meant F-14s and Phoenix missiles! “Break!”

The Su-27s broke away, and both Volkov and his wingman were able to evade. Three and Four, though, were not so lucky: Three took a Phoenix missile that blew his tail apart, and the big Sukhoi tumbled across the sky in flames. There was no parachute. Four, though, didn't have the chance to evade: another Phoenix struck him nearly head-on, and blew the cockpit apart. His plane, too, tumbled out of the sky.

“Two, are you with me?” Volkov called as he pulled out of the maneuver.

“Leader, I'm right with you!” his wingman called.

“Follow me in, Two,” Volkov replied. And both Su-27s charged ahead to meet the incoming American fighters. As they did so, Volkov looked back: two Il-62s suddenly blew apart-with missile trails betraying their killers. More F-14s had taken Phoenix shots, and had scored. Then Volkov saw a sight that surprised him. As the Su-27s closed with the Tomcats, he saw two small fighters fly right past his Sukhoi. Volkov thought his eyes were playing tricks, but his wingman called it as well.

“Leader, Two. Those were F-8s!”

Crusaders? Where did those antiques come from? Then he remembered the intelligence briefing: an older American carrier from the Vietnam era had been reactivated, along with F-8s from storage, and that ship was now believed to be in the Gulf of Mexico. Now, seeing those F-8s verified that. Then Volkov's threat receiver lit up again. “Break!”

Two Phoenix missiles came in, and they barely missed his Su-27. Two, though, was not so fortunate, for another pair of Phoenixes blew his aircraft to pieces. Don't grieve, that comes later. If there is a later, Volkov knew. Then a cry came from the transports: “Fighters in the transport stream!”

Volkov finished his turn, and saw the F-8s had gotten into the transports. One, then two, Il-76s took Sidewinder shots and fell out of the sky, burning. Enraged, he tried to lock up one of the Crusaders, but ignored his RWR again as it buzzed in his headset. Only when a missile flew past him did he respond, and saw two F-14s on his tail. He tried turning inside and to the left, but it was too late: another missile-probably a Sparrow-was fired, and tracked to his Sukhoi. The explosion blew the left wing off, and by reflex, Volkov fired his K-36D ejection seat.

Major Volkov was hanging in his parachute, and he had a seat to the massacre. Of eight transports in this group, six of them fell to American fighters. Only a pair of Il-76s made it. And as he descended to the water, his life raft dangling below him, he wondered if someone would find him before the sharks did.


1245 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, U.S. 281, east of Santa Maria, Texas:


Colonel Herrera watched as the Americans deployed to attack his previous position. Only a few Soviet air-assault troops waited at the small bridge, and as the lead American vehicles approached, they blew the bridge. He watched as the Soviets tried to get away in their captured pickup trucks, but a hail of fire from the Americans cut down the Soviets and blew the two trucks apart. But he'd accomplished his mission, for the Americans stopped, and a few minutes later, watched as engineers came up to check the bridge foundations for booby traps, and began checking for mines. The colonel smiled. That would delay the Americans, since they wanted this road, for an hour or so. He picked up his radio. “Sparrow, this is Vulture. Target the bridge.”

His artillery battalion responded. Though they'd lost a couple of their 2S1s to an American helicopter attack, the 214th still had twenty-two of the guns left. And a battery of those guns began hurling shells at the bridge. Shells dropped near the Americans, and they took cover. A couple minutes' worth of firing was all that was needed, and that suit his purposes perfectly. Herrera called the artillery off, and they began to pull back-if that American brigade was alert, their Firefinder radars would be tracking the Cuban shells, and American counter-battery fire would be coming in short order. And sure enough, 155 shells began falling. Most of the Cuban artillerymen and their vehicles got away, but one ammo truck took a direct hit, and its cargo detonated. The truck disintegrated, along with its crew, in a cloud of smoke and flame. And a 2S1 took a near miss and threw a track. The crew got out, hopped another vehicle, and picked up a ride out of there.

Colonel Herrera watched as the Americans picked themselves up, and tended their wounded, while others got back to work. Still, it would take a while to make sure the area was safe before a bridging vehicle arrived, and that was enough. He turned to his deputy. “Fall back to Position Delta.”


1310 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division, Harlingen, Texas:

General Gordonov and his chief of staff looked out the window of their latest headquarters. It had been, of all places, a auto-service center before the war, and it offered a view down Highways 77-83. That, and the fact that it was right next to the freeway, a convenient escape route, should that be necessary, had appealed to the General. But something else was on his mind: where are the tanks? General Suraykin had promised him reinforcements by noon, and now, it was after 1300. “Get on the phone to Army headquarters, and find out where those dammed tanks are!” he thundered.

“Right away, Comrade General,” the chief replied. But before the chief could make the call, a shout came from outside. “Tanks to the south!”

Gordonov went to one of the open garage bays. Yes, he could see tanks approaching. And a sigh of relief came from him as they revealed themselves as T-80s. He turned to the chief of staff. “Inform Army headquarters that the reinforcements have arrived.”

“Yes, Comrade General!” the chief responded. The lead tank rolled up to the building, and an armor Colonel got out.

“I'm looking for General Gordonov,” the tanker said.

“You've found him,” Gordonov said as he came out. His battle dress was dusty and greasy, as was his blue beret. And an AKSU-74 carbine hung by his side. “You must be 38th Tanks?”

“No, Colonel Arkady Chesnikov, 41st Independent Tank Regiment.” the tanker replied.

“Where's 38th Tanks?” Gordonov asked.

“Comrade General, don't ask me. All I know was that I was to move in support of your division.” Chesnikov said.

“Comrade General, I have Army Headquarters on the line,” the chief of staff said.

“Wait here,” Gordonov asked. “I have to speak with Army on this.”

The tanker nodded as Gordonov went to the phone. Before could speak, he heard General Suraykin's voice. “Gordonov, glad to hear you're still fighting.”

“Comrade General, so am I. The lead regiment of reinforcements has arrived: when can I count on 38th Tanks arriving?”

“You can't.” Suraykin replied. “Get to your map, Gordonov. I need to tell you this in this way.”

Gordonov walked over to the operations map. “Yes, Comrade General?”

“All right. The 20th Tanks got chewed up at the Rio Grande Valley Airport to your northeast,” Suraykin said. “And I mean chewed up. They're no longer responding, and I fear they have done their full measure of duty.”

Gordonov gulped involuntarily. He knew full well what that meant. The 20th Tanks had been effectively destroyed. And that meant a hole in the Army's right flank. “I see, Comrade General.”

“I'm glad you do. I've had to send 38th Tanks to fill the gap. The 41st Tank Regiment and some engineering troops-who can fight as infantry if needed-are all you're able to get, Gordonov.” Suraykin told the airborne general.

“It may not be enough, Comrade General,” Gordonov replied.

“I know, and I don't like it any more than you do,” Suraykin said. “But that's the way it is.”

“Understood, Comrade General.”

“There's some good news, though: the 41st has brought some supplies to you. And you can use the supply trucks to evacuate your wounded.” Suraykin said.

“Glad to hear that, Comrade General.”

“Good. Do the best you can, and Front Headquarters is working to get additional air force action in support of you. And be aggressive with the 41st: they're under your command, as of now.” said the Army commander.

Gordonov looked at the armor colonel. “Thank you, Comrade General.”

“Good luck,” and then Suraykin hung up.

The airborne general looked at the tanker. “General Suraykin says your regiment is now under my command. Push north up the highway, to the 77-83 junction, and just crash into the Americans.”

“We'll give them a pasting, you can bet on that,” Colonel Chesnikov replied. “Where do you want your supplies?”

“Take one-third to the regiment holding the junction. The rest, turn it over to my supply officer.”

“We'll do that.” And the armor officer went out, mounted his tank, and led his regiment forward. And he did surprise the Americans, and pushed the 29th Division back a kilometer or so. That charge by the 41st gave the 105th Guards some breathing room.


1330 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

Major Sorokin got out of the UAZ-469 jeep that brought him to the airlift hub. He had his briefcase chained to his wrist, which identified him as a special courier. He showed his pass to the officer from the Commandant's Service who was screening those hoping to get on an aircraft, and that pass enabled him to go to the head of the line, ahead of wounded and even most of the specialists awaiting evacuation. Taking a look around, he noticed several wrecked aircraft that had been shoved aside, while another plane, this one an Il-76, was taking on some of the stretcher cases. Then a commotion got his attention: two officers had tried to bring a looted car with them, and a search had revealed not only some looted goods, but one officer's very unwilling American mistress. The two men, both Army officers, had their epaulets torn off their shoulders before both were taken away and summarily shot. Another scene caught his as he looked back. A doctor was screening wounded men, checking for self-inflicted wounds. To Sorokin's surprise, three officers-either Air Force or Voyska PVO-were determined to have such wounds. The three were also taken away and shot. Then the first aircraft of the afternoon came in. Two Il-62s, a Tu-154 coming in from Cuba, and four An-24s and -26s, presumably from Mexico, came in to land. Though the passenger aircraft couldn't carry cargo in, they were needed to fly people out.

The Major watched as the aircraft taxied up, and he noticed that one of the Il-62s and the Tu-154 taxied to another section of the ramp area, away from the other aircraft. But an An-26 came up near his location, and dropped its stern ramp. Several pallets with food and medical supplies were unloaded, and an Air Force Colonel came over to him. “Major, that's your aircraft.”

“Thank you, Comrade Colonel. What's up with those two over there?” Sorokin asked.

The Air Force man didn't hide his contempt. “The Chekists wanted the collaborationist government flown out: those two planes are doing just that.”

“How many of us could they have flown out instead?” asked Sorokin.

“Total? About three hundred. Specialists or walking wounded,” the air force man spat.

Sorokin nodded. One more thing to include in his report to both Marshal Akhromayev and Minister Sergetov. “This one's going to Monterrey?”

“That's right, Major. Now get aboard.” the SAF Colonel said, shoving him towards the aircraft.

Besides Major Sorokin, thirty others-either specialists or those designated as couriers-got aboard, and after that, several walking wounded. One man, Sorokin noticed, had both shoulders broken, while another limped aboard on crutches with a broken leg. All were clearly not going to heal up in time before the battle ended. Just after the last man was aboard, the stern ramp closed, and the pilot gunned the engines. Sorokin and the others were pushed into their seats as the plane took off and almost as fast as it took off, leveled out.

Major Sorokin asked the loadmaster, “ Low level to Monterrey?”

The loadmaster noticed Sorokin's airborne insignia. “That's right. Be glad you're not jumping!”

“What about enemy fighters?” Sorokin asked.

“If they find us, we're dead no matter what. So far, they haven't yet,” the loadmaster said.

And they did not. An hour later, the An-26 landed at Monterrey Airport, and those aboard were glad to a man to be out of the pocket. Sorokin, after that experience, would consider 3 October to be his second birthday for the rest of his life.


1355 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev came into the Operations Room. He found that a brief nap, even one for only a half-hour or so, refreshed him and got him through a rough afternoon-and rough afternoons had been all too frequent these past days. The Marshal went over to the operations map and had a look for himself. As he was perusing the map, General Chibisov came over. “Ah, Pavel Pavlovitch,” Alekseyev said, “What do we have right now?”

“Good afternoon, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied. “Right now, things are in flux. So far, the left flank is holding-if only just-though both Third Shock and the Cubans will have to pull back before too long. That also means Eighth Guards Army will need to do so as well. The Cuban 1st Army is giving ground, mainly because 28th Army has had to; their counterattack failed, and the Rogachev Guards, for all intents and purposes, has been destroyed. The same goes for 20th Tanks from 4th Guards Tank Army as well. Suraykin had to divert most of his remaining counterattack force to deal with that penetration, and only an independent tank regiment was able to reinforced the 105th Guards Airborne. They did, however, take the Americans by surprise, and push them back-oh, only a kilometer or so, but enough to get the 105th time to reorganize.”

“And at sea?” Alekseyev asked.

“Admiral Gordikov says there are now three American carriers in the Gulf of Mexico, and four battleships, along with a heavy cruiser. The latter ships are accompanying the amphibious force.” Chibisov reported.

“Any sign of an amphibious landing?”

“Not yet, Comrade Marshal. Though one can be expected at any time. If they don't land this afternoon, we'll probably get one at first light tomorrow.” Chibisov pointed out.

“Hmm,” Alekseyev noted. “The Cherepovets?”

“Scuttled as per orders, Comrade Marshal. The wreck now blocks the shipping channel into the Port of Brownsville, and the smaller channel into Port Isabel.” said Chibisov.

“Good. I won't inform Moscow of the ship's final cargo until the very end,” Alekseyev said. “What of the remaining naval assets here?”

“Gordikov will order them scuttled. Though there's still a few missile boats and corvettes at South Padre Island-and their crews might decide to either go out in a death-and-glory ride, or make a run for Mexico.” Chibisov said.

Alekseyev grunted. If he was a sailor in those circumstances, he, too, might want to face his enemies one last time, even if it meant getting sunk. “Frankly, I don't blame them, Pavel Pavlovitch. Now, the airlift status?”

“About half of the scheduled flights from Cuba have come in. Due more to luck than anything else, Petrov says. There's considerable fighter activity over the Gulf, the pilots report.”

“What about the flights from Mexico?” Alekseyev asked.

“Most of those have come in, but of those that do, only half make it back to their fields. There, too, is a lot of fighter activity on that portion of the airlift.” Chibisov reported.

“And Belgin's bridges?”

Chibisov pointed to the ribbon bridges over the Rio Grande. “So far, we've lost one to enemy ground action, and two have been bombed, but repairs are underway. Most traffic has been southbound, as you'd expect.”

Alekseyev paused, digesting the information so far. “The air force?”

“So far, they're doing their best, but the air force says they'd rather not make promises they can't keep,” Chibisov said. “More aircraft have been over the front today, and there has been fighter cover on this side of the airlift. They'll try again tomorrow, but they're running low on serviceable aircraft and on pilots.”

“Your thoughts, Pavel Pavlovitch?” Alekseyev asked.

“We've got a day, maybe two. An outside chance on three, but I'm not willing to go that far,” Chibisov commented. “Though if they do mount a combined airborne and amphibious operation, we're finished no matter what happens at the front line.”

[Matt Wiser]

1405 Hours: K-236, the Gulf of Mexico.


“Periscope depth, Comrades. Let's get that contact report off to Caribbean Squadron.”

The helm and planesmen responded to Captain Padorin's command. The K-236 moved to periscope depth, and the scope was raised. And the Starpom took a look. “No contacts. Scope clear.”

“Down scope, and raise the antenna.” Padorin ordered.

The antenna was raised, and the communications officer had the message ready to send. It went out quickly, and a brief acknowledgment followed. After decoding, the communications man brought it to the Captain.

“So, they still want us near the coast?” Padorin growled. He went to the chart. One carrier group had been plotted, along with the amphibious force, but he knew that there were two more carrier groups out there, and in addition, that ASW group he'd tangled with earlier.

“Someone's still not giving up on extraction,” the Starpom noted.

“Yes, and that someone's in Moscow,” Padorin said.

Shelpin, the KGB Security Officer, noted, “I don't know if that came from Dzhernisky Square, or the Navy, but I'd bet on the former.”

Padorin and the Starpom looked at the Security Officer. “Chances are, you're right,” Padorin said. He looked at the chart. They were still a hundred kilometers off the coast, and close enough to make a dash to either pickup point. If the Americans cooperated, however. If not....

“Comrade Captain, may I suggest a figure-eight patrol pattern here?” the Starpom asked. “Close enough to dash for the coast if we can, but if that's not possible, we can make a run for deep water. And do it fast.”

Padorin looked at Shelpin and the Navigator. “Thoughts?”

“Sensible enough. Though I'd rather not get too close to the shore if one can help it.” Shelpin said.

“I agree, Comrade Captain,” replied the navigator.

“Very well. Make one final periscope search, if you please, Shelpin.”

Shelpin went to the scope, and it came up. He made a sweep. “No contacts...wait. There's a life raft at two-eight-zero degrees.”

Padorin went to the scope to have a look for himself. “Ours or theirs?”

“No way to tell, Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied.

Padorin looked again. “Rescue party to the torpedo room. Surface, and get whoever's in that raft aboard. I don't care if it's an American or one of ours. Once the party's back in the torpedo room, take us down.”

K-236 surfaced, and the Rescue Party went into action. They noticed the raft's occupant was a Soviet pilot, and he quickly swam to the submarine. The sailors took him below, and Padorin quickly snapped orders, “Dive. Make your depth two hundred meters. Make turns for ten knots.”


1420 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281:


Colonel Herrera watched again as the Americans advanced. This time, though, he'd have to make a stand for a while. For two kilometers to his rear was F.M. 506, and that road led to a ribbon bridge across the Rio Grande. Colonel Herrera knew that the Americans would love to have a bridge-even a ribbon bridge-across the river, and he knew that this time, he'd have to stand and fight. This time, though, besides the Soviet air-assault troopers and the remnants of the Santa Maria garrison, he had other reinforcements. To his surprise, two battalions of Mexicans had crossed the bridge, and their commander had offered his men. Though the Mexicans were poorly equipped, with old T-54s and BTR-152s, not to mention old WW II ZIS-3 76-mm guns, Herrera found that these Mexicans wanted to fight. And he knew exactly what to do with them.

“All right, Comrades, here's how we're going to do this,” he said to his officers: Cuban, Soviet, and Mexican. “I want the Mexican battalions here, just to our west. Set up along the road, and let the Yanquis come to you.”

The Mexican commander nodded. Despite his old equipment, there was no denying that his men wanted to fight. The last thing they wanted was Norteamericanos on their soil for the first time since 1916-17.

Herrera went on, “Now, I want the Soviets here, just west of the F.M. 506. Have your anti-armor weapons ready. Second battalion will be right behind you, and I'll have the motor-rifle battalion, First Battalion, and what's left of Third ready to support.”

Heads nodded. “Now, artillery,” Herrera went on. “Fire in support, but don't stay in place for very long. That Firefinder radar's out there, and there's no way for us to counter it. Fire a few rounds, then relocate. As for engineering support, there's no time for minefields, but give the ribbon bridge people whatever help you can. Hopefully, we'll be here for an hour or two, but don't get comfortable. Chances are, we'll have to fall back sooner or later. Any questions?”

The commander of Second Battalion raised his hand. “What about a counterattack?”

“If it looks feasible, I'll give the order. But we'll lose more coming out into the open than if we let them come to us. Our mission is to delay, remember that. Dead tankers can't delay the enemy, that's for sure.” Herrera reminded his commanders. “Anything else?” There wasn't. “All right. Get in position, and wait. I'm sure we won't have too long in that regard.”


1435 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suraykin stared at his operations map. So far, the 105th Guards Airborne had made use of the 41st Tank Regiment, and so far, they had done their job well. The Americans had been pushed back, and that gave the 105th time to regroup, absorb its new supplies-such as they were-and evacuate the division's wounded. The 52nd Tanks was also holding, along with the 6th Guards Motor-Rifle, but they, too would soon be in need of help, and Suraykin knew full well they wouldn't get any. On the right, 24th Tanks was in the same condition, but was still hanging on, if only just. And much to his disgust, he'd had to commit 38th Tanks to plug the gap at the Rio Grande Valley airport, and so far, they'd held off the 7th Armored Division's efforts-though the neighboring 28th Army wasn't faring so well. He turned to General Golikov, his chief of staff. “If 28th Army's left flank goes, we'll have to order 38th Tanks to pull back, otherwise...”

“Otherwise,” Golikov finished for his general, “they'll have an open flank, and we could be rolled up.”

Suraykin nodded. “Exactly. All of our reserves are committed, and this is what I was afraid of.”

Golikov looked at the map again. “As was I, Comrade General.”

“I know. And now, if someone goes, there's not much we can do about it, except fall back everywhere. And that means as we do pull back, we'll be exposed to American aircraft and attack helicopters. And they can turn an orderly withdrawal into a massacre.” Suraykin reminded his chief of staff.

“Yes, Comrade General,” agreed Golikov. “We've had several of those since 1987,”

“Too many,” Suraykin said. “Now, get all of our remaining nonessential rear-services troops. They've got small arms, but find whatever antitank weapons you can, and deploy them not just along the freeway, but behind 38th Tanks as well. It's not much, but there's little else left.”

Golikov nodded. He knew full well that if it came to it, those rear-services troops would face American armor. And in all likelihood, they'd be brushed aside like so many flies. “Comrade General, if it comes to it, those men don't stand a chance.”

“I know, Golikov. I know. But we have no choice. Issue the order.” Suraykin told the chief of staff.

“Immediately, Comrade General.”


1450 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:


Captain Padorin checked the plot. Yes, the Americans were still there, and blocking the way to the coast. His sonarmen had counted not just one ASW group, but there appeared to be another, not to mention the escorts for the amphibious force that was keeping him from any rendezvous with whoever Moscow wanted evacuated. Padorn looked at Shelpin, who was serving as officer of the watch. “I'm headed to sick bay to see about our guest. You have the con,”

“Aye, Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. As he left, Padorin thought, he may be KGB, but he's a born submariner. Padorin went to sick bay, not far from the CCP, and found the boat's medical officer coming out of his small treatment room (a cubicle would have been a more apt description). “Doctor?”

“He's going to be fine. A dislocated shoulder from his ejection, and some facial lacerations, but other than that, he's in good shape.” Captain 3rd Rank Pavel Noskov said.

“Can I visit him?” Padorin asked. “I'd like to know what happened.”

“Of course, Comrade Captain.” Noskov said. He took the captain into the small treatment room, where a corpsman was cleaning up. The pilot was still sitting on the examination table. “Major.”

“Doctor.” Major Volkov said. Then he noticed the other officer. “And you are?”

“I'm Captain Padorin. Welcome aboard K-236.” he said, putting out his hand. “Major...?

“Volkov, 159th IAP. Thank you, Comrade Captain,” Volkov said. “Glad you were here. I thought I was shark bait for sure.”

“Anything to help our Air Force comrades,” Padorin said. “What happened?”

“I was escorting transports into Brownsville. American carrier-based fighters jumped us. All four fighters-and six of eight transports, went down.” Volkov recounted.

“Did any others bail out?” Padorin asked.

“No, Comrade Captain. I was the only one,” Volkov said.

Padorin nodded sympathetically. “I wish we could go after the carriers, but we have another mission.”

“We all have our missions, Comrade Captain.” replied Volkov. “Is there any way to report on that massacre I saw?”

“Later tonight, we'll be able to listen for messages again, and send any out. I'll appreciate anything you have.”

“Thank you, Comrade Captain. Hope you don't mind having a passenger for a while.”


1500 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev went to the phone. It was time for another conference call with the Defense Council in Moscow. And he knew that this time, it might just be the last. Malinsky had informed him of the need to put all nonessential rear-services troops in as ad hoc infantry, and Alekseyev had agreed. He'd ordered the same thing for those under his own command to be prepared on one hours' notice to be sent to the front. But there had been a little bit of good news, as the Air Force had increased its activity: not only were there more ground-attack aircraft, but also fighters from Mexican fields to assist in covering the airlift. So far, they'd helped out, but it wasn't enough. His own Air Force commander had told Alekseyev that he was running low on serviceable aircraft, and though there were pilots available, there weren't enough. And General Dudorov had even benefited: several MiG-25R missions had been flown over the front, and he'd had his first aerial photographs in days-though they had been air-dropped in. Now, the Defense Council was waiting on his report. “Comrade Marshal, the call has gone through: the Defense Council is on the line,” his communications man said.

“Marshal, are you there?” General Secretary Chibrikov asked.

“I am, Comrade General Secretary,” Alekseyev replied.

“Good. How goes it today?”

“So far, Comrade General Secretary, we're holding. Though we've had an enemy penetration to the east-at the Rio Grande Valley Airport in Harlingen, it's been contained. For the moment, that is.” Alekseyev reported.

“How bad was the penetration?” Marshal Akhromayev asked. He already knew from a call that General Chibisov had taken, briefing him on the day's developments.

“So far, it's manageable, Comrade Minister. However, the losses were serious: both the 120th Guards Motor-Rifles and 20th Tank Divisions were destroyed, for all intents and purposes. The 28th Army has taken a beating, as has 4th Guards Tank Army.” Alekseyev said.

There was silence on the other end. The members of the council were digesting the news that one of the Soviet Army's premier divisions had been destroyed. “Are you sure, Comrade Marshal?” Chibrikov asked.

“Comrade General Secretary, so far, there's nothing from any sub-unit of the 120th. The Rogachev Guards has given everything they had in their duty to the Rodina.” Alekseyev said gravely.

“I see. Their sacrifices will be long remembered,” Chibrikov said.

Then another and familiar voice came on the line. “Marshal, this is Chairman Kosov.”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman?”

“I would like to know when the Hall government will be leaving. They want to get to Moscow eventually, even if their first stop is Havana.” the KGB Chairman reminded Alekseyev.

“Comrade Chairman,” Alekseyev said, choosing his words carefully. “President Hall and his cabinet have not left, but their advance echelon has. About half of their staff has left this afternoon, and should be arriving in Cuba later today or this evening.”

“Good, Marshal. That's very good news indeed. When will the rest leave?” Kosov asked.

“Comrade Chairman, as you know, the airlift stops at dusk,” Alekseyev reminded his listeners. “They'll likely leave in the morning.”

“Thank you, Marshal. Foreign Minister Tumansky will be pleased as well to hear this.” Kosov said.

Marshal Akhromayev spoke up next. “What about the American amphibious threat? The GRU says there's a strong amphibious force in the Gulf.”

“Comrade Marshal, they've already shown themselves. There has been shore bombardment, even by battleship guns, and a U.S. Marine helicopter assault has seized Brazos Island,” Alekseyev reported. “They probably won't land today, but if they do, it'll be tomorrow sometime.”

“And your plans if they do land?” Akhromayev asked.

“I've positioned the last reserves available: 76th Guards Air Assault Division and 47th Tank Brigade. They're waiting outside the range of naval gunfire, and will meet the enemy in a meeting engagement when they do land. Any landing can be contained in that case,” Alekseyev said.

“Good, Marshal,” the Defense Minister replied.

“There's one thing, however, that can finish us, and quickly.” Alekseyev said.

Chibrikov cut in. “And that is, Marshal?”

“If, and I do mean if, the Americans coordinate an airborne or heliborne assault in coordination with the Marine landing or landings. If they do that, no matter what happens elsewhere, we're finished. And Comrade General Secretary, there's no way around that.” Alekseyev said.

Pugo, the MVD chief, chimed in. “And why haven't they done that?”

“Comrade Minister, it could be that they're saving the 82nd Airborne and 101st Air Assault Divisions for urban combat-here in Brownsville, and across the border in cities like Matamoros or Reynosa,” Alekseyev said. “However, it could be that General Powell is reluctant to risk the lives of two elite U.S. Army divisions in a risky operation. If Schwartzkopf was in command, he'd be more willing to do so.”

“You mean Powell may be saving those divisions for an invasion of Mexico?” Kosov asked.

“That is correct.” Alekseyev commented.

“Marshal, you will continue to fight, and fight. When enough ships are assembled in Cuba, the Navy will mount one supreme effort to supply you fully. And they will do so over the winter as well. In the spring, our armies in Canada will push south, and they will, I am sure, bring about final victory. We won't bother you any further today. You have a battle to fight and win. Good luck,” and with that, and without waiting for a response from Alekseyev, the connection was ended.

“Final victory...More useless blather.” Alekseyev commented.

“Why do I feel like it's 1945?” Chibisov asked. “Only this time, we're the Germans with a leader who refuses to see what's happening.”

“Not just the General Secretary,” Colonel Sergetov commented. “From what my father has said, it's the bulk of the Defense Council and most of the full Politburo members. Only the Defense Minister and the Minister of Agriculture-who sits on the full Politburo, see reason.”

Alekseyev thought for a moment. “And these are the people who got us into this mess! Sorokin will have his hands full when he gets to Moscow.”


1520 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281:


“Comrade Colonel,” Herrera's chief of staff said, “They're coming.”

Herrera nodded, and put his head out the top hatch of his command BTR. He scanned the horizon with binoculars, looking north along the highway, and he could see the lead American vehicles coming. Scout versions of the Bradley in front, with armor and more Bradleys behind. And there were helicopters up as well. So far, they were the OH-58 scouts, not the dreaded Cobras or Apaches. And it had been Cobras that had knocked out over two dozen vehicles from the Regiment earlier in the day.

He'd deployed his forces the best he could, and the Mexicans had eagerly set up their part of the defense. Herrera had also sent a platoon of T-55s to assist one of the Mexican battalions, though they were not under the Mexicans' command. The two Soviet air-assault battalion groups were also dug in, but they were ready to withdraw quickly should the need arise. “No heroics,” Herrera had told their commanders, and they understood. He'd also said the same thing to his own regiment's officers, and he hoped they understood.

In the American force, Captain Kozak watched from her Bradley as the battalion's scouts moved along the road. Highway 281 was a mess, and she'd heard that engineers from the division were coming to at least get the road somewhat serviceable; if it was going to support heavy traffic in the drive south, the road had better be in somewhat decent shape. Now, she was traversing her Bradley turret right and left, searching for targets. This close to the river, there was enough brush to give any ambushers cover. And this time, she'd put her company team into a Tanks lead formation: tanks in front, Bradleys behind. But her Bradley was just behind the tanks, along with the Company XO's Bradley. Then she saw it. One of the scout tracks sprayed 25-mm fire into some brush, and a vehicle exploded. Then a scout helicopter fired a missile into another bush, and another vehicle blew up. “Contact right!” the scouts called. And heavy, but inaccurate, fire came from the direction of the river. She called for artillery, and also for some air support, and the artillery fired promptly, dumping HE, WP, and ICM rounds on the enemy position. And a pair of Air Force A-7s responded to the call for air support, dumping 500-pound bombs and strafing. Only after the fire lifted and the A-7s pulled away did she move her force on ahead.

Colonel Herrera watched it all. The Mexicans, instead of waiting for the American main force to enter the kill zone, had fired on the scouts. And the Americans responded promptly. He watched as M-60A4 tanks blasted Mexican positions, while Bradley fighting vehicles covered them. The lead Mexican battalion made its stand, and even tried to counterattack, as several T-54s came out, but they were soon dealt with. The other Mexican battalion, positioned further along the road, but on the east side of the highway, was content to wait. They would not have long, Herrera knew.

“Good Lord, Captain!” Kozak's gunner said. “Those were antiques.”

“Those T-54s and old BTRs you mean?” Kozak replied.

“Yeah, L-T. But those guys charged us like they was on somethin', if you know what I mean, Ma'am.”

Kozak nodded. “Remember this, Sergeant: If it can still kill you, it ain't obsolete.” Just as she said that, a crash-boom sounded. A antitank shell hit one of her tanks, and the explosion simply scratched the paint on the turret. The tank traversed right, found the offending gun, and snuffed it out with a single fiery blast from its 105-mm gun. “That, though, was obsolete.” she remarked, referring to the antitank gun. And she traversed the turret again, surveying the battlefield. Burning Mexican vehicles, T-54s, BTRs, and trucks, along with knocked-out guns and dead Mexican bodies, littered the scene. And something in her said that there was another such fight coming. “All units, continue the attack. Be careful, though: there's more of 'em up ahead.”


1540 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division, Harlingen, Texas:

Major Sefrim Butakov crouched down, below a window. He'd taken command of the regiment defending the actual highway junction after Colonel Romanenko had been critically wounded. The desantniki had fought hard, and had given ground only when necessary. They'd been forced back, no matter how hard they tried, and at times, the fighting had been room to room, and even hand-to-hand. Only the appearance of Soviet tanks from the south had decided the issue for the time being. But American snipers were still active, and one of them not only had wounded the Colonel, but had shot dead the Zampolit, the regiment's chief of staff, and had also killed two radio operators.

Now, the 41st Tank Regiment had arrived, and had brought some supplies-oh, not all they needed, but enough to last the rest of the day, and maybe a little longer. And they'd enabled the wounded to be evacuated, and as the wounded were loaded aboard the trucks, little groups of desantniki bade their Colonel farewell. The Regiment's surgeon had come to Butakov and told him that the wound was more than likely fatal, and it was only a matter of time. He'd said goodbye himself, and the colonel, unconscious due to his head wound, was then taken south. More than enough good Russians had died in this war, and now their colonel-who had led the regiment through thick and thin, was gone.

Butakov's new deputy, who'd been commanding the First Battalion, crawled up to him. “Comrade Major, the tankers need to talk to you.”

“All right, let's go.” Butakov said. And the two airborne officers crawled out of the rubble that had been a drive-through restaurant before the war, and made their way to where Colonel Chesnikov had parked his own regimental command group. “Yes, Comrade Colonel?” Butakov asked.

“I've sent my regiment's reconnaissance company out just now. What are we facing?” Chesnikov asked.

“So far, it's the 29th Light Infantry Division. Though there's some armor-and we don't know who they're from,” replied Butakov.

“All right. I've got my tanks deployed to give your paratroopers the most support they can, and regiment's artillery is set up to give direct fire if they have to.” Chesnikov said. “And my motor-rifle troops are set just to the south of the junction.”

Butakov digested the news. Good, he thought. But that means something else. “Comrade Colonel, there's likely going to be American helicopter gunships before too long: and not just Cobras. Those Apaches have been giving us trouble since we got here.”

“I've got regimental air defense setting up now,” Chesnikov replied. “That should make them sit up and take notice.”

For now, Butakov thought. “Thank you, Comrade Colonel. Now we'll give it to them. They won't get this junction if we have anything to say about it.”

“Good. And my Second battalion is set up to be a counterattack force: we're likely going to need one.” Chesnikov said.

The two officers looked to the north. It was quiet for now, but they knew it wouldn't last. “They'll be back. And if they don't know about the armor, they will shortly. Then we're in for a long night,” Butakov commented.

[jemhouston]

The lack of aerial refueling is hurting the Soviets. Then again, the tankers would the first to go.

[Wolfman]

The lack of aerial refueling is hurting the Soviets. Then again, the tankers would the first to go.

They’d be very high priority targets for sure.

[Rocket J Squrriel]

The lack of aerial refueling is hurting the Soviets. Then again, the tankers would the first to go.

They never really prioritized it, did they? Seems like most of the tankers were whatever planes they didn't need.

[Wolfman]

Initially, it could be so argued, until the Il-78 “MIDAS” came out…

[Matt Wiser]

The catastrophic day keeps on going.....



1605 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suraykin stepped outside for some air. It had been the first time since his headquarters had set up in these warehouses that he'd actually gotten some fresh air-a trip to the front notwithstanding. And the view of the freeway in front of him was not a good one, though. Wrecked Soviet vehicles, from tanks to trucks, littered the road, victims of American aircraft or helicopter gunships. It wasn't just wrecked vehicles littering the road, but bodies as well; the medics hadn't had time to collect the dead, only those whom they had a chance of saving, and he could smell it, even from this distance away. If only those Party bosses who'd started this war could see this, they'd call it a day and end this madness, he thought. Then his chief of staff, Golikov, came up. And he knew his brief sojourn outside was likely over. “What is it, Golikov?”

“Comrade General, some good news for a change. The 105th Guards Airborne reports that the Americans have halted. It appears they've paused to regroup.” Golikov reported.

“Did they?” Suraykin asked. “If so, it won't be for long.”

“That's probably true, Comrade General,” Golikov said. He took a look at the scene on the highway and shook his head. “A first-class mess we're in, Comrade General.”

“At least, Golikov. At least,” Suraykin said. “I'd love to have some of those who thought this war was a great idea to have a look at this. We've made so many mistakes in this, and the last one is not finding a way out.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Golikov said. “It's easy to start a war, but hard to stop one-unless you win outright.”

Suraykin nodded. “Anything from 38th Tanks?”

“They've reported in: so far, the Americans are not following up on the destruction of 20th Tanks and the Rogachev Guards,” Golikov reported.

Suraykin turned. “Let's look at the map, and see what's happening.”

Golikov nodded, and both officers went back inside. They went to the operations map, and found 38th Tanks' positions south of the Rio Grande Valley airport. “Perhaps 7th Armored has to regroup, Comrade General.”

“That's very likely, Golikov.” Suraykin said. “Look at it from his perspective: he's just eaten two of our divisions for breakfast and lunch, and spat out what he couldn't. Now he has to resupply his division's main force, and then get moving again.”

Golikov looked at the map. “And when he does....”

“He'll meet 38th Tanks. Tell the Air Force: half of all sorties to the area around the airport. The rest go in support of the 105th Guards Airborne and 52nd Tanks: they'll have to split what's left.” Suraykin told Golikov.

“Right away, Comrade General.”


1615 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas:

Major Lazarev watched in amazement, along with many of his officers and men. Here was something they'd only seen in history books-when the Soviets had taught the Pacific War in their academies.. Four battleships, steaming up and down the coastline, in full view of the defenses, and knowing full well there was nothing left on shore that could so much as scratch the paint on any of them. One of them looked like it mounted cruise missiles along with its guns, but the other three looked like they'd stepped out of a book, with plenty of guns besides their heavy forty-centimeter weapons. He went to find Captain Lieutenant Kamarov, and found him at his observation point on the fifth floor of the headquarters building. “For what it's worth, Kamarov, what are those ships?”

Kamarov was checking his recognition manual, then occasionally glancing through his spotting glasses. “Do you really want to know?” he asked.

“One could say that, yes,” Lazarev said.

“Right. The lead battleship is Iowa. She's the one mounting the cruise missiles-if you'll take a look, Comrade Major, you can see the armored box launchers for Tomahawk missiles amidships.”

“I'll take your word for it. What are the other three?” Lazarev demanded.

“The second one is her sister ship Wisconsin. She hasn't yet had the full modernization work done to her, otherwise she'd have the same missile armament as her sister ships-which are not here: Missouri and New Jersey. Next is Massachusetts, a former museum ship, and last in line is North Carolina, also a former museum ship. The Americans must have put a lot of effort into reactivating those ships-and so far, they've proven deadly in shore bombardment,” Kamarov replied.

“That must have been the gunfire we heard and saw last night?” asked Lazarev.

Kamarov checked his glasses again, and answered as he did so. “No doubt, it was, Major. Someone caught hell from those ships, and I'm glad it wasn't us.”

Lazarev peered through his binoculars. “I'm not arguing that, but what are they doing?”

“Probably proving an old adage: 'showing the flag'. And by doing that, they are telling us those ships can go anywhere along the coast they want, at anytime, and do whatever they wish to do. This time, they don't want to fire a shot. That will come later. But somewhere, they will announce their presence. And someone will find out what those heavy-caliber shells can do,” Kamarov said.

Lazarev took another look. “And where's that cruiser? The one that shelled us?”

“Probably on a bombardment mission elsewhere, or if the fools back in Cuba sent another convoy, she might be ripping that up,” said the destroyer officer. “Maybe she had to break off and refuel.”

Lazarev sighed. If those ships decided to open up, his brigade and its attached units didn't stand a chance. He left and went down to his command post. There, he called Admiral Gordikov. And the Admiral didn't like what Lazarev told him.


1640 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, West of Rangerville, Texas:

The sound of artillery fire resonated along the east side of U.S. 281. Colonel Herrera and his staff watched as American shells ripped a path along where Herrera had deployed his other Mexican battalion group, and everyone knew the Mexicans were in for it. He also knew that the American commander, whoever he or she-he'd heard there were women commanding units of battalion size now-was, wasn't taking any chances. Again, HE, WP, and the dreaded ICM rounds were falling in quantity on the Mexican position, and there wasn't much he could do about it. He had no counter-battery radar of his own, and thus had no way to silence the American guns. “All right. Tell the Soviets to take their anti-armor shots when they can, and once they've fired one or two rounds, they're to fall back as previously directed.”

His operations officer nodded, and relayed the order. “Major Murayev acknowledges the order, Comrade Colonel,”

“Good,” Herrera said just as the fire lifted. “Now watch, Comrades.”

The staff watched as two flights of American aircraft, what looked like A-4 Skyhawks and A-7 Corsairs, bombed and strafed the Mexican position. Once the aircraft had expended their ordnance, only then did the Americans advance. “Just as we did, back in 1985, Comrade Colonel,” the Chief of Staff commented.

Herrera nodded. “Yes, just as in those days. Only we weren't that concerned about our own casualties. The Americans, though, unless necessary, never regard their soldiers as expendable. They've adopted the adage, 'Ammunition is cheaper than human life.' And they've done it often enough-to our sorrow.”

The chief nodded. Then he got a message. “Comrade Colonel, First Battalion reports: M-60A4 tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles approaching the Mexican line. Company strength at least.”

Herrera nodded again. He turned to his regimental artillery officer. “When the Americans get in contact with the Mexicans, get a fire mission on them. Fire, then move. Fire, then move. Do it for ten minutes. Then fall back; we'll cover you.”

The artillery chief nodded, and relayed the order to the gunners. “Ready at your command, Comrade Colonel.”

In her Bradley, Captain Nancy Kozak watched as her platoons advanced. They had left the previous Mexican position for Delta Company to mop up-they were pure Bradley-and now, her Team was continuing the advance. The battalion commander had decided to mount a reconnaissance by fire, and had called in artillery and air strikes on any likely ambush position, and the fireballs set off by the shelling and the air strikes indicated some enemy up ahead. So she'd told her platoon leaders, “Don't wait for my order. If you see enemy, fire first, report later.” And sure enough, just as the Team was moving close to where the artillery and air had concentrated, one of her tank platoons opened fire. A T-54 tank exploded right after. Then a hail of small-arms and heavy weapons fire erupted.

Colonel Herrera watched as the Americans opened fire first. He nodded to his artillery officer. “Now.” Almost immediately, 122-mm shells were falling.

As the Cuban shells landed, Kozak yelled into the radio, “Keep moving! Don't stop, just keep moving!” And her platoons acknowledged, moving forward and firing as they did so. Mexican vehicles exploded, and infantry tried charging the American tanks and Bradley vehicles, trying to get shots with RPGs. The would-be RPG gunners died to a man, and tank fire also destroyed the B-11 recoilless rifle positions, and the battery of ZIS-3 guns. In a few minutes, they'd advanced past the artillery fire, and through the Mexican position. Most of the Mexicans died fighting, but a few came out of their holes to surrender. Kozak's people had no time for prisoners, so the Mexicans were simply pointed north, told to walk down the highway, and other Americans would collect them. To Kozak's surprise, a Mexican officer nodded, gathered the remaining Mexican soldiers, and marched them north. Her gunner commented, “Too bad they're not all like that, L-T.”

“I know. Still, we've got a ways to go before Brownsville. We've got it easy: Harlingen's proving a tough nut to crack.” Kozak said.

“Who's fightin' us there?” asked the gunner.

“Soviet airborne.”

The gunner didn't respond. He didn't need to. Everyone knew how tough those Soviet airborne troopers were, and wherever one found them, a hard, tough fight was always expected. “Well, L-T, looks like we've got...Missile! Missile at 11 O'Clock!”

The Metis (AT-7 Saxhorn) missile missed her Bradley, and plowed into the FIST track, exploding it, and everyone inside, in a fireball. Then another missile came out, and hit the front drive sprocket of one of her tanks, blowing it off, and wrecking the track. The First Sergeant, who saw it, immediately called for an M-88 recovery vehicle, while other tanks sprayed machine-gun fire where the missiles had come from. “Where'd they come from? The driver asked.

“No idea, Terri,” Kozak replied. She got on the battalion net and asked for an ICM mission where the missiles had come from. It came almost immediately, but she had no way of knowing if any of the missile gunners had been taken out. She looked to the rear, and saw the burning FIST track; five good people gone, she knew. But she saw the Humvee with the Air Force ETAC (Enlisted Tactical Air Controller) following behind, and she knew that she could go through him if necessary to get air strikes.

Colonel Herrera noted things with satisfaction. The Mexicans had been shattered, true, but the Americans had paused, and they'd be busy for a few minutes-maybe even a half-hour, getting things back in order. It was enough. And Major Murayev had checked in. One of his missile teams had been caught by tank fire and wiped out, but the rest of his men had escaped. It had been a mixed day, but right now, though he knew things would end sooner or later, he'd been doing what the general had told him to do. Delay. And as long as he was able, he'd do just that. “All units. Fall back to position Echo.”


1700 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:


General Malinsky noted the updates on the map. Right now, the Americans were regrouping, and preparing for the next round. He'd just had an update from General Suraykin: the 105th Guards, though badly handled, was still holding, and the 41st Tank Regiment had reinforced the paratroopers. Though the real problem at the moment was the situation around the Rio Grande Valley Airport, where the 20th Tank Division's destruction-and that of 28th Army's 120th GMRD-had opened up a serious gap in both armies. So far, the Soviets were holding, though both 4th GTA and 28th Army had committed their final reserves, and if a new fire got started, there wouldn't be much around to put it out. Then Isakov came over. “Isakov, you have something?”

“Yes, Comrade General. There's a developing situation on the left flank. Both 3rd Shock and 8th Guards are in the same position as 4th Guards Tank and 28th Armies: the Americans have hit at the boundary between both. Both VIII and XII Corps have mounted a joint attack, and right now, there's not much either army can do at the moment.”

“Let me guess: all reserves committed?” Malinsky asked.

“That is so, Comrade General,” Isakov replied.

Malinsky checked the map again. “Both will have to fall back, and hopefully, by doing so, they can shorten their lines and pull units off the front, and thus reconstitute a reserve,” he noted.

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General. That has consequences for the Cuban 2nd Army on our extreme left, it should be noted,” Isakov reminded his front commander.

“That's obvious: look at 49th Armored Division's attack down Highway 281. If the Cubans pull back, and do so without it becoming a rout, we still have the highway. If not....it may not be a motorway like the 77-83 is, but still...it'd be a straight run to Brownsville if the Cuban defense folds.” Malinsky said, gesturing at the map.

“The Cubans are still giving ground grudgingly, Comrade General, and that's not likely to change,” Isakov observed.

“Still....we'll have to shorten out lines there and consolidate. With no Front level reserves, there's no other choice.”

“Understood, Comrade General.” Isakov said.

“Notify Marshal Alekseyev, and then get in touch with all army commanders. See if we can't get this done without the Americans noticing too much. If they do...they'll have so many aircraft and helicopters overhead and they'd turn an orderly withdrawal into a massacre.” Malinsky reminded his chief of staff.

“I'll notify the air force, Comrade General. Hopefully, they can cover the withdrawal.”


1715 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:


General Petrov scanned the sky with his binoculars, waiting for the next inbound transports. He'd heard from General Lukin, on the satellite phone from Monterrey, and things there were still in flux. A big problem on that end was similar to what had been happening in Cuba, namely, supplies being loaded willy-nilly aboard aircraft without anyone checking to see if the cargo was what the pocket needed. Lukin himself had ordered useless items removed, and more food, ammunition, and medical supplies loaded. And when a political officer tried to upbraid Lukin, Lukin had put Petrov on the phone-and Petrov gave the Zampolit a blast of invective that shut the man up. Now, Petrov had some second thoughts: maybe I should have sent Lukin to Monterrey or Havana, to take charge at the supply hubs. Too late now, he knew. He turned to his air-operations officer. “What's the ETA on the latest transport stream?”

“Eight aircraft with escorts are due at 1740, Comrade General,” the man replied. “There were twelve, but one turned back with engine trouble, and three were...intercepted en route.”

“Shot down, you mean,” Petrov said.

“Yes, Comrade General.”

Well, Petrov thought. This afternoon was shaping up to be a decent one. The latest group had come up from Mexico, and to his surprise, even included two Libyan aircraft. One was an Il-76, belonging to Libyan airlines, the other was a Libyan Air Force C-130! He'd had a laugh at that: The Libyans had ordered sixteen of the Lockheed transports in the 1970s, and had paid $100 million for the aircraft. Eight had been delivered before an embargo had been slapped on the North African country, and the other eight impounded at the Lockheed factory in Georgia. Now, he'd bet, those eight had been seized and were now flying in USAF markings, no doubt. But he did appreciate the irony. But the transports coming in from Cuba, though, that was different: fifty percent weren't making it. “All right, just get everything ready. Get those planes unloaded fast, get their passengers aboard, and get them out. We've got an hour and a half of daylight left, so let's make full use of it.”

The operations man nodded. “Yes, Comrade General. Passenger priority?” he asked.

“Wounded if at all possible, then specialists. If we're getting passenger aircraft, then it's the reverse.” Petrov said.

The operations officer nodded and went off to relay the order. Petrov resumed scanning the sky, and, to his surprise, spotted two An-2s coming in. Whoever was flying them certainly had guts, he thought. Both biplanes came in and landed, and he saw that both had Cuban markings. He went over to see the pilots. “Where are you from?”

“Monterrey, Comrade General, via Villa Hermosa,” the lead pilot replied. “We've brought some supplies-not much, but it's things like medicine in my aircraft, and bottled water in the other.”

Petrov nodded. One good load, and one...questionable. “Where did the water come from?”

“Cuba, Comrade General,” the second pilot replied.

“Good. At least we won't have to worry about Montezeuma's Revenge with that load,” Petrov said, and everyone around laughed. He smiled at that: there hadn't been much of that. “You men,” he motioned to some ground crew, “Get these two unloaded immediately!”

The ground crewmen went to work with a will, and soon, both biplanes were unloaded. “How many can you take out?” Petrov asked.

“Twelve in each,” the lead pilot said.

Petrov looked over at the passenger area. He went over to where an officer was checking passes. “I want twelve on the specialist list, and twelve walking wounded to those An-2s, Now.”

“Immediately, Comrade General!” the man said. And very quickly, both groups were in the aircraft. “Get to Monterrey as quick as you can, and then get back in the morning. I know you won't make it back before dark.” Petrov said to the Cuban pilots.

“We will, Comrade General.” and both pilots went and mounted their aircraft. Both An-2s gunned their engines, and were in the air. Petrov watched as both headed southwest, and to safety. As they did so, he noticed an An-22 coming in from the east, with no escort. As the plane came in, he saw a pair of fighters approach it, then a missile launch. The An-22's pilot apparently never saw the missile, for it struck between the two port engines, and the explosion blew the wing off between the engines. The big plane spun to the left, with the port wing shredded and ablaze, and then crashed to the east of the field. A huge fireball erupted on impact, and the two American fighters orbited briefly to check their kill, then flew off.

[Matt Wiser]

1725 Hours: Cuban 2nd Army Headquarters:


General Perez looked at the message form. About time, he thought. Front Headquarters had ordered a gradual withdrawal, and his forces would pull back. He turned to his chief of staff, wondering how they'd be able to do this with all the American air activity overhead. “Luis, we're to pull back. Send an advance party to the Rangerville area, and find a suitable location for Army Headquarters.”

“Right away, Comrade General,” the chief replied. “And where will the main body of the Army fall back to?”

“Our left flank is the Rio Grande. The right flank-where 3rd Shock Army will be, is the Arroyo Colorado. Take a straight line from the F.M. 3067-F.M. 800 junction: that's where our line will be.” Perez said.

The chief did so. “Not much in the way of roads there, Comrade General, and most of what there is not in good shape,” the man pointed out.

“I know. The Americans aren't giving us any choice,” Perez said. “Now, how is the 214th doing along Highway 281?”

“So far, they're delaying the Americans, a minor skirmish here, an ambush there, though they did lose the ribbon bridge at the end of F.M. 506,” the chief replied.

“That was to be expected. Did the engineers save the bridge segments, or did they have to destroy the bridge?” Perez asked.

“That, Comrade General, I have no information. Other than that the enemy did not get the bridge intact.”

“Good. Not the place I'd put a bridgehead into Mexico if I was on the other side, but if the chance came up....” Perez' voice trailed off.

The chief nodded. “Quite so, Comrade General. We've also gotten this: the latest weather report.”

“And?”

“No change, Comrade General. No storms in the Caribbean or the Gulf of Mexico-nothing that could grow into something major.”

“And clear weather means enemy aircraft will be very active, Luis. Wonderful.” Perez said. “All right, inform the divisional commanders, and let's do this.”


1740 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Admiral Gordikov came into the operations room. He knew that things from a naval perspective were just about finished, and what he would be reporting would only add to that. With total naval supremacy in the Gulf, the Americans could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and to whomever they wanted. Though if he'd been in command on the other side, he would have had his battleships shell South Padre Island, even if it was just a demonstration shoot. It would have reminded the Soviets of the fury that could descend upon them at any time, and that there was nothing the Soviets could do about it. He found both Marshal Alekseyev and General Chibisov. “Comrade Marshal, General,”

Alekseyev turned. “Yes, Admiral?”

“Comrade Marshal, I've just gotten this in from South Padre Island. Four battleships were spotted just offshore, out of range of our coastal defenses, not an hour and a half ago.” Gordikov reported.

“Did they bombard the island?” Alekseyev asked.

“No, Comrade Marshal, they did not.”

“Why would they not shell the island?” Chibisov wondered.

“I doubt it was for lack of ammunition, Comrades,” Gordikov said. “Though I believe it was simply a demonstration. They were saying, 'We're here, we're going to shell you whenever we please, and there's nothing you can do about it.'”

Alekseyev noted the island. And the Boca Chica area east of Brownsville. That, too, was threatened with an amphibious landing. “And nothing so far from here?” he said, pointing to Boca Chica on the map.

“Nothing so far, Comrade General.” Gordikov admitted.

Chibisov asked, “What about that submarine, the one you've previously mentioned?”

“He's under orders to wait for an extraction, Comrades. I've checked with Caribbean Squadron in Cienfuegos myself,” Gordikov reported. “Who they're to extract, I have no idea, and I was not told who.”

“Probably GRU or KGB assets,” Alekseyev snorted.

“That's very likely, Comrade Marshal,” Gordikov said.

The operations officer came in. “Comrades, there's been a new development on Malinsky's extreme right.”

Alekseyev turned. “What is it?”

“Comrade Marshal, there's been a heliborne assault at the Port Isabel-Cameron County Airport, just south of the Laguna Atascosa Wildlife Refuge. No word on who, though. It could be U.S. Marines,” the man said.

“Or they could be the 101st Air Assault Division,” Chibisov said. “Any other information?”

“No, Comrade General, none at all.”

“All right,” Alekseyev said. He turned to his senior air officer. “Get some reconnaissance up there before daylight ends. I need to know who that enemy is.”

The air force man nodded, and went to get a flight sent that direction. Alekseyev turned to Gordikov. “Your Naval Infantry is all on South Padre Island, correct?”

“Not all of them, There is a battalion responsible for security at the Port of Brownsville, and another at Laguna Vista, charged with coastal defense. Then there's base personnel at the South Padre Island Coast Guard Station.”

“That battalion at Laguna Vista is now Malinsky's. Order them to move to the airport, and engage the enemy,” Alekseyev ordered.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. And there's one other thing: I've ordered the remaining ships at the Port of Brownsville scuttled. A couple of tugs, some barges, two freighters from a convoy that came here a month ago and were damaged by air attack, and a damaged Koltin-class destroyer in the same condition.” Gordikov said.

“And the missile craft and corvettes at South Padre Island?” Chibisov asked.

“Comrade General, they may have a chance at getting out: they may not be large enough to set off the mines the Americans have laid. Even so, it's a final death-and-glory ride into the waiting arms of the Americans. I've talked with the squadron commander: he'd rather do that than have his ships scuttled.”


1805 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College:


General Malinsky was talking on the phone with General Vega of the Cuban 1st Army, and he was not a happy man at the moment. The Americans had done another end-around, and had put heliborne troops into the Soviet/Cuban rear, and right now, there wasn't much that could be done about it. Vega did have some reserves available, and he was moving them, but it would take time, and those reserves were exposed to American air attack. Whoever had come up with this operation was a smart one, Malinsky knew, and when this was over, he actually wanted to have a talk with his opposite number. “Vega, move your reserve-fast. There's a naval infantry formation moving as well, and between the two, you should be able to contain the enemy. Do I make myself clear?”

“Comrade General,” Vega was saying, “You do. However, there's been a lot of American air activity, and the weather isn't cooperating.”

“Vega, you will contain, and if possible, eliminate that landing,” Malinsky said in a very forceful tone of voice.

“We'll do our best, Comrade General,” Vega said.

“Good. Now get to it!” Malinsky thundered, and then hung up. He looked at his chief of staff. “Anything new, Isakov?”

“We've identified the American force. Though it's not exactly clear which unit, however.” Isakov said.

“All right, then. Who are they?”

“Based on their helicopters, CH-46s and CH-53s, they're U.S. Marines. Though we don't know if they came from II MAF, or from the amphibious force off the coast.” Isakov reported.

Malinsky swore, and swore again. With that amphibious force, the Americans could launch such attacks, and conduct a major beach landing, and there was precious little the Soviets could do about it. “Let's hope it's just II MAF: they've done these end-arounds before, correct?”

“That's true, Comrade General,” Isakov confirmed. “They did it to the Nicaraguans when their offensive started, and did it to the Cubans as well.”

General Malinsky nodded. “And now, they do it to us. Vega's got what to throw at them?”

Isakov pointed on the map. “Right now, he's got a tank brigade and two independent regiments: one tank, one motor-rifle. The MRR is closest: and will be there in an hour or so, depending on the American air activity. He's reluctant to commit his other reserves-because we know full well he'll need them later tonight or tomorrow.”

“One regiment, and one of our Naval Infantry battalions....Isakov,” Malinsky said.

“Yes, Comrade General?”

“Let's hope it's just a raid, nothing more. Because if it isn't, when II MAF comes down on the Cubans tomorrow, Vega's going to need all he's got.” Malinsky remarked to his chief of staff, who simply nodded in agreement.


1820 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:


The roar of jet engines briefly deafened General Petrov, but it was music to his ears. This was the final serial for the airlift today, and he'd been pleased at the results. Six Il-76s and four An-12s had made it in from Cuba, and had unloaded not only foodstuffs, ammunition, and medical supplies, but had also brought in some fuel bladders. Though the Soviets and Cubans were not that short on fuel for combat units, others weren't so fortunate, and any extra fuel delivered was welcome indeed. And those planes were now loading passengers: and this time, he was pleased to see, none of the KGB's American lackeys-as many Soviet officers referred to those who had collaborated with the KGB or the GRU.

This group had actually gotten in after another flight, which had made it nearly all the way from Cuba, only to run into American fighters just short of the coast. And he'd watched through binoculars, and he'd been totally helpless as fighters-believed to be F-14s or F-15s-it was hard to tell at that distance-got into the transports and wreaked havoc. Eight transports had been coming in on that flight, and six had fallen to the fighters' guns and missiles. Though the Su-27s flying escort had done their best, two of the four had also been shot down, leaving two Il-76s to make it in. They'd landed, quickly unloaded their cargoes, taken aboard a hundred passengers each, then took off again.

Now, Petrov watched as the Il-76s began to taxi. They'd done a rapid unloading, and taken aboard wounded and some specialists, and were now getting ready to leave. His operations officer came up. “Comrade General, telephone for you.”

“Who is it?” Petrov asked.

“Marshal Alekseyev himself, Comrade General,” the ops man replied.

Petrov went to the Air Operations Center, where a staffer was holding the phone. He handed it to the General. “Comrade Marshal?”

“Petrov, how much have we gotten today?,” Alekseyev asked.

“I'll have to double-check my figures, but about half of what was promised, Comrade Marshal.” Petrov reported.

“Half.” It was not a question.

“That is so, Comrade Marshal.” Petrov said. He, too, had hoped for more, but with those American carriers off the coast, and the Navy unable to do anything about them, even getting what they'd received so far had been a victory of sorts. Though a good deal of what they had received had been quite useless.

“I take it you've gotten out the staff of the Hall government? I”m asking this because our Ambassador is here, and he wants to know if they made it onto a plane.” Alekseyev said.

“Comrade Marshal, they did get out. Whether or not their planes-and they were on two-made it to Cuba, though...that's a wholly different issue entirely.” Petrov reminded the Marshal.

“Understood, Petrov. The airlift closes at dusk, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. Six Il-76s have just departed, while the An-12s are finishing loading. They've got wounded in two of the Antonovs, while specialists and couriers are in the other two.” Petrov reported. “After that, we're finished for the day. Operations will resume at daybreak.”

“All right, Petrov,” Alekseyev said. “If we get a breakthrough from the Americans at any time tomorrow, you'll have some warning. I want you on a plane out of here in that eventuality. Do I make myself clear?”

“Comrade Marshal...there's still air force personnel here who'll never get out. I'd only be abandoning them to their fate. I'd rather stay with the men,” Petrov said, tears mellowing in his eyes.

“I understand, Petrov, but your talents will be useful to the Rodina elsewhere. If you get that warning, get on whatever aircraft is available, and get out. Even if it's to Mexico,” the Marshal said. “That's an order.”

Petrov sighed. He didn't want to leave his men in the lurch, but neither could he disobey his theater commander. “Yes, Comrade Marshal.”


1845 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:


Major Butakov and the tankers looked around-especially up both Highways 77 and 83. They knew that the Americans were only regrouping, and would be resuming the attack when they felt ready to do so. But that didn't mean the danger was gone: far from it. American snipers were active, and Butakov knew that it was becoming worth a man's life to keep his head visible for any length of time. And the tankers from the 41st Tank Regiment were quickly learning the same thing, for several tank and motor-rifle troops had fallen victim to the snipers, and they were so well camouflaged that no one knew where the shots were coming from. Just like at Stalingrad, he mused, only this time, we're the Fascisti, and they've got a Vassili Zaitsev out there, or maybe a Ludmilla Pavlachenko, and they're making our lives miserable. And his paratroopers had given up trying to shoot back, for not only did they not know where the shots came from, but several of their own men with SVD sniper rifles had fallen victim to the Americans, often taking shots through their own scopes....

What should we have expected when we came here, Butakov wondered. A country where it seemed everyone had a gun and in this miserable state called Texas, it was everyone and their mother. And the locals knew how to use them: he'd been on several counter-guerrilla operations, and the insurgents rarely showed themselves-melting away, and leaving a sniper or two to entertain the Soviets. And in the confusion, the snipers themselves slipped away. They'd also been eager students-not only using captured weapons, but using them effectively and with deadly results. His thoughts were interrupted when a BRDM pulled up: its commander waved at the Major, and when he crawled to the vehicle, the commander informed him that Colonel Chesnikov wanted to see him. Butakov managed to get into the BRDM without drawing fire, and the vehicle took him to the 41st's command point. When it got there, Chesnikov was waiting next to his command tank. Butakov got out and asked, “Yes, Comrade Colonel?”

“Major, I'm glad you're here,” Chesnikov said. “I've got some information via my regiment's reconnaissance platoon: the survivors, anyway.”

“What do the reconnaissance people say, Comrade Colonel? My own reconnaissance people can be counted on two hands, I'm afraid.” Butakov replied.

“The Americans have brought in some additional ground troops. Some of them are wearing the AA shoulder patches-do you know who those are?”

Butakov nodded. He knew full well about his opposite numbers. “That's the 82nd Airborne Division, Comrade Colonel. So we're now facing the elite of the U.S. Army now.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The soldiers were mostly artillerymen, and some helicopter ground crews. The artillery was setting up alongside the guns from the 29th Division, and it appeared the helicopter people were preparing for the arrival of their own unit's helicopters,” Chesnikov said.

“But no maneuver units?” Butakov asked. He knew that if those American paratroopers faced his, it would truly be a battle between equals. And that the 82nd would have as much fixed-wing air support and helicopter gunships in support as could be arranged.

“No. Not yet. And my reconnaissance company's badly depleted now. I've less than a platoon available to us. They can give advance warning of an attack, and that's it, I'm afraid.” Chesnikov said.

“At least....” Butakov's remark was interrupted by a shout from a nearby soldier: “Air Attack Warning!”

Hellfire missiles rained down on nearby vehicles, exploding a pair of ZSU-23-4s, and a pair of Strela-10M3 (SA-13) missile vehicles, and as both Butakov and Chesnikov watched, the offending AH-64s pulled away, dropping flares as they did so. Then A-10s came in, firing Maverick missiles and their 30-mm cannon, ripping into tanks and APCs in the process. The remaining air defense vehicles tried to engage, spraying an A-10 with 23-mm fire, and it headed north smoking heavily. But the other three A-10s came back, dropping cluster bombs on their final run, and disabling a number of tanks and APCs in the process. Then the Apaches returned, and killed several more tanks. When it was all over, the two senior officers picked themselves up. And Butakov turned to Chesnikov. “And this is the beginning, Comrade Colonel. They did that to us the first night we were here. And now, my regiment doesn't have a single BMD left.”


1905 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev paid attention to his situation map. Right now, his left flank was pulling back, and so far, things were going well, but American aircraft were active everywhere, and for once, the Soviet and Cuban Air Forces were seriously contesting the air over the pocket. Right now, though, his air force liaison had said, the Soviets were considering things a success if American aircraft had to abort their missions and head north, not just if a kill or two was scored. But that success was coming at a price, the air force had said: for every American aircraft shot down, six of theirs were also sent down. And at this rate, they'd be out of planes within a few days. Alekseyev winced at that: he knew the pocket would be finished before the Soviets ran out of aircraft. Then there was the demand for airlift protection: every fighter protecting the transports was one not contesting the air. And General Petrov made it very clear, and so there was nothing that could be done about it: the airlift had to be protected. His thoughts on that were interrupted as General Isakov came over. “Yes, Chibisov?”

“Comrade Marshal, there's an update on the helicopter assault at the Port Isabel airport.” Chibisov reported.

“And?”

“It was a raid, apparently. Though the helicopters described were U.S. Marine CH-46s and CH-53s,” Chibisov said. “They landed, seized the airport and set up a perimeter.”

“That airport, as the air force has said, once had some of our attack helicopter units, and Mi-8 transports: they've either been lost in combat or had to retreat south of the Rio Grande,” Alekseyev commented.

“True, Comrade General. But the enemy may not have known that.”

“So, a raid? I take it they've accomplished whatever they set out to do and have left?” Alekseyev asked.

“That is the latest information, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied.

Both officers looked at the map. “With the helicopters gone, what else was there?” Alekseyev wondered.

“There was an S-200 SAM site near the airport, Comrade Marshal, and an S-125 site as well.” Chibisov commented. “Those may have been their objectives. Destroy the sites, gather whatever documents-and any prisoners, and then withdraw.”

“It also creates a hole in what's left of our air defenses,” the air-defense officer-a Voyska PVO man, chimed in.

“And we reacted to the raid as if it was a major attack,” Alekseyev hissed.

“Comrades, we had no choice. Any serious helicopter assault can finish us if they can secure the 77-83 highway below Harlingen and block Suraykin's line of communication and retreat.” Colonel Sergetov pointed out, speaking for the first time.

Alekseyev calmed down. “I know, Colonel. No doubt they know that as well. If Schwartzkopf was in command, he would have unleashed the airborne element already. Powell is more cautious-but he's proven that he's willing to take risks if necessary.”

“Indeed, Comrade Marshal.”

“Tomorrow, Chibisov. Tomorrow. The crisis point will come: either here, at the Rio Grande Valley airport, at the 77-83 junction, or just west of there,” Alekseyev noted. “And when that happens, they'll present us with a worse one: that's when their Marines will land.”

“Comrade Marshal....” Chibisov's voice trailed off. “This time, I hope you're wrong.”

“I don't think so. Powell smells victory, and he means to have it,” Alekseyev said. And he knew it, too. If he'd been running things on the other side, he, too, would be smelling victory. But unlike Powell, he'd be willing to risk the airborne and Marines to seal matters.

[Poohbah]

Powell's moving the pieces into position for the final checkmate.

[jemhouston]

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

[Wolfman]

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

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

[Poohbah]

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

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

"Temper, temper!"