History, Politics And Current Affairs

1355 Hours: Soviet evacuee assembly area, Rancho Viejo, Texas:


Captain Galina Chernova sat outside what had been an elementary school prewar, waiting for a ride south. She and her fellow staff members from the 324th Field Hospital had tearfully left their patients, though Colonel Dherkov had listened to their pleas to remain, he had been firm. All of the women had to leave, without exception. She had said goodbye to her male comrades-the doctors and orderlies who would remain behind, as had her fellow staff members, some of whom were leaving boyfriends behind to an uncertain fate. At least in a few hours, they'd be in Mexico, safe for the moment, and they'd either get transportation to Cuba, or at the very least, be reassigned to a hospital with those forces who'd escaped south earlier.

There were about a couple hundred evacuees waiting to leave: all were from other hospitals, or had served in some capacity in Front-level offices as clerical staff, signals people, or even in field kitchens. But all were glad to be leaving-it beat staying behind and falling into the hands of that lunatic motorcycle gang that had become a cavalry regiment, and being gang-raped before being dragged behind their motorcycles or tanks. Then a shout came: the buses were arriving. And so they did, escorted by two BTRs and two BRDMs. When they stopped, the evacuees noticed that some of the buses already had passengers. An officer came and told everyone to get on the buses-and that there was plenty of room for everyone. Chernova got onto the first bus, and an officer took her name and unit, and cheerfully told her to “find a seat.”

She looked and found a seat in the second row, with a woman wearing an unfamiliar uniform. It looked like a flight suit. Did the Air Force have any female pilots, she wondered. Galina asked if the seat was taken. To her surprise, the woman answered in English. “Not if you don't mind sitting next to a prisoner of war.”

She turned to the officer aboard the bus. He shrugged and said “Go ahead.” And so Galina sat down and nodded to her companion, putting out her hand. The woman-who had to be an American, put out hers. “Captain Galina Chernova, Soviet Army Medical Corps.”

“Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle, United States Navy.”

“What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in a...”

“A POW compound? Maybe. But it's a long story-and I was only shot down three days ago.” Commander Carlisle said.

“We may have enough time, Commander. May I call you that, or simply Valerie?” Chernova asked.

Carlisle shrugged. “Whatever you want. And it looks like we're going,” she observed.

The bus got moving again, and the convoy formed up, and headed west, towards the Rio Grande and the border. As it did so, Carlisle explained what had happened. It wasn't unlike what she had heard about Germans in World War II: sometimes downed Allied pilots were in the same hospital as Luftwaffe crewmen, and the subject often turned to their experiences before being shot down. Chernova-and several of those women around her-were surprised to hear Carlisle's story. And they peppered her with questions-what was it like to be on a carrier? Did she have a boyfriend waiting for her on the ship? And a dozen others. To Commander Carlisle, the atmosphere-at least on this bus-felt more like a school trip than a drive through enemy territory, and she was still technically a POW! The guys back at the squadron are not going to believe this, she thought.

Little did she-or anyone else on the bus-know that Major Kokorev, the officer-in-charge, had told his driver to take what turned out to be a wrong turn. Kokorev didn't catch it until they had reached U.S. 281, and when he realized his mistake, he turned right-leading the convoy north on Highway 281. Soon, he caught up to a convoy of trucks, both military and commandeered civilian vehicles, filled with Soviet and Cuban rear-area troops, hoping to get to a ribbon bridge and safety in Mexico. And when the convoy reached La Paloma, they found the bridge destroyed by air attack. Kokarev decided to bypass the town, and head to another bridge at the 281-F.M. 2520 intersection. There, he knew, they could get across the river and to safety. And release Commander Carlisle to head to her own lines.


1400 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev and Colonel Sergetov went into the Operations Room. There, they saw that things had nearly broken down. Malinsky had moved his headquarters to Rancho Viejo, but things were obviously coming apart. The Cuban 1st Army had been split, and 28th Army only had one effective division still reporting in. Suraykin's forces now had Americans on three sides, and the 8th Guards Army was also splitting apart. Both Third Shock and the Cuban 2nd Army were still hanging on, but just barely, and word had arrived that Highway 281 was now completely open and undefended. It was obviously time to put matters to an end. Before he did so, Alekseyev knew he'd have to poll his staff, and have one final word with the Defense Council. But the latter came first, as General Chibisov came up to him. “Pavel Pavlovitch?”

“Comrade General, the Defense Council is on the line for a conference call.” Chibisov said. “I told them you were at the front, seeing things for yourself.”

Alekseyev nodded. Not the first time Chibisov had to cover for him when he'd been away. “All right. Let's get this over and done with.” Alekseyev went to the phone “Comrade General Secretary, I am now present,”

“Alekseyev, good to hear your voice,” General Secretary Chebrikov said. “How are things at the front? Marshal Ahkromayev has said that things could be better.”

Alekseyev and Chibisov exchanged glances. They knew, once again, that Chebrikov was only hearing what he wanted to hear, not what Ahkromayev or anyone from the Defense Ministry was saying. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary, it could be better, but then again, things could be a lot worse?”

“How much worse?” Chebrikov asked.

“I may not be alive to have this conversation, Comrade General Secretary. American air activity has been heavy all day.”

“Comrade Marshal, this is Chairman Kosov. Has the Hall Government left?”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman, they left this afternoon. We have no word as yet on their safe arrival in Cuba.” Alekseyev reported.

“I imagine that their arrival will be reported to us from our forces in Cuba, Marshal,” Chebrikov said, breaking into the conversation. “Let us worry about that.”

And worry about it you will, Alekseyev thought. Hopefully, none of that abomination will make it to their destination, and do something worthwhile for a change, namely, feed the fish. “Of course, Comrade General Secretary.”

“How much longer can you hold out?” Chebrikov asked.

“If General Malinsky can pull his forces together and form another line....a little bit longer. If not....”

“You will hold out, Marshal. Every day that you do is of paramount importance.” Chebrikov said.

“I understand, Comrade General Secretary,” Alekseyev said. “However, I cannot make any promises as to how long.”

Then the Interior Minister, Pugo, spoke up. “Can't you be more certain?”

“In war, there is no certainty, Comrade Minister.” Alekseyev pointed out.

“Of that, there is no doubt,” Marshal Akhromayev said. “I have received your courier, Marshal. His information was most...enlightening and very useful. He's briefing my staff, and I plan to make full use of him, you may be assured of that.”

Alekseyev let out a sigh of relief. So Major Sorokin had made it to Moscow, and had begun to make his rounds. “I trust the courier's information may be valuable to you, Minister. And to any others so cleared.”

On the other end, Marshal Akhromayev had to restrain himself from grinning. Major Sorokin's information was now in the hands of the General Staff, and certain other senior officers. Not just in Moscow, but elsewhere. As well as a number of other....interested parties. “It will be, that I assure you, Marshal.”

Alekseyev smiled. “Thank you, Comrade Marshal.”

“Marshal, even if you are overwhelmed, your sacrifices will be a rallying cry to our war effort, and come spring, there will be a smashing new offensive out of Canada, and bring about our final triumph. Hold out as long as possible,” Chebrikov said. “Now, your hands are full with your fight, and we won't bother you any longer. I look forward to our next conversation.”

“Of course, Comrade General Secretary,” Alekseyev said.

Then the connection was broken. And Chibisov spoke up. “Well, that went better than I expected, Comrade Marshal.”

“So it did for me as well. I half expected to be relieved, and told to hand over things to Malinsky. He'd take the same course of action I'm going to take, and the only difference would be how many die before that happened.” Alekseyev observed.

“There is that, Comrade Marshal.”

“Indeed. Now, Chibisov, Sergetov. We can't send a radio signal-it may be intercepted by our forces in Mexico. Go up to the 77-83 interchange, or as close as you can. Ask the Americans there to arrange a meeting with General Powell, or his chief of staff.” Alekseyev said.

Chibisov looked at his superior. “Understood, Comrade Marshal.”

And Alekseyev made another decision. “Whatever they insist on, we're in no position to disagree. Where and when I'm to meet with Powell, is all I need at the moment.”


1410 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, East of Brownsville, Texas:

General Andreyev watched the battle develop from his forward command post. And he knew that those Marines coming forward had plenty of firepower that would definitely influence the battle. He'd watched as the 235th Guards Air Assault Regiment had been hit heavily by both naval gunfire and by air attack, and now, Marine infantry, backed up by armor and LAV-25 light combat vehicles, slammed into the regiment, and after a half-hour of fighting, had ripped the regiment to shreds. As that was happening, the 236th Guards had tried to aid its sister regiment, only to have one battalion caught in the open and hammered by naval gunfire-obviously on call from Marine forward artillery spotters.

Now, Andreyev had to decide on a counterattack, and he thought about using some of the 47th, well before he thought he'd have to. But two battalions, though hammered by naval gunfire and air strikes, would have to do. Given the terrain, with sand on one side, and marshland on another, and the Marines using that marshland to get around some of his defenses, it might just hold up the American advance-for an hour or so, anyway. He turned to his chief of staff, “Notify Colonel Glavchenko: he's to send two battalions of tanks-the two that were hit earlier by air attack and naval gunfire, and have them counterattack to relieve the 235th Guards-what's left of it.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” the chief of staff replied.

“Any word from the 235th's regimental command post?” Andreyev asked.

“The last word had the regiment's operations officer, a Captain Chazov, having taken command: he's managed to rally two companies' worth of men, and there are some strongpoints still fighting that we're not in touch with.” replied the chief.

Andreyev nodded. “Have those tanks move to relieve the 235th-now.” He notice the look on the chief of staff's face, “I know, they'll be exposed to air attack, but then again, we all are. Get them moving.”

“Immediately, Comrade General,” the chief said, going off to issue the order.


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

“Comrade General,” General Golikov said to Suraykin, “General Chibisov is here.”

“What?” Suraykin asked, clearly surprised. “This is no time for either a personal inspection or a pep talk, Golikov. By all means, bring him in.”

Golikov nodded, and went to the entrance to the warehouse where the Army's command vehicles had been parked inside. He came back with Marshal Alekseyev's chief of staff and a colonel that Suraykin didn't know. “Comrade General, this is a bad time to have a personal tour,” Suraykin said.

Chibisov nodded. “I know, General. That is not why I'm here with Colonel Sergetov, the Marshal's aide. How close are the Americans?”

Suraykin had an idea as to what Chibisov had in mind, but held it for now. He brought Chibisov to the Operations Map, and showed him. “To the right, what's left of 38th Tanks is holding-but barely, at the intersection of Loop 499 and the Business U.S. 77. They're down to a single regiment, and Nikonov won't be able to hold much longer. The 24th Tanks has been split into three elements, with two of them completely cut off, and the division's motor rifle regiment and one tank regiment still tied in. The rest...”

Chibisov looked at the map. “I know, General. They'll either be destroyed or forced to surrender. Continue.”

Yes, Comrade General. The 105th Guards Air Assault Division is down to about twenty-five percent strength, and the 41st Tank Regiment has barely a battalion of tanks left, and hardly any motor-rifle troops or artillery.”

“But they do hold the 77-83 junction, do they not?” Chibisov asked.

“They still do. Now 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle Division are still fighting to their left, but they're almost finished. A couple of hours,maybe three, and they'll give way.” Suraykin said.

Chibisov looked at the map again, and he turned to Sergetov. “The junction, that's where we'll go.” He turned back to Suraykin. “Notify General Gordonov that we'll be there shortly. This ends today, Suraykin. One way or another.”


1500 Hours: Soviet evacuee convoy, along U.S. 281, north of La Paloma, Texas:


Captain Chernova looked out the window of the bus. Typical desert, she thought: she'd never been in a desert before coming first to Mexico, then to America, way back in 1985. Now, she knew, things were coming full circle. Back to Mexico, and either a new assignment there, or somehow, getting back to the Rodina. And maybe, just maybe, by the time we get home, the war will be over. And back to home to Vyborg, and try and get life going again. She'd said that to Commander Carlisle, who had nodded. She, too had postwar plans-namely, staying in the U.S. Navy and returning to flying status. “My father was an admiral, and he'd be very disappointed in me if I didn't make the Navy a career,” she had said.

Now, there was a good chance the convoy was getting close to a bridge. There looked like vehicles backed up, waiting to cross, and they had also passed a good number of trucks, buses, and even APCs, all caught by air attack as they had moved along the road. “Well, Commander, it looks like you'll be getting off soon,” Chernova said.

“Oh?” Carlisle said. She'd actually closed her eyes and dozed off for a few minutes.

“Yes, there's a convoy held up-and there must be a bridge up ahead.”

Little did anyone know that, just north of the bridge, Captain Nancy Kozak's Team was approaching. With the only aircraft in the air American for the most part, her Team advanced along the highway, occasionally picking off Soviet or Cuban stragglers as they went. A few rounds of machine-gun or 25-mm fire did the job in knocking out trucks and the occasional APC, though tank guns spoke on two occasions, when BMPs had been found. No one was taking any chances, not now. Then she heard over the radio from her Air Force ETAC: a ribbon bridge was still up about three klicks ahead. Though fixed-wing aircraft were busy, a pair of Apaches was called in onto the very attractive target: and the Apaches ripped into the bridge with their Hellfire missiles, while they used their rockets and 30-mm cannon on the vehicles that had been backed up, waiting for their turn to cross.

“Mother of God! What was that?” the guard officer in the bus asked. Those in front could see fireballs erupting as vehicles exploded ahead of them, and then it was obvious: Apache helicopters were working the bridge. Then they watched as the helicopters turned and headed north. The convoy bypassed the shattered bridge, hoping to find a place to turn around. As they did so, it was Commander Carlisle who noticed it. And a small grin came to her face. She turned to Dr. Chernova, “Galina, I think you people are headed somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look out the side window.”

As Chernova did so, a chill came down her spine. American tanks and fighting vehicles were closing. .


Kozak, in her Bradley, saw the convoy. Five buses, with two BTR-70s and two BRDMs as escort. These had to be high-value evacuees: there was no way Ivan would waste captured school buses on POWs. She got onto the platoon net: “Take the escort vehicles, and fire ahead of the buses. There's probably VIPs on those buses. Let's bring 'em in.”

In his BTR, Major Kokarev was checking his map. They'd have to turn around and go back south. Maybe there was a way across south of the two bridges he'd found destroyed. Then his driver let out a cry, “Enemy tanks to the right!”

“What are you babbling about?” Kokarev asked as he poked his head up and looked in that direction. His eyes became wide as saucers. “Mother of....” He never finished the sentence.

Third Platoon's tanks opened fire on the escort vehicles, destroying each with the first shot, and then machine-gun fire went in ahead of the buses. All of them screeched to a stop, and the Bradleys closed in.

Commander Carlisle peeked up, and saw the Bradleys closing in. She turned to Chernova. “You do have something white, I presume, being a doctor?”

“Yes, my coat. Are those the lunatics?”

“What lunatics are you talking about?” Carlisle asked.

“That maniacal motorcycle gang that became a regiment, that's who!” One of Chernova's fellow doctors said.

The American laughed. “That's not them. They don't use those tanks and APCs. I've seen them on TV enough times. Give me something white, now!”

Chernova opened her bag and gave Commander Carlisle her white coat. Then Chernova looked at the guard officer, who was properly terrified. No doubt he was expecting a trip to a gulag-or worse, if he returned to Russia having allowed those under his protection to be captured. To her shock-and everyone else's, he took out his service pistol, put it to his temple, and fired. Then she watched as Commander Carlisle shoved the driver aside and opened the side door. And she waved the coat out the open door.

“Six, this is Three-One. Somebody's waving something white out of the lead bus,” Third Platoon called to Kozak.

“Hold fire! I'll be right there. Repeat: all units hold fire!” Kozak then ordered her Bradley forward, and it approached the bus, traversing the turret away as she did so. She stopped fifty feet from the bus and yelled. “Come on out, with your hands up!”

Commander Carlisle told Chernova, “I'll go out and vouch for you. When they tell you to come out, do exactly as they say. And tell the other buses to do the same.”

Chernova nodded apprehensively. Even if these weren't the maniacs in the 13th Cavalry, who knew what these Americans would do to them? She watched as Commander Carlisle got out, still waving the white coat.

“That's one of ours, Ma'am!” Kozak's driver called. Sure enough, Kozak watched as a woman in a U.S. Navy flight suit came out of the bus, waving what appeared to be a doctor's white coat. Kozak got out and walked forward. And she saw that whoever that woman was, she outranked Kozak. She saluted, just as if it had been back on the parade ground at West Point. “Ma'am?”

“Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle, United States Navy. These buses are full of Soviet servicewomen, apart from a few guards. All of them will surrender.”

“Begging your pardon Ma'am, but what were you...”

“Doing on the bus, Captain? They could've sent me to a POW compound, but instead...” Carlisle explained for a few minutes, and Kozak was surprised. The Soviet Theater Commander wanted her for this? “Not that I had any choice, Captain. They would've handcuffed me to a seat if I said no.”

“They'll surrender?” Kozak asked.

“Yes, they will.”

Kozak went back to her Bradley and issued orders: She told the First Sergeant to come forward, and get things organized. And she called battalion for instructions. She was told to hold her position, and the Battalion Commander would come and see for himself. And he'd bring some extra female soldiers to handle the prisoners.

The First Sergeant's vehicle arrived. Kozak turned to him. “There's a couple of female troopers in company headquarters; get them on that first bus. Radio Second Platoon to come forward. Only female soldiers board the buses and secure the prisoners. Is that clear, First Sergeant?”

“Yes, Ma'am,”

Commander Carlisle looked at Kozak. “I'll go back and tell them they're going to be OK. They think you guys are from the 13th Cav.”

“Of course, Ma'am,” Kozak said.

Carlisle went back to the bus. She explained to the Soviet women that the Americans were regular Army, and that the unit had women, and they'd be under the supervision of female soldiers for now. “Just get off the bus, hands on your heads, and do as they say.” Chernova and several others translated for those who didn't know English, and heads nodded. “All right, time to get off. And your war's now over.”

Commander Carlisle waited until all of those on the first bus were off. Before she left, she picked up the guard officer's AK-74 as a souvenir. At least I get something else besides that pass-which I never got to use, thank God-to remind me of how crazy this was. She looked to the right, and the occupants of the other buses were coming off-the guards and drivers were segregated from the women, and the Soviet women were, as promised, searched and guarded by Kozak's female troopers. And Kozak herself came up. “Commander, I've got a question: is there anybody I should be worried about coming north?”

“Everybody I saw was doing the same thing: looking for a way across the river. They're licked, and they don't want to be here when things fold up.”

Well, Captain Chernova and her people are safe.

Hall complaining about Americans not believing his propaganda is rather rich. Propaganda is normally considered to be government pushed lies. We were too smart to fall for it.

jemhouston wrote: ↑Wed Mar 12, 2025 11:06 am Hall complaining about Americans not believing his propaganda is rather rich. Propaganda is normally considered to be government pushed lies. We were too smart to fall for it.

It’s not our fault that he was a Useful Idiot for the KGB…

Wolfman wrote: ↑Wed Mar 12, 2025 2:52 pm

jemhouston wrote: ↑Wed Mar 12, 2025 11:06 am Hall complaining about Americans not believing his propaganda is rather rich. Propaganda is normally considered to be government pushed lies. We were too smart to fall for it.

It’s not our fault that he was a Useful Idiot for the KGB…

The fact he was considered useless by everyone else is telling.

The Soviet command realizes it's over...But it's not until the papers are signed:


1525 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:


General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov got out of the little UAZ-469 jeep, and entered the headquarters of the 105th Guards Air Assault Division. General Gordinov was there, shouting into a phone. Then he saw his visitors and hung up. “Comrade General, Colonel. General Suraykin told me you were coming.”

“You do know why we're here?” Chibisov asked.

“Yes, Comrade General,” Gordinov said. “I'll escort you to the junction myself. The 351st Guards Air Assault Regiment is there; they've fought like lions, but are down to only three hundred or so effectives, and even some of their wounded have been fighting. Please follow me, Comrades.” Gordinov said, and the two officers went out of the building, and followed Gordinov on foot to the area just south of the junction. There, they found Colonel Chesnikov still leading the 41st Tank Regiment, but he was now down to eighteen tanks, and only a half-dozen artillery pieces, and those were short on ammunition. When Chesnikov saw the party, and what they were going to do, he felt a sense of relief: it meant that he, and his men, would live. Chesnikov ordered his men to hold fire on the area, and the party arrived at the 351st's command post, where Captain Leonid Gaipov had managed to rally what remained of the regiment, but there were dozens of badly wounded men in need of treatment, and ammunition was running very low. Seeing those wounded only reinforced both Chibisov and Sergetov in their mission: it had to end, and very soon. Sergetov reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a carefully folded white sheet. “If someone can find a piece of wood, or a pipe?”

After a few minutes of searching, a sergeant found a broom handle. Fixing the sheet to the handle, Sergetov nodded to the two generals. “Whenever you're ready, Comrade Generals.”

Chibisov nodded, and the party went out towards the interchange, which had been turned to rubble by air and artillery fire, as well as being pockmarked by small-arms and infantry weapons fire. Sergetov waved the flag continuously as the party went forward.


Ahead of them, 1st Lieutenant Jennifer Moore was having a bad day. She'd taken over her company-Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 116th Infantry, 29th Infantry Division, after both the Company Commander and the Executive Officer had been caught in a mortar barrage. Both men had been badly wounded-and the CO had died before he could get a medivac out. She was the next senior officer-having been a 1st Lieutenant all of a week-so she'd turned her platoon over to her platoon sergeant, and had the company all of three hours when someone shouted, “There's three Russians coming under a white flag.”

She grabbed her binoculars-which had belonged to the Captain-and saw for herself. “Hold fire!” She called. And she thought, this might be it. Lieutenant Moore took off her helmet and put on her fatigue cap, and told the First Sergeant to come with her. Then she walked out onto U.S. 77 and went to meet the enemy. As she approached, she could see that one officer was Guards Airborne-that figured-they'd been battling their way against the 105th Guards Airborne for the past three days, while the other two were clearly Ground Forces. Then she saw that one of them was a full General. Turning to the First Sergeant, she said, “When's the last time a General surrendered to a Lieutenant?”

“Maybe in Germany, Ma'am, back in '45.”

Chibisov and the party got close to the two Americans. One, wearing a helmet, was obviously an NCO, while the other was an officer, and despite the short blond hair, was female as well. Chibisov said in Russian to the two other officers, “Well, we clearly can't pick and choose, can we?” Both Gordonov and Sergetov nodded, and the party stopped. And the female officer stepped forward and saluted-as if she was back at an Academy-Chibisov thought.

After she saluted, and the Russians returned it, Moore said, “First Lieutenant Jennifer Moore, United States Army. And you are?”

Chbisov bowed slightly. “I am General Pavel Chibisov, Chief of Staff to Marshal Alekseyev, the Commander of the Soviet and Cuban forces in the Brownsville area. I would like to speak to a superior officer, to arrange a meeting between Marshal Alekseyev and General Powell.”

“Before I notify my superiors, General, they're going to want to know what the subject of the meeting is going to be.” Moore pointed out.

“I understand, Lieutenant. Marshal Alekseyev wishes to arrange for the orderly surrender of the forces remaining in the pocket.”

Moore and her First Sergeant looked at each other. Had they heard right? “General, Did you say 'surrender'?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I did.” Chibisov replied.

Well, Moore thought. They didn't say anything on how to handle something like this at OCS. She nodded. “Very well, if you'll follow me. First Sergeant,”

“Yes, Ma'am. And the Russians came forward, with Moore leading and the First Sergeant following behind the Russians. As they entered the company's positions, her soldiers stood up to watch. Except for a couple of sergeants, none were original members of the 116th-the rest had been killed, wounded, or reassigned during the long war. All were either wartime volunteers or draftees, she explained, and about a quarter of them were women. When the party got to her company CP, she had her radio operator contact battalion, and she informed the battalion commander of the Russians' arrival and purpose. The battalion commander nearly had a coronary, or so she thought, but composed himself, and told her that he'd inform brigade, and then division, but that vehicles would be sent to bring the Russians to Battalion HQ.

“It'll be a few minutes, at least, before they get here,” Moore explained. She turned to the First Sergeant, “Get our guests some bottled water. It's been a hot day, even for Texas.”

The First Sergeant nodded, and went to get the water. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Chibisov said. “I'm surprised, even after all this time, to see women on the front lines.”

“Why shouldn't you, General? You yourselves had women as combat soldiers in World War II,” Moore reminded Chibisov.

Chibisov nodded. That had probably been a wartime necessity, so why shouldn't the Americans have done the same? “How long have you been in the Army?”

“Four years, General. I joined two days after you invaded. Two years in a supply job, then I was sent to Officer School, and then I volunteered for infantry. Been with the 29th ever since.” Moore said.

The First Sergeant came back with the water. The Russians gratefully accepted the liquid, and drank and drank. It was obvious to the Americans that the Soviets in the pocket were short of a lot of things-and potable water was probably high on the list. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Chibisov said.

Just as that happened, a pair of Humvees arrived, with Moore's battalion commander coming out to see for himself. Like her, he was initially surprised, but now knew this was nearly over. And about time. “General, I'll escort you to my battalion headquarters. I've spoken with brigade and division, and they've cleared things. A Blackhawk will pick you up at my headquarters, and you'll be flown to XVIII Airborne Corps to meet with General Powell's Chief of Staff, General McCaffery.”

Chibisov noted the battalion commander was a major. No doubt there because of casualties, he knew. And this battle in Harlingen had been a nasty one at that. “Thank you, Major. I believe General Gordinov here, from the 105th, has a request for your divisional commander?”

Gordinov turned to the American major. “I would like to request a cease-fire between your division and my own. To allow the party to return, so that I may return a number of your wounded to you, and....I have a number of seriously wounded men who need more treatment than my own medical staff can provide.”

The American Major nodded. “If you'll all come with me, everything will be taken care of.”

As the party got into the Humvees, one group of soldiers took notice. A group of intelligence specialists were looking at a wrecked T-80, when one of the soldiers called down to another inside the tank, “Sarge, have a look at this!”

A bespectacled intelligence sergeant stuck his head out the commander's hatch, and saw a four-star Soviet General, a two-star Guards Airborne General, and a colonel-obviously an aide, get into a Humvee with that battalion's commander. And the Humvee drove off, with another Humvee escorting it. “Well, well.”

“What was that, Sarge?” a corporal asked.

“That, Clancy, might be the end of this war. Now get me a Phillips screwdriver, and a socket wrench, so I can get this fire-control gear out of the gunner's station. NOW!”


1540 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev had finished washing up in his office. He was preparing for a meeting that he expected to take place either that evening, or at worst, the next morning. Until he signed whatever papers Powell had, the war was still on, and he knew it. The door to his office opened, after a knock, and Lieutenant General Mikhail Glasov, Chibisov's deputy, came in.

“Comrade Marshal?”

“Yes,Glasov, what is it?” Alekseyev asked.

“A message from Moscow is coming in. It's a list of decorations and promotions.” Glasov said.

Alekseyev put on his uniform jacket. He'd already had a Gold Star from when he'd been an Army commander in 1985, and he knew full well what a second award would mean-and it wasn't about any kind of bravery on the battlefield. “Let's go, Glasov.”

The two went into the operations room, where things were still being updated, as best as could be. The Cuban 1st Army was coming apart at the seams, while 28th Army was being enveloped by both XVIII Airborne Corps and II MAF. Suraykin's Army was still clinging to its holdings, but they would soon be trapped with no way out. Both 8th Guards and 3rd Shock were also in deep trouble, from both XII and VIII Corps, and the Cuban 2nd Army had been outflanked, and Highway 281 was now completely open and undefended. Alekseyev knew that time was up, and that he'd have to do what no Marshal of the Soviet Union had ever done, if any of his men were to see their homeland ever again. Before he took the message, Alekseyev turned to Glasov. “Any word on the evacuee convoy? The women, Glasov.”

“No, Comrade Marshal. We do know that two, maybe three, of the bridges are down. Perhaps they had to hunt for an intact bridge to cross over into Mexico.”

“All right. The message,” Alekseyev ordered.

A communications officer came with the message form. Alekseyev looked at it, then glanced at Glasov. “Every divisional commander is promoted one grade, while all regimental commanders who aren't colonels? Well, they are now.”

“Someone wants a mass suicide of senior officers, it seems,” Glasov observed. “That person will be greatly disappointed.”

“Yes, and I know exactly who,” said Alekseyev.

Another officer came in with a message form. “For you, Comrade Marshal,”

Alekseyev took the form and read it. He then crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the map. “Of all the....! Well, I have no intention of shooting myself for this Chekist bastard who calls himself General Secretary! A lot of good what that message said does now!”

Glasov retrieved the message and managed to read it. The message announced Alekseyev's award of a second Gold Star, the Hero of the Soviet Union. “My congratulations, Comrade Marshal, for whatever they are worth.”

Alekseyev shot him a vicious look. Then he calmed down. “Thank you, Glasov.” He turned to the communications officer: “Destroy all remaining radios and codes-except for one of each, at once. If you can, then get any remaining code personnel on a helicopter. If you have to, get them across the river by walking, but there's not that much time left.”


1540 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, Highway 4, east of Brownsville:


Major Stepanov led his battalion forward. He commanded the Second Battalion, 47th Tank Brigade, and he was in a fury. His battalion had been hit hard by air strikes and the accursed battleship gunfire, and had been reduced from thirty-one tanks down to eighteen, and Third Battalion, right behind his, had gone from thirty-one down to fifteen. Now, he thought, we'll show those Amerikantsky Marines what real Soviet soldiers can do-not those penal scum on the beach, who, he had been told, had either run away or simply put up their hands. No, not today. Even on what may be the last day, we'll show you how real Soviet soldiers fight. Just you see.

General Andreyev watched from his command post as the two tank battalions advanced. The Marines, he could see, were pulling back. With their control of the air, they could see the tanks coming long before the armor could see the Marines. And with that, Andreyev knew, the Marines were bound to have something up their sleeve. Just as the tanks reached where the 235th Guards Air Assault Regiment had been fighting, a hail of antitank rockets and missiles came from the front and both flanks. Did every Marine have a rocket launcher or an antitank missile launcher? It seemed that way to Andreyev. And Marine Cobra helicopters were overhead, taking shots at tanks with their TOW missiles, while Harriers and A-10s were overhead, adding their own bombs, missiles, and gunfire to the proceedings.

Stepanov cursed inside his T-72A. The Marines had lured his battalion into ambush, and had closed the door behind him-and Third Battalion as well. They were stuck on some high ground, while the road behind them was blocked, and there was no way out-not with several wrecked tanks blocking the road. Abandoning the tank and getting away on foot was unthinkable, so he did what naturally came to him: he pressed forward, “All units, advance!” he shouted into the radio. “Advance!” Then he checked his periscopes: a few tanks were following him, but most of the rest were burning, and a few had been abandoned by their crews. I'll deal with them later, if there is a later, he promised.

Up above, a flight of A-10s was circling overhead, waiting to be cleared in by a Marine Forward Air Controller, They had a birds-eye view of the whole thing, and one had to admit, Ivan still had a lot of guts, moving forward, in the face of all that fire. Then the FAC cleared them in hot, and directed the flight on some T-72s that were pressing forward, on that little chunk of high ground just off the north side of Highway 4. The flight leader rolled in, and the rest of his flight came in right behind him, each pilot picking out his or her target.

“Sokol One, this is Verona Three, aircraft coming in from the east!” One of Stepanov's platoon leaders called. He lifted his head out of the tank to see four A-10s coming in, and as he reached down to fire his smoke grenades, missiles came off the A-10s' rails. He barely had time to shout as the Maverick missile tracked his tank and exploded, turning Stepanov and his tank into a ball of flame and debris.

Andreyev let out a howl of rage, then he turned to his chief of staff. “Pull everyone back. At least two kilometers, no, make it three. We've got to get out of range of this naval gunfire.”

The chief looked at him. “Comrade General, with all these aircraft-”

“I know, we're going to lose more people and more vehicles, But if we stay here, we'd be pounded into pulp by both aircraft and those battleships. Have what's left of 235th Guards-if we're still in touch with them-act as the rearguard. And have the 47th move their intact tank battalions up as a screen. The 234th and 236th will fall back behind the tanks.” Andreyev ordered.

“Yes, of course, Comrade General,” the chief said, going off to issue the order.


1550: XVIII Airborne Corps Headquarters, Raymondville, Texas:

General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov looked out the windows on the Blackhawk's sliding door. U.S. Highway 77 was jammed with traffic. American supply convoys and tank transporters headed south, hauling supplies and replacement equipment to the front, and in the northbound lanes, empty convoys returned north. And in the median strip, trudged hundreds of Soviet and Cuban, and presumably Nicaraguan, prisoners, headed north into American captivity. What they saw confirmed what they had been feeling, and what the Marshal himself had been likely feeling for days, that the fighting must come to an end. A pity that it had to be done this way, instead of those stubborn old men in the Kremlin dropping their fantasies of winning the war, and coming to a negotiated settlement that would have enabled the Soviet Union to withdraw from the war with its honor and dignity intact. Now, both knew, there would be not much of either, no matter how cordial the proceedings went. The Soviets had lost, and the Americans would make sure the whole world knew.

Their American escort, a major from 29th Division headquarters, spoke into his headset, then tapped Chibisov on the shoulder. “One minute to landing, General.”

Chibisov nodded. The sooner things got done, the better. They felt a small thump as the Blackhawk landed outside the Corps HQ.. The crew chief got up, and opened the sliding door on the left side. Both Soviet officers and the escort, got out and noticed a group of American officers waiting for them. Ducking to avoid the rotor blades, the party went to meet the Americans. Chibisov pulled himself together, put his service cap on, and, noticing a three-star general leading the American delegation, saluted first. “I am General Pavel Chibisov, Marshal Alekseyev's chief of staff.”

The senior American officer returned the salute. “Lieutenant General Barry McCaffery, General Powell's chief of staff. We've been expecting you, General.”

Both Chibisov and Sergetov recognized the name. McCaffery had been a brigade commander with the 8th Infantry Division at the start of the war, and had led his brigade through First Houston, and the retreat into Louisiana. After that, he'd been in command of the reactivated 30th Mechanized Division, made up of units from Tennessee and the Carolinas, before taking over XVIII Airborne Corps. He'd dropped out of the GRU's picture after that American Summer Offensive in 1988, and it was now clear who had wanted him and why.

The party went into what had been a classroom at the Raymondville High School, where things had been arranged, and before things got going, the Americans noticed the Soviets eyeing the finger food that had been put out. “Go ahead,” McCaffery said, and the two Soviet officers helped themselves.

After they'd eaten a little, things got underway. “General McCaffery, I have instructions from the Marshal to arrange a meeting with General Powell,” Chibisov said. “I realize that we are in no position to demand anything, except maybe generosity, but I do hope that things will proceed with a bit of respect, even among enemies.”

“Everything will be handled according to International Law, General. Before you bring the Marshal, you can tell him that he and his men will be treated as Prisoners of War, and will be accorded the proper treatment guaranteed under the Geneva Convention. Something, I might add, your own side failed totally in its obligations-not just to prisoners, but to the civilian population.” McCaffery said.

Chibisov sighed. He knew full well what McCaffery meant. “I understand, General. We cannot change the past, no matter what we wish. But I can assure you, that after the surrender, an orderly transition will take place.”

“It had better,” McCaffery growled. “Very well, General. General Powell will meet with the Marshal at 1700. You may return to your lines, and so inform the Marshal. A Blackhawk will be waiting at the headquarters of the 29th Division, and will fly the Marshal to General Powell's headquarters.”

Chibisov nodded. “Is there anything else, General?”

“Yes. I realize you're not used to a free press. So you had better brace yourselves: there's going to be a lot of members of the national-and international-press there,” McCaffery said. “And take my advice: treat the press like you would the proverbial nest of vipers. Some of 'em are decent, but others...they're like sharks at a feeding frenzy.”


1600 Hours: U.S. 281, north of La Paloma, Texas:


Commander Carlisle sat in the First Sergeant's APC, just relieved that it was all over. She had been worried, though, about friendly aircraft shooting up the convoy. Now, the Army was sitting at that bridge site, and she saw Kozak's troops bringing in stragglers. Some of them were obviously wounded, and Kozak's people had allowed some of the Soviet medical personnel to treat them. Now, she was finishing up an MRE-a “Meal Rejected by Everyone”-but the tuna casserole meal the First Sergeant had given her was actually good. Personally, she thought, I'll be glad to be back on the ship. Captain Kozak had fired off a message to her battalion reporting Carlisle's experience, and a request that the ship be notified that Carlisle would be coming back. Then a commotion came up, and she got out to see what was going on-stepping over the Team's mascot, who was fast asleep in the back of the APC. Several trucks were arriving, and a Humvee was coming up to Kozak's Bradley. This might be the battalion commander. He got out, and talked with Kozak. She pointed in Carlisle's direction, and both came to her. “Commander, I'm Major Dan Little, 3-144 Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 49th Armored. Welcome back,” he said, saluting.

She returned the salute. “Thanks, Major. How soon can I get back to my ship?”

“Ma'am, that's gonna have to wait. There's a chopper coming for you.”

Carlisle was stunned. “What for?”

“Commander, we passed your story up the chain of command. This comes from Third Army HQ: General Powell wants to talk to you.” Major Little said.

“About what?”

“Seems he wants to know what kind of a man he's dealing with-Alekseyev, I guess.” Little replied.

The sound of a pair of Blackhawks interrupted things. One had a red cross on its side doors, and was obviously a medievac bird, and the other was a plain A-model UH-60. Both landed, stirring up a lot of dust. “Commander, that vanilla Blackhawk's for you.” Little said.

She looked over at the Soviet prisoners. Most of the women were still sitting in the shade of the buses, though some were helping the Team medics treat the injured. But Commander Carlisle noticed Dr. Chernova taking a break. “Where are they headed?”

“There's an EPW camp for women-the Army reactivated a base outside Salt Lake City, and that's where they send some of the female prisoners, or so I understand. There's another one in upstate New York.” replied the Major.

Carlisle nodded. “All right. There's one I want to say goodbye to: we were seatmates on the bus. Then I'll get on that helo.” She saw both Little and Kozak nod, and then walked over to Dr. Chernova, “Galina.”

“Commander! This is a lot better than we expected, but then again, this is not the 13th Cavalry.” Chernova replied.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, and wish you good luck. Not for your side, you understand, but you, personally.”

“Where will they take us?” Chernova wondered.

“Either Utah, or someplace in Upstate New York. You'll sit out the rest of the war there.” Carlisle replied. “I'm going back to my ship in a day or so.”

Chernova nodded understanding. She hugged Commander Carlisle, and kissed her on the cheeks in the traditional Russian manner. “Thank you again.”

“I have to go, but one day, maybe, we can get together again and share our war stories-it happens after every war.” Carlisle said. “Good luck.”

Chernova nodded as the Commander went back to the two Army officers. “That's that, Major.” She went back to the APC and picked up that AK-74 she wanted to keep. “Thanks again, Captain,” she said to Kozak, shaking her hand. “Major, this could've ended a lot worse. Remember, they're not the KGB or the GRU: they got sent here to do their job, that's all.”

“We know, Ma'am. Let's get you to that chopper.” Little said. And with that, he escorted Commander Carlisle to the Blackhawk, and she got in. The crew chief made sure she was seated and strapped in, then gave her a headset. “Where are we going, exactly?” she asked the pilot.

“Edinburg, Ma'am. General Powell's HQ is there.” the pilot replied as the Blackhawk took off, made a turn, and headed north.


1615 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas:


Major Lazarev peered out to sea once again, and again, there were American ships on the horizon. But this time, they didn't appear to be menacing his defenses, just cruising up and down the coast. From what he'd heard over the radio net, the Americans were pouring ashore, and the Army was having a hard time with American air attacks and naval gunfire. Having been on the receiving end of two bombardments himself, he did not blame anyone for pulling back in the face of fire that could not be countered. But still, there was still a chance that there'd be a landing on this beach, and so he went up to Captain Lieutenant Kamarov's observation point to have a long-range look for himself.

He found Kamarov peering through his long-range glasses and consulting his ship recognition manual. “Well, what do we have now? Lazarev asked.

“So far, not much. I've seen one of the battleships, though. Not sure which one-they're too far away to see the hull number. There's what appears to be a couple of supply ships-and helicopters going back and forth, with sling loads carried underneath.” Kamarov said.

“You've seen that before?”

“Yes, Major. Once, before the war. In the Mediterranean: their Sixth Fleet did something like that, and our ship was there. We saw them fly supplies from the supply ship to the carrier, back and forth, for most of a day.”Kamarov said.

Lazarev peered through the glasses. He did notice something else, though. “What are those other helicopters doing?”

“Too far away exactly to tell what they're up to,” Kamarov replied. “Best guess, though, is they're on antisubmarine patrol.”

Lazarev was surprised at that. “So we still have our comrades in submarines out there?”

“I don't know, Major.” Kamarov admitted. “But they must think so, otherwise, no patrols. I'd still do it, if I was in their place.”

The door to the OP opened, and it was one of Lazarev's staff officers. “Comrade Major, this came in from Admiral Gordikov.”

Nodding, Lazarev replied, “Thank you.” He took the message form and read it. “Mother of God....”

“What is it?” Kamarov asked.

“No, repeat, no demolitions of any kind are permitted from now on. This includes the Queen Isabella Causeway and the Port Isabel oil refinery.” Lazarev read.


Kamarov let out a sigh of relief. “That's that, Major. No demolitions means only one thing: this battle is almost over. And you won't have had to fire a shot.”


1625 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:


General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov were in the 105th's command post, having recrossed back to their own lines. Their trip had been uneventful, though as they walked through the American lines, both had noticed scores of American soldiers watching them. For many, it had been their first sight of a live Soviet general, and Sergetov had noticed soldiers taking out something that in the Soviet Army, was strictly forbidden: personal cameras, and they were taking pictures. When Sergetov commented about it, Chibisov admitted noticing it was well. Once they got back to the 105th's command post, General Gordonov was waiting. He'd arranged his local cease-fire, and so far, it was holding.

Now, Chibisov was waiting on the phone for Marshal Alekseyev. Then Alekseyev's voice came on the line, “Pavel Pavlovitch, did you accomplish your mission?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. I was able to speak to General McCaffery, Powell's chief of staff. He has arranged a meeting with you for 1700. Please come to the 105th's command post, and we will cross the American lines, where a helicopter will take us to Powell's headquarters.” Chibisov said.

“Something has come up, Chibisov. Send Colonel Sergetov back, and ask the Americans for a two-hour delay. Some....housecleaning, for want of a better term, needs to be taken care of before the meeting.” Alekseyev said.

Chibisov understood. No doubt the Political Department, along with some KGB and possibly even GRU, had to be dealt with first. A pity Andreyev's paratroopers were busy fighting the U.S. Marines, as they would perform that task splendidly. But the headquarters guard battalion would be able to handle matters, he knew. “I will do so, Comrade Marshal.”

“Good, Chibisov. One other thing: we received a message from Moscow. You have a Gold Star, whether you want one or not.” Alekseyev told his chief of staff.

“Someone not only wants heroes, Comrade Marshal, but also dead ones,” Chibisov observed.

“Yes, and that Chekist who got himself to become General Secretary and start this whole chain of events is likely that someone. He's not going to get what he wants, that I assure you.”

“I have no doubt about that, Comrade Marshal,” said Chibisov. “Shall I inform the Americans of the reason for the delay?”

“By all means, Chibisov. I would like to keep that meeting time, but circumstances require these preliminary matters to be dealt with first. I will be there, however, at 1830.” Alekseyev said, then he hung up.

Chibisov turned to Sergetov, “Colonel, go back and inform the Americans that the Marshal will be delayed, and of the reason for such a delay.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Sergetov replied. He picked up the white flag and returned to the American lines, where the same female infantry lieutenant received him. She took him into her company command post, and got on the radio with her battalion commander. The message was relayed to General McCaffery, who only had one question: “Is the reason for the delay either KGB or GRU?”

“Please tell the General that though I was not told, it may be either one,or a combination of the two.” Sergetov said.

The female officer did so, and McCaffery replied. “Very well, Colonel. We'll meet at 1900.”

Sergetov thanked the general, and returned to his own lines. As he did so, he saw American medics coming back from the 105th's positions, carrying wounded Americans on stretchers. Gordonov had indicated he had American wounded, and was anxious to return them. Sergetov also noted that some civilians had come out of hiding, hoping that the fighting was over for good. Hopefully, it will be, he thought.

Sergetov returned to the 105th's command post and relayed McCaffery's granting of the request. Chibisov relayed the news to Marshal Alekseyev, who reconfirmed his arrival at 1830.

1655 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo High School, Rancho Viejo, Texas:


Malinsky surveyed the gymnasium at the high school, and noted that under more ideal circumstances, it would make a fine operations area for a headquarters. Now, they'd be there, at most, for a day or two, and everyone knew it. Still, until there was a cease-fire, things went on as usual. And Isakov was giving his Front Commander a status update.

“The Cuban 1st Army's right flank is still holding, as is their center, but the left, Comrade General, has given way. There, the only thing delaying II MAF's forces are prisoners in quantity.” Isakov reported.

“Just like in Colorado, after the American offensive after Wichita,” Malinsky remembered. “It's been said that the only thing holding up the American advance there was the mass of prisoners that clogged the roads.”

“Ah, yes, Comrade General,” Isakov replied. “In 28th Army, they're facing also II MAF, and some of XVIII Airborne Corps still, though they're being cut off by the 7th Armored Division, slowly but surely. Our men are still fighting, but the ammunition...”

“Is the factor. I know, Isakov. And the Americans now control the sky totally. We haven't seen a friendly aircraft since midmorning.” Malinsky said. “Continue.”

“In Suraykin's army, the 24th Tanks has finally been overwhelmed, and what's left of 38th Tanks is still clinging to their positions. If they had the ammunition, they could hold another day,” Isakov said. “On the left, both 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle have been pushed back, almost to the 77-83 freeway, and the Americans there have opened the right flank of 8th Guards Army.

“In that sector, they're pushing VIII Corps forces into 8th Guards as well, and they've annihilated the 276th Motor-Rifle Division almost to the last vehicle: they were holding the juncture with 4th Guards Tank Army. Elements of VIII Corps are also facing 3rd Shock, as is part of XII Corps. The 3rd Shock Army is falling back, still in good order, but again, fuel and ammunition shortages mean that intact tanks and combat vehicles are simply being abandoned. Finally, the Cuban 2nd Army is also teetering, with an open left flank, and a clear Highway 281.” Isakov said, finishing his report.

Malinsky surveyed the map, and simply shook his head. “The amphibious landing?”

“Andreyev's group has taken heavy losses from air strikes and naval gunfire. But they are keeping the Americans from pushing to the Intracoastal Waterway and crossing it. If they do, that whole area north of the waterway is practically undefended. And there's nothing to stop them if they did so.” Isakov commented.

Malinsky let out a sigh. “This has to end. Isakov. It has to. Now, I do know there may be those who want to continue fighting. That would be some KGB, and the PSD, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“I've got my own headquarters battalion left: fully equipped and ready. If Marshal Alekseyev needs them to....clean house, as they say, that battalion's at his disposal.”

Isakov nodded, and went to notify Alekseyev's headquarters. As he was talking to Alekseyev's operations officer, Malinsky's communications officer came to him with a message. “Comrade General, this came direct from Moscow.”

“From Moscow?” Malinsky asked, stunned. “What does it say?”

The man took a deep breath. “It's from the General Secretary. It says that if Marshal Alekseyev attempts to surrender, you are to relieve him of his command and continue resistance as long as possible. 'Every day you fight is of paramount importance.' the message says.”

Malinsky scowled. “Of all the....'paramount importance.' The only thing that's of importance is that bastard Chekist's personal vanity.”

The room went silent at that. Finally, someone had been able to speak what he thought of their leader, who had led the Soviet Union into this war, and had stubbornly refused to find a way out when it was obvious that a battlefield victory was impossible. “Do you have a reply, Comrade General? The message requests acknowledgment.”

“Simply acknowledge receipt of the message. Nothing more.” Malinsky ordered.

The man grinned. “Yes, Comrade General!” he said as he went off to send the message. As he did so, Malinsky addressed the staff. “How many here wish to continue the fight? If there are, then I release you from your duties, and urge you to get across the Rio Grande as soon as possible.”

Isakov, still on the phone, looked around. None of the staff raised their hands, and he smiled. He finished his conversation and hung up. “Comrade General, may I say that it has been an honor to serve with you, and that it is a pleasure to be with you at the end.”

The staff stood up and applauded. Malinsky nodded, then ordered them back to their duties. Isakov came over and informed him, “Marshal Alekseyev has the situation in hand, but that if there are any such elements that you are aware of, you may deal with them at your discretion.”

Malinsky nodded. “We'll do just that. There's a KGB checkpoint at Olmito, just south of here on 77-83, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade General. A company-sized unit, I believe.” Isakov said. “There's also a labor camp and a POW camp nearby.”

“Good. Have that unit disarmed. If they refuse, the battalion commander may deal with them appropriately. And secure those camps. The guards are to be disarmed and the prisoners turned over to the Americans, as per the Marshal's orders.”

Isakov grinned again. Dealing decisively with a KGB unit? “It will be a pleasure, Comrade General.”


1710 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev knew that the Political Department-along with certain KGB elements, would oppose his intention to conclude matters, and so he'd unleashed his headquarters guard on the nearby KGB offices. He'd briefed the battalion commander personally, and the captain was eager to deal with the KGB once and for all before things ended. Now, two companies of motor-rifle troops and a platoon of tanks had surrounded the building, which was close to the headquarters on the old university campus, and were busy reducing it to rubble. And any of the Chekisti who tried to run were gunned down as they did so, while others were shot down where they stood. As he watched from the roof of the headquarters, a smile came to Alekseyev's face. Now, the chief of the Political Department needed to be taken care of. If Chibisov was here, I'd have him handle it. But now, I'll do it myself, he thought. He turned to General Glasov. “I'd say the Chekisti won't be in a position to object to whatever decisions I make, Glasov.”

“Comrade Marshal, there are many officers who would have loved to do just as you have done. Only they didn't have the courage to do so.” Glasov commented.

“I know. But then, those men weren't in the position we're in now.” Alekseyev said. “Let's go take care of the Political Department,” Alekseyev said, motioning to the door leading to the stairwell.

Glasov nodded, and both officers went down to the fourth floor, where the Political Department had its offices. Most of the Political Officers there had left-knowing full well that if they were caught by the Americans, they would be considered war criminals unless proven otherwise, so many had fled, either on their own to Mexico, or had tried to get on the airlift. A few had stayed-and shot themselves, much to Alekseyev's pleasure: he had no use for political officers, and in many cases, leaving “pacification” or “political re-education” to the Zampolits had left a bad taste in his mouth-let alone leaving numerous corpses in their wake. Not to mention the political interference in running the war: oh, he knew full well that the Soviets were not likely to win an outright victory, but Chebrikov's stubbornness, and with Political Officers and the KGB purging officers for supposed defeatist tendencies, meant that his loathing of those two species had been magnified.

Now, the two officers came to the office of the highest-ranking political officer in the entire American TVD. Lieutenant General Valentin Drachev had been in the job for two years, and according to the GRU, the Americans had him on their “wanted” lists. Alekseyev had decided, that if Drachev wouldn't get out-and there were still helicopter flights-he'd 'retire' the political officer and order the remaining political staff out. And so the two officers came to Drachev's office and knocked on the door. Glasov frowned. “Comrade Marshal, I think I hear sobbing.”

“I think you're right,” Alekseyev said, and he opened the door. Inside the office, they found Drachev sitting at his desk, with two empty vodka bottles on top, and the general sitting with his back turned to the entrance, weeping. The Marshal looked at Drachev, and shook his head. “Comrade Political Officer?” Alekseyev said.

Drachev turned, and both generals saw tears in his eyes. “Marshal....I have something for you.”

“Drachev? Why are you in this state?” Alekseyev asked.

“When this war started, I was an idealistic, sincere, communist. Convinced that what we were embarking on was a war of liberation, to free America from the shackles of capitalism, and bring about a new age of peace and justice. Now, I am ashamed of what has been done in the name of socialism, and in the name of the Party.” Drachev said, still sobbing uncontrollably. “Instead, we have outdone the Fascists in their brutality, and our hands are red with innocent blood.”

“Comrade-”

“We had no business coming here!” Drachev shouted, “We all know it, and yet, our leadership in the Kremlin betrayed us, betrayed our soldiers and the people, and now, the Soviet Union is held in the same low regard as Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan in terms of the number of atrocities committed. And yes, I have seen the results of such.....activity.” Drachev sobbed, taking a swig of vodka from the bottle he was holding.

Alekseyev and Glasov looked at each other. “Comrade Drachev,” Alekseyev said. “I can get you on one of the last helicopters out of here, before the end.....”

“I cannot leave. Nor will I surrender to the Americans, Marshal.” Drachev put the bottle down and opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a Tokarev TT-33 pistol, cocking it as he did so. And before either Alekseyev or Glasov could say or do anything, Drachev put the pistol to his head and fired. His body dropped to the floor, leaving a bloody mess on the office window.

The two generals turned and left. As they returned to Alekseyev's office, so that the Marshal could compose his final message to Moscow, Glasov turned to the Marshal and said, “Comrade Marshal, that was probably the best....outcome in this case.”

“Yes, it was. I would have killed him, but better that he took care of that detail himself. I expect that there will be quite a few suicides between now and when the cease-fire takes effect.” Alekseyev observed. “And the Americans will be...disappointed.”

“How is that, Comrade Marshal?” Glasov asked.

“There are those whom the Americans wish to put on trial as war criminals; finding out that some of them evaded the gallows in this way won't make them happy.”


1725 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport:

Colonel Gregor Alexandrov was at the point of simply throwing up his hands and giving up. He'd been General Lukin's deputy, and had stayed in the job when Lukin was flown out and General Petrov remained in charge of the airlift. Now, Petrov was gone as well, and things had gone to hell in a handbasket very quickly. Only a few aircraft had come in since Petrov's departure, and none of the heavy lift aircraft-like An-22s or Il-76s. A few An-12s and An-24s or -26s had come in, as had a couple more An-74s, but there were still priority specialists awaiting evacuation, and, unless a miracle happened, none of them would leave. Neither would the hundreds of wounded whose injuries gave them a ticket out, and it appeared that everyone's next stop would be an American POW compound.

And those were the least of his problems. American fighters had been prowling around all day, taking shots at the transports whenever they had the chance, and out to sea, carrier-based fighters were feasting on those aircraft making the run to and from Cuba. And just an hour earlier, A-6s had come in and put laser-guided bombs onto two of the runways, leaving only one intact, and that, he suspected, was because the Americans wanted to preserve the field for their own use when they invaded Mexico. Not just the hits on the runways, but also two other A-6s had bombed the ramp area, wrecking an An-12 and a Tu-154, along with a Mexican Air Force 727. He was about to declare the field closed to all traffic when a civilian came up to him. Alexandrov glared at him until he realized the man was the Ambassador to the collaborationist government that had been evacuated. “Yes, Comrade Ambassador? You were saying?”

“Is there any chance of an aircraft coming in this evening? I must get out of here.” said Makarev.

Alexandrov surveyed the man. Clearly, this was as close as he'd ever came to a fighting front, and the rumble of artillery fire from the north and the east was getting ever so slightly louder with each passing hour. Not to mention all of the air attacks they'd gone through. And the man was obviously rattled. “I'm sorry, Comrade Ambassador, but the runways have been cratered. My men likely won't get them repaired in time before the end.”

“But I must leave!”

“So? Look over there, by the terminal building. All of those men there have a higher priority than you, and it's a near certainty that they'll never get out of here,” Alexandrov yelled. He pointed at the last remaining intact hangar, with its doors open and the stretchers all over the hangar floor. “Not to mention those poor wretches. None of them will get out. And you insist on leaving?”

“Yes, Colonel! If I stay, the Americans will no doubt try me as a war criminal for having helped form and support the Liberation Government.”

Alexandrov regarded the Ambassador. “If those bastards were half as bad as the rumors say they were, then you ought to face a trial. Now, get the hell out of my airport. If you want out of here so bad, try getting to Mexico on foot. Just start walking south, and you'll cross the river.”

Makarev was stunned. Obviously, Alekseyev's contempt for him and his duties here had spread. But when several Air Force guards came over, he went back to his car. The Cadillac had served him well, and it was a pity there wasn't enough gas to get him to Mexico, even if the border bridges were still up. His driver, who he suspected, but couldn't prove, as being KGB, had disappeared. No doubt the KGB had their own escape routes already planned and were using them. Makarev sat down in the back seat, and opened his briefcase. He looked at the Makarov pistol, and stared at it. He took out a letter for his wife, then took the pistol, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Alexandrov was watching as an Mi-26 helicopter came in to land. Another eighty-five men would be getting out, thank heavens. He was waving the evacuees to the helicopter when a captain came up to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade Colonel, that civilian you were arguing with?”

“What about him?” Alexandrov asked.

“Some guards found him in his car. He shot himself,” the captain said.

“No great loss. Put his body with all the others. We're flying these helicopters out of here until dark.”


1745 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, University of Texas Pan-American, Edinburg, Texas:


Commander Carlisle waited outside General Powell's office at Third Army Headquarters. The Soviets had used the University as a headquarters, first during the initial invasion, then it had served as a rear-area HQ during the next three years, also hosting a KGB and DGI “pacification” office, before serving as Third Shock Army's Headquarters during the final offensive. The Soviets had stripped the university of anything that could be useful, from the library (obviously) to the contents of labs belonging to the various sciences: biology, physics, chemistry, and so forth. Even office equipment and sinks had been stripped out. Now, the U.S. Army was back, and General Powell had set up in what had been the University President's office.

Her helo ride had been a wild one: instead of climbing to altitude, the helo pilot had stayed at treetop level almost the entire time. And what she'd seen out the window brought a big smile to her face. Columns of American armor and infantry headed south, supply convoys bringing supplies forward, and going north on U.S. 281, columns of Soviet and Cuban prisoners marching north to EPW compounds that had been set up. What was it that General Dudorov had said to her, once? “If those men in the Kremlin could see what we see, they'd bring an end to this.” Well, she thought, it's going to end. And on our terms.

“Commander?” a voice said.

Commander Carlisle opened her eyes. I must have dozed off there, she thought. “Yes?”

“Ma'am, I'm Major Scott Dixon, General Powell's aide. He's ready for you now.” the Army officer said.

She got up and followed the major into Powell's office. An Army-issue desk and chairs, several map boards, and a map showing North America, with the battle lines clearly marked, hung on the wall. “General, this is Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle.”

She came to attention and saluted. Powell returned the salute, and said, “Welcome back, Commander,” putting out his hand.

Carlisle shook hands with the General, “Thank you, sir.”

“Have a seat. My J-2 has told me about your experience. A little unusual, but given how things are from Ivan's viewpoint, it's not surprising they'd pick someone for something like that.” Powell said.

“Believe me, Sir, I was just as surprised. I expected a long Q&A session with a bunch of GRU thugs, and instead, it's practically the royal treatment.”

Powell nodded. He'd been just as surprised as his own staff when they relayed her story to him. “And you think that even if you'd said no, they would've put you on that bus anyway?”

“Yes,sir. I really do.” Carlisle said.

“Well..that settles that. Now, what kind of a man will I be meeting with in a while?” Powell asked.

“Sir?”

“Alekseyev. What kind of man is he?” said Powell.

“Well, General, I got the impression that he's doing a job that he'd rather not be doing. And he's frankly disgusted with the KGB and all of their...activities. Not to mention the ALA and the PSD. He told me that creating them-along with the Hall government, was a mistake.”

Powell looked at his J-2. The Intelligence Officer nodded. They'd had similar information, and this verified some of what they'd picked up earlier. “What else?”

“I gathered the impression he's also disgusted with what he's getting from Moscow. I don't know Russian, sir. But a couple of times, he got messages while I was in his presence, and he looked pretty disgusted at what he'd read.” Carlisle reported. “He wanted me to understand that not all Soviet officers were barbarians.”

Powell leaned back against his desk. “Could he have gotten orders to carry out certain...actions, and that only reinforced his disgust?”

“General, I just don't know. You'll have to ask him.”

“I will. In the meantime, get yourself a shower, and cleaned up. You'll be there.” Powell said.

“Sir?”

“It's only fitting, Commander. You're going to be there at the surrender. All you have to do is stand back and watch. You won't have to say a word. But you'll be able to tell your grandchildren: you were there when the Russians surrendered in Texas.” Powell said. He turned to Major Dixon, “Major, get the Commander to a shower, and see if our Navy liaison has a fresh uniform for her. If not, get her flight suit through the laundry while she's cleaning up.”

Major Dixon nodded, “If you'll come with me, Commander?”

Carlisle stood up to leave. Powell shook hands with her again, and said. “Major Dixon will see that you're there at the ceremony. Is there anything else?”

“Sir, I'd like to let my father know I'm OK. He's retired and living in Maine. Chances are, the Navy's told him I went down.”

Powell nodded understanding. In her position, he'd want to notify his wife by whatever means. “Major, see to her request.”

“Thank you, sir.” Carlisle said.

“No. Thank you, Commander. You've earned it. And remember: tonight you'll be a witness to history.” Powell reminded her.

“Aye, Aye, Sir.”


1815 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:

Generals Chibisov and Gordonov, along with Colonel Sergetov, were waiting outside the 105th's command post. A brief radio message had informed them that Marshal Alekseyev was on his way, and after that, they'd be going to the Americans. In the meantime, they'd been talking about the war, the current battle, and lost comrades. All of them had had old classmates, or friends they'd served with before, reported killed, wounded, or missing (the Soviets refused to acknowledge their POWs, just as in the Great Patriotic War), but all three knew of friends who were sitting out the war behind American barbed wire. Another subject came up, and that was what would happen in the Rodina once it was obvious the war was over for all intents and purposes. Not to mention the fate of their families once it was clear that they had surrendered. But the same subject kept coming back: could the Soviets have won the war? Chibisov was emphatic.

“No! Absolutely not, Comrades. Unless the Americans had totally collapsed in the first six months, there was no way to win.”

Sergetov nodded. “Comrade Generals, from the perspective of a tank commander, this was a first-class mess. A dreadfully long supply line, hostile populations in three countries-the problems with our supplies in Mexico come to mind, along with those in Canada-and totally losing the battle for world opinion. All of which guaranteed failure.”

Gordinov looked at the young Colonel. A Freunze graduate himself, he'd been hoping to attend the General Staff Academy, but the outbreak of war had prevented that. But it was clear that Sergetov, speaking from the view of a junior officer's eyes, was right. “So easy to draw the sword, but very hard to put it back in its sheath,” he observed. “A pity those in Moscow never learned that.”

Chibisov nodded agreement. “Yes. And something a Japanese Admiral once said applies to our situation-not just now, but back in 1985.”

Both Gordinov and Sergetov looked at him. “A Japanese Admiral, Comrade General?” Sergetov asked.

“Yes, Admiral Yamamoto: the man who planned the attack on Pearl Harbor, back in 1941. He is supposed to have said 'All we have done is awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve.' He also said something else that equally applies to us.”

“And that is?” Gordonov asked.

“It is impossible for a foreign army to invade the United States. There would be a rifle behind every blade of grass, and every tree.” Chibisov said. “In both, he was correct.”

Gordonov's aide came into the room. “Comrades, Marshal Alekseyev is here.”

Chibisov raised an eyebrow. “He's early.”

“Who knew who might have been listening in on the conversation, when he said 1830, Comrade General?” Sergetov pointed out.

“Quite so, Comrade Colonel. Let's go.” Chibisov said. And the three went out to greet the Marshal, and escort him across to American lines. They saluted, and Alekseyev returned it. He was in his last clean uniform, with all of his decorations, and the shoulder boards of a Marshal of the Soviet Union. “Are you ready, Comrade Marshal?” Chibisov asked.

Alekseyev nodded. “Let's go, then.”

Sergetov picked up the white flag and the party crossed into American lines. Once again, American soldiers stood up from their holes and positions to watch, and some, again, took pictures.


On the other side, Lieutenant Moore's First Sergeant called to her; “L-T, they're coming. Four of 'em. And one looks like he's the head honcho.”

Here we go again, she thought. And this time, a Marshal? Boy, if the guys from OCS could see this. She turned to her radioman. “Call battalion, and let them know the Russians are back. With their CO.”

The RTO nodded. “You got it, L-T.”

As he did so, she put on her fatigue cap, picked up her M-16, and went out to greet the Russians. She also handed her First Sergeant her own camera. “When we start talking, take a picture. This time, I want something to show my kids someday.”

The first sergeant nodded. He'd do the same. And the two Americans went to meet the Soviets. When they got there, she saluted, just like it was, back at Fort Benning. “Sir. First Lieutenant Jennifer Moore, United States Army, 29th Infantry Division.”

Alekseyev regarded the American in front of him. So, Commander Carlisle was right. First a female naval aviator, now a female infantry lieutenant. Just as we did in the Great Patriotic War. And he noticed that she had come to strict attention, just like a cadet at one of his own Military Colleges. Alekseyev returned the salute, and said, “I am Marshal Pavel Alekseyev, commander of the forces in the Brownsville area. I have a meeting arranged with General Powell.”

Moore nodded. “Yes, sir. I've notified my superiors, and a helicopter will be here shortly. If you'll come with me. First Sergeant,” she said.

The party went back to Moore's command post, and her RTO came out. He saw the Soviet brass, and just as if it was General Powell paying a visit to the front, he saluted the party. “Ma'am, the battalion commander's on his way. He said 'they're early', but he's coming.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” Moore said. “Sirs, my battalion commander will be here in a few moments.”

Alekseyev nodded and looked around. There were about sixty to seventy troops in the area. “This is your company?” he asked.

“Yes,sir. There were 225 when we started this,” Moore said. “Those paratroopers of yours didn't want to give up easily,” she said, looking at Gordonov, who nodded as well.

The Marshal looked at the American again. So young, and in a harsh business, he thought. But then again, we did the same forty-five years ago. “And how many are women?”

“About a quarter of the original company was female,” she said, matter of factly. “Why do you ask?”

“It's nothing, Lieutenant. Just curious, that's all.” Alekseyev said. Then he noticed a pair of American Humvees coming. “Is that your battalion commander?”

“It is. Wait a moment, Sir.” Moore said. She went over and talked with a Major who got out of the lead vehicle. He nodded, and waved them forward. After introductions, the Soviets got into the Humvees and the small convoy pulled out and headed towards 29th Division Headquarters. As they did so, they passed a small group of soldiers working on an abandoned T-80 tank.

“I told you a socket wrench! Jonesy, did you ever work on a car or truck before you got in the Army?” The sergeant shouted from inside the turret.

“Not much of that in the Detroit inner city, Sarge,” the corporal replied. “Sarge! They're back.”

The sergeant came up and stood in the tank's open hatch. He saw two Humvees, with four senior Soviet officers inside, and one of them had the single gold star of a Marshal of the Soviet Union on his shoulder boards. “That's it. They're going to sign the papers. But they had to get their CO first.”

“What do you mean, Sarge?” the corporal asked.

The sergeant looked at the young corporal from Detroit. How on earth did he wind up in a MI unit? Mentally cursing whoever in the Army bureaucracy had saddled the unit with this guy, the sergeant said, “That's a Marshal of the Soviet Union. And you just saw the end of the war-at least north of the Rio Grande, Jonesy. Now, get me that socket wrench!”

Bunch of JSC people witness the hanging of people involved the Clear Lake City Massacre among other things. Some regretted not being able to pull the lever.

I never wanted to see one. Part of me was afraid I'd cheer the drop.

Why, I believe that I hear the Fat Lady singing… sounds like a Jigglypuff with laryngitis…

The two opposing commanders meet:


1830 Hours: 29th Infantry Division Main CP, north of Harlingen, Texas.


The Soviet delegation arrived at the main command post for the 29th Infantry Division, and Alekseyev was met by Lieutenant General Gary Luck, who commanded XVIII Airborne Corps, and by Major General Richard Armistead, the 29th's Divisional Commander. After the usual pleasantries, even between enemies, Alekseyev commented that if it had been Schwartzkopf in command instead of Powell, this meeting might have been held a few days earlier. General Luck looked at the Marshal in amazement, then let out a laugh. Puzzled, Alekseyev asked what was so funny, and Luck replied, “You may not know this, but some commentators on CNN have been saying things like that for the past week.”

“And they are not censored?” Alekseyev asked.

“Marshal, even in wartime, there's one thing we Americans pride ourselves on: a free press. The news media knows what it can and can't report, but when it comes to the basics, they can say whatever they want. Even when a Senator or Congressman makes a floor speech, offering criticism of how the war is being fought-or what future strategy should be in their view-it's broadcast. That's the difference between our society and yours.” General Luck said.

“Comrade Marshal, General McCaffery warned us about this: there will be many, many reporters there,” Sergetov said.

Alekseyev nodded. Then the sound of a helicopter broke things up, as a UH-60 came in, made a circle, then flared for landing. The helicopter kept its engine going, and the side door slid open, and two American officers got out. One of them was General McCaffery. Both the division and corps commanders saluted him, and then McCaffery recognized Alekseyev from his file photograph. “Marshal, I'm Lieutenant General McCaffery, General Powell's chief of staff,” he said, saluting.

“General,” Alekseyev said, returning the salute. “I gather this is our helicopter?”

“It is. If you and your party will follow me?” McCaffery said.

The Soviet delegation followed McCaffery and his aide to the waiting Blackhawk and everyone got in. The crew chief made sure everyone was seated and seat belts fastened, then he slid the door shut and the UH-60 lifted off. McCaffery passed out headsets to the Soviets: “It's too noisy to talk otherwise,” he explained, and the Soviets did so. Alekseyev and Chibisov looked out the side windows, and the scene on U.S. 77 said it all: American supply convoys and reinforcements were moving south, empty supply vehicles were going north, and in the highway median, columns of Soviet, Cuban, and other Soviet bloc prisoners, headed north towards American POW compounds. The sight only reinforced Alekseyev's desire to bring matters to an end, before any more of his men died. Then the helicopter turned west, and flew to General Powell's headquarters in Edinburg. Alekseyev recognized the location: it had been 3rd Shock Army's headquarters when the pocket had been formed, and he'd visited that brute Starukhin several times.

As the Blackhawk orbited, Alekseyev could see how things had changed: the Americans were using the athletic fields for helicopter landings, a field hospital was nearby, and there was a tent city set up, apparently to provide living space for Powell's headquarters personnel. Not to mention the Patriot and HAWK missile batteries that had been set up to provide air defense. Then Alekseyev noticed a crowd gathered near the helicopter landing area. He asked General McCaffery. “Are these the reporters you warned my aide and chief of staff about?”

“They are, Marshal. You don't have to say a word to those people,” McCaffery said. Then he spoke to the pilot. “We're getting ready to land, gentlemen.”

The UH-60 flared and landed. As the pilot shut down the engines, everyone made ready to get out. Only when the crew chief signaled that they could do so, did the passengers leave the helicopter. McCaffery led the Soviet delegation past the reporters, who were being kept a distance away by MPs, to one of the campus administration buildings, and took them into a meeting room.

“Gentlemen, since we weren't expecting you this early, General Powell isn't ready to see you. He will see you, though, at 1900, which is in about fifteen minutes or so. Is there anything you need at the moment? Something to eat, perhaps?” McCaffery asked.

Alekseyev nodded. “Thank you, General. Something to eat would be most welcome.”

“Good. I'll have some sandwiches and cold drinks-nonalcoholic, I regret to say, brought in. Make yourselves as comfortable as possible, and the General will see you in about fifteen minutes.”


1850 Hours: K-236: the Gulf of Mexico:


Captain Padorin looked at the message he'd just received from Caribbean Squadron HQ. He looked at the message, then his communications officer. “Have you decoded this correctly?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” the man replied.

Padorin sighed. “All right. Thank you.” the captain said. The communications man nodded and left the Captain's cabin. Padorin then got up and went into the CCP. The Starpom was there, though Shelpin, the Security Officer, had taken over as officer of the watch. “Comrades, we have a new mission.”

“What?” asked the Starpom.

Padorin showed him the message form. “We're to conduct search-and-rescue operations along the flight path from Brownsville to Cuba. Evidently a plane or planes with some VIPs aboard has gone down, and somebody important is out there on the water.”

Shelpin looked at the Captain. Even though he was KGB, he was also a submariner. “Comrade Captain, does the message say who?”

“No, it doesn't,” Padorin admitted. “And this sounds like another chance to get us killed. Just like that failed pickup on the coast.”

The Starpom looked at the chart. “So where do they want us?”

“A point fifty kilometers off the western tip of Cuba. Then proceed west to a point about halfway between that location and Brownsville.” Padorin said, going over the message.

Shelpin cursed. “Like you said, Comrade Captain. This is another chance to get us killed. That place is likely swarming with American aircraft. If they catch us on the surface...”

“I know,” Padorin said. “But we won't be on the surface. We'll proceed submerged along the route, and only occasionally going to periscope depth to do a visual search. There's no doubt the place has plenty of P-3s and shipboard helicopters, and I won't make it easy for them.”

The Starpom nodded. “Still...it's going to be nasty there.”

“No doubt,” Padorin agreed. Like I said: I won't make it easy for them.” He turned to the Navigator. “New course: three-five-zero.”

“Three-five-zero, Aye, Comrade Captain.”

Padorin then turned to Shelpin. “Come left to three-five-zero. Make turns for twenty knots. Depth: two hundred meters.”


1900 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, Edinburg, Texas:


The Soviet delegation walked with General McCaffery across what had been the University of Texas-Pan American campus before the war. To Alekseyev, it had come full circle: he'd been here in 1985 as a deputy Front Commander, and the campus had served as Gulf Front's headquarters. Now, he was back. McCaffery escorted the Soviets to what had been the main administration building, where Powell maintained his offices, and escorted them into a conference room. There, tables had been set up, and General Powell and his staff were waiting to receive them. “Marshal,” Powell said, saluting.

“General Powell,” Alekseyev responded.

“I only wish this had happened earlier, but...you had your duty to perform, until it could no longer be done,” Powell said. “Please, be seated, gentlemen.”

The Soviet delegation sat, followed by Powell and his staff. One thing that Powell was happy about was that Alekseyev spoke fluent English, as did Chibisov and Sergetov. Though General Gordonov did not, Sergetov would act as an interpreter. “Marshal, I gather that you wish to surrender the forces under your command?”

“That is correct, General. However, I do not have control over those forces that have escaped south of the Rio Grande, nor do I control those at sea.” Alekseyev said.

Powell knew it already. But he wanted it for the record. “I see. How long will it take to ensure that the forces under your command will obey an order to lay down their arms?”

“A few hours, General. Your attacks against our command-and-control systems have proven to be effective. Notifying every headquarters down to battalion level will take some time, if they cannot be contacted by radio or by field phone.” Alekseyev replied.

“Very well. And prisoners? There are a number of POW and labor camps within your perimeter,” Powell pointed out.

“I have already issued orders that they are to be turned over to your forces, when the time comes.” Alekseyev said. “Though, I fear, that those held by the KGB or the PSD may have already been moved to Mexico-or worse.”

Powell looked at the Marshal. It was to be expected, he knew. Not even a theater commander could entirely control the KGB, or those scum in the PSD. “I see. You do have the locations of these camps?”

“Of course, General.”

“We'll also need to have the locations of all land and sea mines. As well as which facilities within the pocket have been rigged for demolition.” Powell said.

“Those will be provided to you,” Alekseyev said. “My chief of staff has all of the necessary materials.”

“Good. The airlift will cease, and there will be no more ships sailing,” Powell stated.

Alekseyev simply nodded.

Powell then asked, “Finally: are there any nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons or materials within the pocket?”

“There are some artillery shells and Grad rockets with chemical warheads: they are already secured, and will remain so until your troops arrive.” Alekseyev said. “I can assure you there are no biological weapons. As for nuclear, you would be advised to inspect the wreck of the freighter Cherepovets, scuttled in the Intracoastal Waterway. You may find some very interesting things there.”

Powell's J-2 raised an eyebrow at that. So that's where they put them, he thought. But Powell himself said nothing, but he did give his approval with a wink and nod. Then Powell spoke:

“The cease fire takes effect at one minute after midnight, Central Time. U.S. Forces will move in to take the surrender of Soviet and Soviet-allied forces beginning at 0800 Central Time. You may keep your headquarters guard and any Military Police under arms to maintain order until they are relieved by U.S. Forces. Any KGB or PSD units remaining are to be taken into custody, and handed over to the appropriate U.S. personnel.”

Alekseyev looked at the other Soviet officers. It was about what they expected. “And our wounded?”

“They will be given whatever medical attention is required, and you own medical personnel will be allowed to continue treating them. It would be advisable to have your chief of medical services come forward soon, so that my own medical personnel can make whatever preparations they need.” Powell said. “You and your men will be treated in full accordance with the Geneva Convention as Prisoners of War, and will be treated well. Just as those in the convoy you tried to send out to Mexico earlier today.”

Alekseyev was stunned. The convoy had been intercepted? “The convoy with Soviet servicewomen?”

“Yes. You may be assured that they will be properly treated,” Powell replied. “And your choice of...shall we say, envoy, was unusual, but given your circumstances....”

The Marshal didn't try to show it,but he was relieved. “They are safe?”

“Yes. And they will be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp where we do hold a number of Soviet servicewomen from previous engagements. They are safe, and able to sit out the rest of the war as comfortably as possible.”

“Thank you, General.” Alekseyev said. He was now resigned to signing whatever surrender document the Americans had.

“You are welcome, Marshal,” Powell said. “Now, we'll adjourn to the gym. Things have been set up there for the actual signing.”

Alekseyev nodded. “And who will sign?”

“I will, as Commanding General of Third Army. You, of course, as Commander of the Soviet Forces in Texas”

The Marshal nodded.

“There's one thing I should warn you about: there will be representatives of the news media there to witness the signing. They've been told not to ask questions, and other than what is necessary, you do not have to say a word to them-or to anyone.” Powell said.


1920 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, east of Brownsville, Texas:


General Andreyev was actually pleased. His division and the 47th had managed to extract themselves from their previous position, and had established new positions on high ground, about halfway between Brownsville and the coast. One battered air-assault regiment, the tattered remnants of another, and one full-strength, supported by the 47th, which had been reduced by half, but was still formidable, despite American air attacks and naval gunfire. Now, he hoped, they were out of range of those blasted naval guns, and could meet the advancing U.S. Marines on more equal terms. Andreyev turned to his chief of staff. “This position's good, Anatoly. High ground above the beach and tidal flats, no sand or marsh, just nice, firm ground.”

“Yes, Comrade General. Though I expect they won't come forward until dawn.” the chief replied.

“Quite so; they'll have to get those wrecked tanks out of the way that block the road,” Andreyev observed.

“There is that, Comrade General. And we still have two days' worth of ammunition: we can still make it hot for somebody,” said the chief.

Andreyev looked at his map. “And Glavchenko's brigade?”

“One battalion, here, Comrade General: right in the middle, between the 234th and 236th. What's left of the 235th is in front of us, with the rest of the 47th. Division artillery is at half strength, as is Glavchenko's own artillery.” the chief noted.

“Divisional reconnaissance?” Andreyev asked.

“Our reconnaissance has patrols out in front, as does both the 234th and 236th. They do report that the Americans are consolidating their positions, and there is some patrol activity, but they do not appear to be preparing to resume their advance at night.”

The General nodded. In their position, he'd do the same: get more supplies and some reinforcements up from the beach, clear those wrecked tanks-even if it meant shoving them into the marsh, if necessary, and wait until dawn. Then have as much air strikes as possible to prepare for the attack to resume. And hopefully, he thought, when they do fire their naval guns, all they'll be doing is hitting empty positions; just like the Fascists did to us: hit an empty sack, and our own defense is intact-and waiting. He checked his watch: “They'll move in what, ten to twelve hours?”

“I would expect that, Comrade General. Not until then.” the chief said.

“Good. Now, let's have something to eat. It has been a long and trying day, and tomorrow will be no better.” Andreyev said.


1945 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, Edinburg, Texas:


Commander Carlisle went into the gym, freshly showered and wearing her flight suit, fresh out of the laundry. Powell's naval liaison didn't have anything available for her, so she made do. Major Dixon was by her side, and the first thing she noticed was the crowd of reporters there, as well as staff officers, and liaison officers from not just the other services, but from the other Allies. There were British, Canadian, Australian, South Korean, and Taiwanese officers there, as well as observers from several other countries, such as Israel, South Africa, Brazil, and a few others that had been minor combatants. Major Dixon had explained that even if they couldn't contribute much in the way of equipment or manpower, these countries had done their part, and had earned a spot at the end. She also noticed that the reporters were in two areas: one for American and Allied media, and one for those from neutral or ex-neutralist countries. And the reporters from the Allied media were sneering at those from the neutralist countries, especially those from newspapers or other outlets that had championed the neutralist cause in their editorials.

The Commander did recognize some of the reporters there: CNN's Christiane Armanpour was there: covering this war had made her a star reporter, and she'd been there almost from the beginning. Jan Fields, also of CNN, was there as well: her constant presence with units such as 3rd Armored Division or the 7th Infantry Division, not to mention a live broadcast from the front lines at the Battle of Wichita, had made her a household name-along with an Emmy Award. The other networks had sent their DOD correspondents, though: CBS' David Martin was talking with a PAO, while ABC's Bob Zelnick and NBC's Jim Michelweliski were glaring at each other: Zelnik had been in the Pentagon on Invasion Day, and had picked broken glass out of his producer's arms after the bomb had gone off, while Michelweslki had been on vacation, and had never made it on the air that day. The reporters from the wire services: AP, UPI, Reuters, were also there, chatting amongst themselves, while the big papers, like the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Philadelphia Inquirer, the Boston Globe, and the East Coast Times-Post, were also there, glaring at the TV reporters-the old rivalry between the broadcast and print media was still there. And there were the allied reporters: the BBC, CBC, ITN, two different Australian channels, KBS from South Korea, The Times of London, Sydney Morning Post, and on and on. There was just so much.

The other side, the neutral or former neutralist reporters, were somewhat subdued, though some were able to exchange pleasantries with their Allied counterparts-especially those from Swedish or Swiss media, though those from West Germany, Italy, Holland, Belgium, and even France got more hostile looks than warm smiles, though the West German networks like ZDF or Deutsche Welle were more welcome, but the newspaper correspondents were not so well regarded, even after NATO had reformed and driven the Soviets back to the Soviet-Polish border. Old stories about atrocities in North America being “wildly exaggerated,” or editorials urging the Americans and Canadians to accept Soviet peace offers were still not forgiven or forgotten, and the American media people-not to mention the PAOs, made sure of that.

Major Dixon pointed to where the staff officers and Allied liaison officers were gathered, “Over here, Commander,” and the two walked on over. Several shook her hand, as her story had spread, and a PAO came by: the reporters had sniffed out her story, and Jan Fields of CNN and a couple of print reporters wanted to have interviews. “After this is over,” Carlisle said, and the PAO nodded. He went off to speak with some of the media, and Dixon told her, “Now that you've said you'll talk with 'em, they'll make sure you keep those appointments.”

“I know, Major,” Carlisle replied. “What's taking so long?”

“Who knows? This is the first time something like this has been laid on since the Germans surrendered to Eisenhower, back in '45.” Dixon replied. Then he noticed General McCaffery coming into the gym. “I think it's time.”

McCaffery came to a microphone; “Ladies and Gentlemen, General Powell and Marshal Alekseyev will be here momentarily. Remember; there will be no questions, so don't bother asking. Though there may be a statement from both, that's not a given.” McCaffery then looked at a side door. “They're here. It's showtime.”

Commander Carlisle watched as General Powell walked in with his senior staff officers, and sat down at the table set up in the middle of the gym, right where the center of the basketball court would be. Then Marshal Alekseyev and his officers-she recognized Chibisov and Sergetov, though the airborne officer was somebody she hadn't seen, came in and sat down, and a hush set in. While Alekseyev was calm, as was Chibisov, Sergetov looked nervous, while the airborne officer was stiff as a board. Then she caught his eye, and Alekseyev gave a slight nod. And she returned it. And then General Powell adjusted the microphone, and began to speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here now to conclude hostilities in the Continental United States. While this surrender does not apply to Soviet and Soviet allied forces in Mexico, nor does it apply to the war at sea, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, 'it is not the end of the beginning, but it is the beginning of the end.' I have given Marshal Alekseyev the terms of the cease-fire, and he has accepted them totally. I will read them for the record, and after that, we will sign the document.”

And Powell read the terms of the cease-fire. It was obvious: Soviet and Soviet-allied forces were to lay down their arms, release all prisoners held in the pocket, disclose all land and sea mines as well as demolitions, turn over all KGB or ALA/PSD personnel, halt the airlift, and reveal any stocks of nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons. Soviet and Soviet-allied wounded would be cared for, and all would be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Conventions. “The cease-fire takes effect at one minute after midnight, Central War Time, and U.S. Forces will move forward to take the surrender, and reestablish civil law and order, at 0800 Central War Time tomorrow. Marshal Alekseyev, you do understand these terms?”

Alekseyev stood. “I do, General.”

“Are you prepared to sign?” Powell asked, and Alekseyev simply nodded. Powell then turned to General McCaffery: “General, show him where to sign.”

General McCaffery stood, and showed Marshal Alekseyev where to sign. He did so, and then returned the document to General Powell, who signed on behalf of the U.S. After he did so, Powell asked, “Marshal Alekseyev, do you have any kind of statement to make, for the record?”

Alekseyev nodded and stood. “Thank you, General. With this signature, the Socialist Forces in Texas are delivered into the hands of the victor. It is my hope, and earnest wish, that the victor will, despite being flush with victory, treat them with generosity, despite what has happened in the past.”

Powell then stood up. “Thank you, Marshal. You may return to your headquarters to make the necessary arrangements on your side. And I will see you tomorrow morning. And this concludes our business.”

The Soviets stood up to leave, and they were escorted out. As Powell stood up, there was applause from the media. Then Powell went back to the microphone and had a further statement: “Ladies and Gentlemen, in four hours or so, the shooting stops on this front. So many good men and women have died, or been seriously wounded, to make this event happen. Let us pause for a moment of silence in their memory.” Following the moment of silence, Powell went on. “Due to the fact that there may be those in the pocket who wish to continue fighting, despite the Marshal's signature, there is a news blackout on this until 0800 Central War Time tomorrow. He has indicated to me privately that certain elements within the pocket need to be put under his firm control, and that there are no unpleasant events before U.S. forces arrive. So: no civilian communications in or out until then. I know you want to share this with America and the world, but everything needs to go smoothly on his end to make this work out. Now, I'll take exactly two questions.” He noticed Christiane Armanpour “Yes, Christiane?”

“General, first, my congratulations on achieving this victory. Now, when the Marshal said there were those who wished to continue fighting, did he mean the KGB or ALA?”

“He didn't say exactly, but we can assume that there are such elements present. Those with everything to lose if they come into our hands. He needs time to deal with them, in one way or another. One more question. Yes, Joe?”

“General, Joe Galloway from AP. I'd like to add my congratulations. Will you be going into the pocket tomorrow?”

“Yes. I will be there to meet the Marshal at his headquarters, and watch as the Soviet flag is lowered, and the Stars and Stripes are raised. And then we'll be busy for quite a while as we try and get some sense of normalcy restored. This won't be like Oklahoma City or Waco: it'll be more like Dallas or San Antonio after things wrapped up there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a very important phone call to make. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” And with that, Powell and his staff left the room, to the applause of the media.

Dixon turned to Commander Carlisle. “Well?”

“Just like that?” she asked.

“Yep. Just like that. Let's get you over to the Officer's Mess, and get you something to eat. I'll find you a bunk someplace, and you can get some sleep. You can see those hyenas in the morning.”

“Major, lead the way,” said Commander Carlisle.

Things start winding down in the pocket, while Chebrikov gets the news...



2015 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo, Texas:


General Isakov, Malinsky's chief of staff, came into his office, what had been the principal's office at the high school. He found Malinsky taking a nap, sitting back in his office chair. “Comrade General?”

Malinsky had long since developed the habit of waking when he was called, no matter how deep his sleep was. “Oh, Isakov. It's you.”

“Comrade General, Marshal Alekseyev is here. He has come from a meeting with General Powell.”

Malinsky stood up. “Well, Isakov. I think we know what that meeting was about. You disagree?”

General Isakov shook his head. “No, Comrade General. I think the Marshal had no choice. The only question was when.”

General Malinsky nodded. “Let's not keep the Marshal waiting,” he said.

Isakov nodded, and waited for his general. Both went back to the Operations Room, where they found Marshal Alekseyev, General Chibisov, and Alekseyev's aide, Colonel Sergetov. “Comrade Marshal,” Malinsky said.

“Malinsky,” Alekseyev said solemnly. “It is done. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute after midnight, local time. American forces will move in beginning at 0800.”

“Comrade Marshal....” Malinsky said. “We have done all that we can do. Any further fighting only gets good Russian boys killed.”

“I'm glad you agree. Remember that meeting, not that long ago, with the Army commanders and yourself? The only one who really opposed any kind of termination of the war was that brute Starukhin.” Alekseyev reminded Malinsky.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. And I was wondering whether or not someone would either shoot him, or he would shoot anyone who disagreed with him.” Malinsky said, remembering that meeting.

“My thoughts exactly, Malinsky. Now, to business. Are there any KGB, ALA, or PSD units in the vicinity? They're the ones most likely to cause trouble. They must be....neutralized, before Powell's forces arrive.”

“The only KGB were those assigned to checkpoints, Comrade Marshal. I can assure you that they have been all dealt with. And I have instructed all Army commanders to secure any ALA or PSD personnel-by force if necessary. Though most appear more concerned with saving their own skins than causing trouble.”

“Good. Now, whatever chemical warheads left in your ammunition dumps are to be handed over to the Americans. And one other thing: have your chief of medical services ready to go forward.”

“May I ask why, Comrade Marshal?” Malinsky wondered.

“The Americans have indicated they will take care of our wounded. They need to know how many, and what kind of conditions they'll find when they arrive.” Alekseyev said.

Both Malinsky and Isakov nodded.”When does he leave?” Isakov asked.

“Right away. Send him to the 77-83 highway junction: the same one that had so much blood spilled on both sides. The Americans will receive him, and he'll be taken to meet with General Powell's senior medical officers.” said Alekseyev.

Malinsky turned to Major General Mikhail Levechenko, his chief of medical services. “You do know what you'll need to do?”

“Of course, Comrades,” Levchenko replied.

“Good. Go at once,” Aleksyev said. “Now, we'll be returning to headquarters. Inform your army and division commanders, by whatever means are necessary. If you can't contact anyone by radio or land line, send reliable staff officers to inform them.”

Malinsky nodded. “Understood, Comrade Marshal.”



2040 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas:


General Andreyev went outside his command post, and peered through his binoculars, to the east. So far, the Marine lines were quiet. And visibility was good, so good that he could see almost to the beach. The Americans were still unloading, he could see, even at night, and no doubt they were landing troops and additional supplies. Come morning, he knew, they'd resume the attack, and maybe, just maybe, he'd give them a bloody nose before his forces were overwhelmed. Then he noticed his chief of staff coming with a message form. “Anatoly? What have you got there?”

“Comrade General.....” the chief of staff said, “It's over.”

Andreyev was surprised. So soon? But he knew from talking not only with General Chibisov, but Marshal Alekseyev, that the end would be coming. “When?”

“One minute after midnight, Comrade General. The Americans will come beginning at 0800.” The chief replied.

“That's it, then.” Andreyev said. “Get all secret materials together and destroy them the best you can.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“Has the 47th been notified?” Andreyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade General. Colonel Glavchenko was relieved, but he mentioned some of his staff and at least one battalion commander were more....distraught.” the chief said. “But Colonel Glavchenko was firm, and two of those officers went out from the command post-and shot themselves.”

“I'll bet there's going to be a lot of that: especially those who were supposed to leave but weren't able to do so.” Andreyev commented. “All right. Recall all of our patrols. Tell our men to fire only if fired upon.”

“Right away, Comrade General.”

Andreyev looked at his chief of staff. “One other thing: I realize there may be some of our officers and men who do wish to continue the fight. If they want to make a run for Mexico, release them from their duties. I, however will stay, and share the fate of the men.”

“I'll relay the message, Comrade General, but I don't think hardly anyone will take the offer.”


2115 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas:

General Suryakin breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Not quite yet: the clock hadn't reached 0001, but for all intents and purposes, it was over and done. Alekseyev had stopped by the headquarters to inform him personally, and to start the process of notifying unit commanders. All units were to stay in their present positions until the Americans arrived, and that any ALA or PSD were to be taken into custody and handed over to the Americans. If necessary, by force, Alekseyev emphasized.

Now, he looked at his situation map one last time. The 38th Tanks had been reduced to a battered remnant, while 24th Tanks had been finally overwhelmed. On the left, 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle had been split, while the 105th Guards Air Assault Division and the 41st Tank Regiment had clung to the highway junction, but had been ground down in the process. If the Americans had launched a major attack that day, or had the surrender not happened, both units were not likely to hold out much longer. It appeared now that the Americans had gotten word of the cease-fire, as they had halted. Though some units still reported exchanging small-arms fire, that was likely soldiers on both sides who hadn't gotten the word. Still, he ordered Golikov to send reliable staff officers to all units to ensure compliance with the cease-fire.

Suraykin walked back to his command vehicle. He fully intended to have a good night's sleep, the first in days, and then in the morning, he'd put on his best uniform and receive the Americans when they arrived. If he was going into an American POW compound, he wanted to show the Americans that he was not a brute like Starukhnin was, nor a barbarian like the KGB or the GRU field security units. As he did so, he heard sobbing coming from another vehicle. He opened the hatch and found his political officer, crying hysterically.

“Comrade Zampolit?” Suraykin asked.

“Comrade General....” Major General Vassily Ossipov said. “I know what awaits me.”

“I don't follow,” Suraykin said.

“Comrade General, I was told by the intelligence officer before he boarded that helicopter that I was on an American 'wanted' list. I was on the staff of General Gennady Bratchenko in Louisiana, and they want anyone who was even associated with him.” Ossipov said, tears streaming down his face.

“Bratchenko....that brute....” Suraykin remembered. He'd been a divisional commander in 1985-86, but he'd heard stories about that monster. Even his front commander at the time had felt the man was out of control, but due to his rank and position, nothing could be done about him. “You were his political officer?”

“No. But I was in the political department for that area. And the Americans consider political officers equally responsible for rear-area suppression: and justifiably so. Many of us not only condoned such activity, but actively encouraged it, even if we did not participate. Now....if I'm convicted of even one of what the Americans call war crimes, I face either life in prison or a trip to the gallows.” Ossipov said.

“Comrade...”

“No. I will not run like a coward, trying to escape to Mexico. Nor will I go into American hands.” said Ossipov, determination creeping into his voice. He got up out of the vehicle, pulled out his service pistol, and went outside. Suraykin and those inside heard a shot.


2145 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:

Marshal Alekseyev came into the operations room once again. After returning to the headquarters, he'd actually sat down with Chbisov and Sergetov and had a meal. Though the Americans had offered a more substantial dinner once the cease-fire had signed, he had politely declined. There would be time enough for things like that the next day, he felt. But he wanted one last meal with his staff before things were truly over and done. After the meal, he'd taken the opportunity to thank those who didn't work in the operations room, but helped keep the headquarters running. Then he went back into the operations room, where the staff was waiting. “Comrades. I take it things are going smoothly?”

Chibisov nodded. “Yes, Comrade Marshal. The KGB and ALA are more concerned with getting away than causing any trouble, though the PSD is a different matter.”

“I take it they're refusing to surrender?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.” Chibisov said. “They're holed up here, in what used to be the Brownsville Police Headquarters.”

“Send a company from the headquarters guard battalion, with a tank platoon. Give them one chance to follow my orders. If they refuse, destroy the building, and kill every last one of them you find. In this case, we'll do the Americans a favor-and do something we should have done ourselves a long time ago-and cleaned up those scum.” Alekseyev ordered.

Chibisov smiled. “It will be a pleasure, Comrade Marshal.”

Marshal Alekseyev then turned to his communications officer; “Send this message to Moscow, then destroy your remaining radios, codes, and code machines.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” the man replied.

“The Socialist Forces in Texas have given their last full measure of duty. We have done all that can be done and are in a position where no more can be done. The strategic and tactical situation is hopeless. With no reliable resupply, shortages of fuel, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, and thousands of wounded who need to be tended to, my forces have done all that can be done given the circumstances. I have arranged for the surrender of the forces remaining in the Brownsville area, and I hope that those who have withdrawn to Mexico will continue to do their duty when the Americans move south. Greetings to the Rodina. We are destroying our communications. Alekseyev.”

“It will be done, Comrade Marshal.” the communications man said.

“Very good. Now, once you're finished destroying the radios and code equipment; if you so choose, you and your men may go south to Mexico. Though the communications gear has been destroyed, the Americans would dearly like to have a few words with you and your men.” Alekseyev said.

“Comrade Marshal, I will stay, but will relay the offer to the men. Some will go, I have no doubt.”

“As you wish. Now, get that off at once.”

Alekseyev then turned to address the staff. “Comrades, we have done everything that can be done, and we can do no more. There comes a time when loyalty to those who serve under you takes precedence over loyalty to a particular individual. My first duty now is to our men, and to see to their survival and welfare. Nothing more. Those of you who wish to leave before the cease-fire takes effect, and want to continue the fight in Mexico, may do so. Otherwise, we still have our duty to the men, and we shall carry on, until the Americans arrive.”

Chibisov looked around the room. No one wanted to leave. “Comrade Marshal, it appears that the staff wishes to remain.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Very good. Now, we still have things to do. There are still Spetsnatz teams in the pocket, correct?”

“Of course, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied.

“Have them eliminate whatever KGB, DGI, or PSD they can find. Let's do the Americans a favor, and give them a head start in cleaning up this mess.”


2200 Hours Central Time (0800 Moscow Time): The Defense Council, the Kremlin, Moscow, RSFSR:


The Defense Council was holding its morning briefing, one of two held each day since the start of the war, to review developments overnight, and consider what the day might bring. Given the time differences between North America and Moscow, often, the situation at the front lines in the two theaters had changed since the Defense Council had met, and the morning briefings were a way of getting the Defense Council caught up on developments.

Marshal Sergei Akhromayev, the Defense Minister, had the message from Marshal Alekseyev in his hand. He looked about the room, where General Pavel Grachev, the Chief of the General Staff, was waiting to give his briefing to the Defense Council. Unfortunately for the Marshal, the other members of the Council were firmly in favor of continuing the war. He had been forced to go along, despite one-on-one meetings with other members, showing the reality of the situation on both fronts, and that the Soviet Union had clearly lost the war. Saving the Army in North America, and finding an honorable exit, ought to be the priority, not continuing to throw away lives and treasure in a useless struggle, one that Akhromayev knew should never have been started in the first place.

Now, who might change? He knew that Kosov, the Chairman of the KGB, had been wavering. He knew full well what the battlefield situation was, and that given how despised and loathed the USSR had become ever since 1987, a way out was very desirable. But, as the Marshal knew, Kosov was one who owed his job to General Secretary Chebrikov, and very much wanted to retain that position and the power that went with it. The Marshal looked at Tumansky, the Foreign Minister, whose job had gotten a lot harder than his predecessor, Gromyko, had ever been. The longtime Soviet Foreign Minister had died of a stroke not long after the war began, and Tumansky had been appointed to replace him. He, too, was a hardliner, someone who would have fit right in under Khrushchev, and didn't care what the rest of the world thought of the USSR, as long as they were winning. He also didn't care now that the USSR was losing the war, and had been losing for two years.

There was Boris Pugo, the Interior Minister, who controlled the Interior Troops, the VV, who had military training and equipment, and had been used to brutally suppress any dissent in the form of strikes or riots-which had become more commonplace since 1987-88. Not even the KGB had been able to silence every dissident, and when strikes broke out in the Ukraine, or ethnic riots in Central Asia, the VV came in to crack heads, and when necessary, summarily execute rioters. And Pugo was one of those who'd been on the Council, back in 1985, when the decision to go to war had been made.

Of the two other members, Volkov, the head of GOSPLAN, valued his job more than anything else, and would hardly oppose the General Secretary. And Alexandrov, the Party Ideologist, was just as doctrinaire as his predecessor had been, the man who had said “All we have to do is kick in the door, and the whole rotten edifice of capitalism will come crashing down,” and had sanctioned the nuclear strikes on cities such as New York and Kansas City, saying that “if the heart of capitalism is burned out, they will not fight for such a rotten system.” Clearly, those statements had proven blatantly false, and no amount of Party dogma could change the reality of the battlefield situation.

The door to the meeting room opened, and everyone stood as Viktor Chebrikov, former head of the KGB, and General Secretary since 1984, came into the room. He was accompanied by his bodyguards, and the Army Colonel who carried the “football” the case containing the Soviet Union's nuclear release codes, a book of strike options, and a transmitter. Chebrikov had become increasingly detached from reality, both at home and at the front, with Eastern Europe in turmoil, instability in Central Asia, a naval war that had long since been lost, and a land war in North America on the verge of being lost. “Be seated, Comrades,” he said, and everyone took their seats. “I trust you all had a pleasant evening. Now, I see General Grachev is ready to brief us. You may begin, General.”

Grachev began his briefing by going into the situation in Canada and Alaska-where things had been stalemated for nearly three years. The overland supply route from Alaska into Canada was a treacherous one, and only a third of what was delivered to Alaskan ports had made it. The situation would have been better, both Ahkromayev and Grachev knew, had the Battle of Vancouver gone the Soviets' way, but that campaign, which some on the General Staff compared to Stalingrad, had gone the Allies' way, and there wasn't much the Soviets could do about it. Then there was the naval interdiction: the U.S. Navy and both Japanese and South Korean naval forces had devoted considerable efforts to interdict supply convoys from Far Eastern ports to Alaska, with considerable success. And the Americans and British with their Operation EASTERN EXPRESS bombing raids, the Americans with B-52s and B-1s, and the RAF with Vulcans and their own B-1s, made life difficult along the Trans-Siberian and BAM railways, hitting industrial centers, power plants, and the rail lines themselves.

Then Grachev turned to the situation in Texas and along the Mexican-U.S. Border. No U.S. or Allied forces had as yet crossed the border in strength, having closed up along the border everywhere except in the Brownsville Pocket. So far, there was no sign of a U.S. invasion of Mexico becoming imminent, but the presence of the U.S. Fifth Army close to the border meant that such an invasion was a distinct possibility.

“And the pocket itself, General?” Chebrikov asked.

Grachev looked at Akhromayev. Then the Marshal stood, with a grave expression on his face. “Comrades. I have a message from Marshal Alekseyev. He has arranged for the surrender of the forces in the pocket.” Those on the council were stunned. “He cites a lack of fuel, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, and is clearly in a hopeless position. He has destroyed his communications, and has signed off.”

“He did WHAT?” General Secretary Chebrikov said.

“Marshal Alekseyev has surrendered his forces, Comrade General Secretary. There is no more Brownsville pocket.” Akhromayev replied.

“Of all the....Doesn't he realize that I promoted him so that he would organize his men for a final stand, and go down fighting? They got a Marshal of the Soviet Union! No Marshal of the Soviet Union, or Russia, has ever been taken alive!” Chebrikov was raging.

“Comrade General Secretary-” Kosov was saying.

“He doesn't have the decency to even kill himself? I can't believe this! The bravery of so many officers and soldiers is stained by that, that, coward! At the very most, he could have organized and led a final attack, and gotten himself killed leading it! If he wasn't willing to do that, then he should have killed himself!” fumed the General Secretary.

Kosov looked at Marshal Akhromayev, then back at Chebrikov. “Comrade-”

“He surrendered! He didn't commit suicide! And then I offered the command to Malinsky, who only bothered to indicate he'd received my message. Clearly it is obvious that the rot of defeatist and treacherous behavior has spread throughout that command! Alekseyev and his generals could have chosen eternal glory and national immortality, but instead, they prefer to go to Philadelphia or Boston!” raged Chebrikov. “This meeting is adjourned!”

With that, Chebrikov stormed out of the room, followed by Tumansky, Pugo, and Alexandrov. The other members left, until only Marshal Akhromayev and Chairman Kosov remained.

“Comrade Chairman, I fear our dear General Secretary will soon not be fit to hold his office.” Ahkromayev observed. “Who knows what kind of rash actions he may decide to take?”

“I know what you mean, Comrade Marshal. You may be assured that those who carry the codes have been informed of the grave responsibility they bear, and that nothing will happen along those lines.” Kosov replied.

The Marshal let out a sigh of relief. “That's a relief. Nothing of the sort will happen unless you issue the codes that you possess.”

“Correct. Now, I believe we must act as our predecessors did in 1964. Obviously no one on the Council can replace him, and hardly anyone else on the Politburo. We must look elsewhere.” Kosov said.

Ahkromayev nodded. He turned to General Grachev. “We'll need to talk with the commanders of the Moscow, Leningrad, Beylorussian, and Kiev Military Districts. Not to mention the candidate members of the Politburo who have been urging a settlement for some time: that's Minister Sergetov, as well as Comrades Bromkovsky, Gorbachev and Yeltsin.” He returned to Kosov. “Who's that deputy foreign minister, the one who has those useless trips to Geneva to explain things at the UN?”

“That would be Bessmertnykh: his English is impeccable, and he has had back-channel discussions with the Americans in the past-though not since the Battle of Wichita.” Kosov said.

“I suggest you get him.” Ahkromayev said. “Now, where to meet?”

General Grachev spoke up. “May I suggest a location that is secure, well guarded, and is the last place anyone would suspect where such a meeting is taking place?”

“And that is?” Kosov asked.

“Why, the headquarters of the First Shock Army, of course.” Grachev said. “The Moscow Military District headquarters, not to mention either of your dachas, is far too obvious. A meeting can be camouflaged as an inspection of the troops under the Army's command, and there are secured facilities to be used in the event of nuclear war. Those facilities haven't been used since the last nuclear event, back in 1986, but can be activated on very short notice to house such a meeting.”

Both Ahkromayev and Kosov nodded. “Excellent, General,” Ahkromayev said. “How long?”

“The arrangements can be made with full discretion. Two days, three at the most.” Grachev said.

“See to it. And have those couriers who've made it out of the pocket there as well,” Ahkromayev ordered. “And order some maneuvers as well, to maintain cover.” He turned to Kosov. “We do not seek to overturn the State. We seek to save it.”

About time things got bloody in Moscow.

I'm surprised the US didn't supply the Soviet Hospital.

I'm sure they will, but not at night when there are certain to be soldiers who have not gotten the word, or soldiers who HAVE gotten the word and are in a state of mental break and could do just about any damn fool thing.

Waiting until daylight will certainly result in addtional soviet deaths, but after 4+ years of war, far better additional soviet deaths than the killing or even wounding of a single US soldier.

Belushi TD

Kosov’s about to catch a bullet…

Things begin to go into effect:


2225 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:


Captain Padorin came into the CCP, intending on a status update before getting some sleep. He saw Strenlikov, the officer of the watch, and nodded. “Any contacts, Strenlikov?”

“No contacts, Comrade Captain.”

“Very good. Our course and speed?”

“We're maintaining three-five zero, at twenty knots. Depth is two hundred meters.” the young Lieutenant replied.

“Good. Let me know at once if anything develops. I'll be in my cabin.” Padorin said.

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” Strenlikov said.

Then the communications man came in. “Comrade Captain, there's an ELF message for us. We need to go to antenna depth to get the full message.”

Padorin nodded. “I have the deck and the con.” He turned to the diving officer. “Make your depth thirty meters, and slow to five knots.”

“Thirty meters, and slow to five knots, aye, Captain.” the officer replied.

K-236 rose through the depths, and was soon at her new depth. “Raise the ESM antenna first.” Padorin ordered.

The ESM was raised. “No contacts, Comrade Captain,” the operator reported.

“Very well. Raise the antenna.” Padorin said, and the antenna was quickly raised.

“We've got the message, Comrade Captain,” the communications man replied. “They're repeating it.”

Padorin looked at his officer of the watch. The Starpom and the Security officer were both in their cabins, asleep. “Why would they do that? Normal procedure is to wait twelve hours before repeats.”

“I have no idea, Comrade Captain,” Strenlikov replied.

“I don't like it,” Padorin said, just as the communications man came in. “Well?”

“Comrade Captain....” the man said.

“What?”

“It's over in Texas, Comrade Captain. They've surrendered in the pocket.” the communications officer said.

Padorin looked at the man. His expression was one of shock. And Padorin knew it was more than that: he had a younger brother who was serving in an airborne unit in the pocket, and he had had no word of his brother since before they'd sailed from Cienfeugos. And there were other officers and crew who either had relatives serving there, or knew of friends who were also there. Now, they were either dead or prisoners. “Very well.... Up periscope.”

The periscope came up from its well, and Padorin swung it in a 360-degree arc. “No contacts. Down scope, and lower antenna.” As the periscope and antenna went down, he came to his decision. “Back to two hundred meters. Maintain speed.”

Strenlikov nodded, and relayed the orders. The young officer was actually relieved. Maybe, just maybe, he'd find out just how his two brothers had died, now that things were winding down.

Padorin looked at him, and nodded sympathetically. Though he had not lost any relatives, he knew many Academy friends who were either dead or listed as “overdue, presumed lost.” About fucking time, he thought. This has gone on long enough. Then he decided to announce it to the crew. He picked up a microphone connected to the boat's PA system. “Comrades, this is the Captain. We have received a message from headquarters in Cuba. The battle for the Brownsville Pocket has ended. Our forces there have been forced to lay down their arms. Our orders remain unchanged. We'll carry on as best we can. That is all.”


2310 Hours: Cuban 2nd Army Headquarters, Rangerville, Texas:


General Perez received the order from two of Malinsky's staff officers. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute past midnight. And U.S. Forces would move in to take their surrender in the morning. He'd acknowledged the order, and relayed it to his commanders. Only when all of them had acknowledged the order, and confirmed that they'd carry it out, did he relax. About time, he knew. How many good Cuban fathers and sons had died in this war, and for what? He did know that the cease-fire only applied here in the pocket, and not to either Mexico or Cuba, and Perez feared that the Americans, having reclaimed their own land, would move to settle scores with either country-maybe even both in due course. If he was in their place, he'd invade Cuba first, dealing with the island in only a couple of weeks-knowing full well the Americans had the combat power to do just that, and then deal decisively with the Mexicans. His acting chief of staff-the regular chief had left for the border, carrying a copy of the Army's War Diary with him, and taking the Army's chief political officer with him as well: and there'd been no word since. “Yes, Jose?”

“Comrade General, there are a few officers who wish to go south. They'd rather take their chances attempting to reach the border instead of taking their chances with the Americans.”

Perez knew there would be some who wanted to continue, and deep down, he felt that way himself. But he also had a duty to his men, and he intended to do whatever it took to ensure their welfare. “How many?” he asked.

“A couple dozen in all, Comrade General. Mostly younger officers, though a couple of the remaining political officers wish to leave as well.” the chief replied.

Perez nodded and went to the staff. Everyone came to attention. “Comrades, I realize that a number of you wish to continue the fight by going to Mexico. If you can get through American lines-for the Americans are fully established on our left-you may do so. However, I will remain with the men, and will share their fate. How many of you wish to continue the fight?”

As the chief said, two dozen officers raised their hands. “I see. Very well, I release you from your duties. Good luck, all of you. And should any of you manage to make it to Mexico, and then get to Cuba, give my greetings to the homeland.” Perez then saluted his staff, and those who wanted to leave got up and did so. But the majority of his staff remained.

“Comrade General, your orders?” the chief asked.

“We are in communications with all units?” Perez said.

“Yes, but some links are more reliable than others, as you know,” the chief replied.

“Send reliable staff officers to all units, and make sure that they know that fighting ceases at one minute past midnight. And do it fast.” Perez ordered.


2335 Hours: 315th Independent Helicopter Transport Regiment, near Villa Hermosa, Mexico:


Major Sabin got out of his Mi-26 heavy-lift helicopter, and walked over to the hangar that served as his regiment's headquarters. It had been a very long day, and he wasn't looking forward to tomorrow. He was down to two flyable Mi-8s, and two flyable Mi-26s, though he had a third Mi-26 that would be back on the flight schedule in a day or so, and two more Mi-8s were undergoing battle-damage repair. Still, he knew that if things had been that bad today, tomorrow would be worse. And there were still hundreds of men who were awaiting evacuation who had not gotten seats on the airlift, and who needed to get out. Shaking his head, he went to the status board, where he found Captain Kovpak sitting at a desk, with a bottle of vodka waiting to be opened. “Ivan, you have the shakes or something? We'll be flying again in the morning.”

“Not into Brownsville.” Kovpak replied.

“What do you mean? We've been going in and out there all day. And there's still those who need to get out.” Sabin replied.

Kovpak showed him a message form. It was from General Petrov himself, ordering a halt to all flights into the pocket as of 2300 Hours. And they would not resume at first light.

Sabin read it. “What's this about? There are people in there depending on us.”

“It's over on that side of the Rio Grande. General Petrov called to confirm that. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute past midnight. No more flights in, and anyone stuck there overnight isn't leaving-except as a prisoner.” Kovpak said, a bitter tone creeping into his voice.

“So no flying tomorrow.” Sabin decided.

“Yes. All I can say, is that I'm glad it's over. I've never been shot at by so many weapons since we got here.” Kovpak said. He reached for the bottle. “A toast?”

“To what?” Sabin replied. This is hardly the time for something like that, he thought.

“We've lost too many friends to this war, and I've lost a brother, up in Alaska. Roman was a Naval Infantry officer-he was killed on the first day.” Kovpak said.

Nodding, Sabin reached for a glass. Kovpak opened the bottle and poured for the both of them. “So, to absent friends?”

“To absent friends,” Sabin agreed. And both men took a drink.


2355 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev went up to the roof of his headquarters, with Colonel Sergetov and his senior Spetsnatz officer. Colonel Arkady Demichenko had assumed command of the various Spetsnatz units in the pocket, many of whom were shadows of their former selves, and he'd organized them into a provisional regiment. Now, his Spetsnatz men were busy cleaning up rogue KGB and DGI elements, as well as the PSD. Some had gone quietly into custody, while lethal force had been used on others. And the Colonel-a two-tour Afghan vet, as well as a veteran of that horrid war that had been fought in the Louisiana bayou, was among those who were glad that it was over. He'd lost way, way, too many of his men, not to mention classmates from the Air Assault Academy at Ryazan, and if he could have, he would've just walked away from the whole mess. “Comrade Marshal, we've made good progress in cleaning things up. We won't be done by the time of the cease-fire, but not that long afterwards.”

“Not to worry, Colonel.” Alekseyev said. “The Americans know we've got some....housecleaning, for want of a better term, to take care of. Just have everything finished by 0800.”

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal. Though some of my men aren't too thrilled about being here when the Americans arrive.” Demichenko said. “Some of them participated in counter-guerrilla operations, and some of the reprisals that followed.....”

“Colonel, I understand, but no one leaves after midnight. General Powell has privately assured me that those accused of ....war crimes (he used the American term), will be given the full protections of international law, and will be given a fair trial, should things proceed that far.” Alekseyev said. “You do understand that?”

“I do, Comrade Marshal.” Demichenko said.

Chibisov looked at the luminous dials on his watch. “Comrades, one minute.”

Everyone was filled with anticipation, and then Chibisov said, “I make it 0001, Comrade Marshal. The cease-fire is now in effect.”

And those on the rooftop listened. The dull rumble of artillery fire, which had been growing louder in the past couple of days, had stopped. Nor were there the flashes of gunfire on the horizon. The only sound was that of American aircraft overhead, making sure no Soviet aircraft or helicopters tried to get out of the pocket once the cease-fire was official. “So that's what it sounds like,” Colonel Sergetov said.

“What do you mean, Comrade Colonel?” Alekseyev asked.

“The sound of peace, at least in this corner of the war, Comrade Marshal.” Sergetov replied.

Chibisov nodded, then reached into a bag, then pulled out a bottle of vodka and four glasses. “Comrades, I had been saving this for a more.....appropriate occasion. However, I feel that this is such a moment.” He passed out the glasses and poured. “I would like to propose a toast: To absent friends, and an honorable peace.”

“Hear, hear, General,” Alekseyev said. After they drank the toast, he went on, “Now,Comrades, we still have a good deal of work to do.” He turned to Colonel Demichenko, “Colonel, finish cleaning up those scum-especially the PSD. I'll explain to the Americans that they gave us trouble, and had to be eliminated. Just make sure that their documents, files, and so on, are saved, if at all possible. I want to show just what kind of....animals these slime were, and how ashamed we all should be in having had anything to do with them.”

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal,” Demichenko replied.

“Now, Chibisov, we still have to ensure that things proceed smoothly tomorrow. No incidents of any sort, is that clear?”

“It is, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied.

“Good. Now, if we can, some rest is in order. The first good night's sleep in days, and then we greet the Americans,” Alekseyev said. “Remember, you are still Soviet officers, and conduct yourselves accordingly.”


0020 Hours, 5 October, 1989: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas:


Major Lazarev sat with his staff in his headquarters, in the cellar of the condominium. A couple of bottles of vodka were opened, and several toasts to lost comrades had been drunk, and so far, no one was actually drunk, but that wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Then his chief of staff came in. “Comrade Major, Admiral Gordikov is here.”

“What? The Admiral?” Lazarev said, clearly surprised.

“Yes, Comrade Major.”

“By all means, bring him in,” Lazarev said, putting the bottles away as he did so. He and his staff came to attention as Admiral Gordikov came into the headquarters. “Comrade Admiral,” Lazarev said with a slight bow.

“Major. I trust things here have gone without any incidents?” Gordikov asked.

“Things have gone well, Comrade Admiral. Though the PSD office and the KGB were hit an hour ago, by Spetsnatz, apparently.” Lazarev said.

“That's good,” Gordikov replied. He went from staffer to staffer, shaking their hands. “Is there anyone from the Boiky still here? I would like to thank them for their efforts.”

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. We have most of the survivors organized into a provisional company, and the former executive officer had an observation post on the fifth floor.” Lazarev told the Admiral.

“Show me the observation post, Major.”

“Of course, Comrade Admiral,” Lazarev said. “If you will accompany me...” The two officers walked up the stairs, until they came to the fifth floor. Lazarev then walked to the rooms-the destroyer men had knocked out most of the wall between the two rooms-and opened the door. Kamarov was still at his spotting glasses, peering out to sea. “In here, Comrade Admiral.”

Upon hearing those words, Kamarov got up and stood to attention, “Comrade Admiral?”

“You must be Kamarov, I gather?” Gordikov asked.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.”

“A pity about the loss of your ship and those of your shipmates who were still aboard. You did the best job you could getting here. It's....unfortunate that things have gone the way they have, but that's war.” Gordikov said.

“At least most of the crew will get home, Comrade Admiral. It may be some months, but.... that's what we're all hoping, anyway,” Kamarov said.

“I'm not going to argue with that sentiment, and I imagine everyone here shares it. Just remember that you are still a Soviet officer, and your responsibility is now to your men. No suicides: that's an order. You, too, Major.” Gordikov reminded the two officers.

Both nodded. “Now, there still are civilians here?” Gordikov asked as they did so.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.” Lazarev said.

“Until the Americans arrive, we are still responsible for civil law and order. Fortunately, they'll be here in the morning. We hand over our weapons, turn in our vehicles, and leave this island.” Gordikov said.

“Understood, Comrade Admiral.” said Lazarev.

“Good. Just be glad it's over, Major. And also be glad you didn't have to fire a shot. Enough good Russians have died here, and I'm glad you won't be among them.”

The day of surrender:


0600 Hours: Camp 24, near Laguna Vista, Texas:

Major Tsernik sat in his office, an open bottle of vodka on his desk. He'd been drinking most of the night, ever since he'd gotten word of the cease-fire. A staff officer from Front Headquarters had come to him, with a written order signed by General Malinsky, reminding him of the directive from Marshal Alekseyev about turning prisoners over to the Americans. He had no orders to eliminate the prisoners prior to that directive, and would not have done so without such an order.

Now, as the first light of dawn began to break, he knew the Americans would be there in a few hours, and Tsernik knew that he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Though he was not the original camp commander, the camp had had such a reputation for brutality and back-breaking forced labor that even a number of Soviet senior officers were appalled. The previous commander-a sadistic psychopath by anyone's standards-had been “retired” and Tsernik appointed to replace him. And conditions had improved considerably, but even so, the camp was nowhere near what the Geneva Convention required, even if the Soviets had been inclined to follow it. He'd also put an end to most of the brutality, as well as the worst of the “entertainment” that the inhabitants of the North Compound were forced to provide guards and visiting VIPs.

Tsernik stood up, and went to his adjutant's office. Captain Yegor Dimitriev had been an artillery officer, until he'd been wounded in 1987 during the American Summer Offensive-the one that followed Wichita-having been burned on his arms and legs when his 2S3 SP gun had been hit by an A-10. Though unfit for front-line service, his knowledge of English landed him in this assignment. “Comrade Captain,”

Dimitriev stood up. He'd been sleeping on a cot in his office, “Comrade Major,” he nodded.

“Get the two senior officers-from South Compound and North Compound-and bring them here. Right now,” Tsernik said.

“Immediately, Comrade Major,” the adjutant replied, and he went out to get the two officers. A few minutes later, he was back with two very shabby and disheveled American officers, U.S. Army Major Richard Caldwell and U.S. Air Force Captain Rachel Pearson. Both had been captured in the war's early days, had endured the brutality, forced labor, and poor diet, and they both showed it. The two Americans looked at each other, then at the commander. “Comrade Major, the two senior officers,”

“Well, Major, Captain, today's the day for you.” Tsernik said.

Both looked at the other again. Then Caldwell said, “What do you mean by that?”

“Simple: a cease-fire is in effect since midnight. Your forces will be here this morning. Despite everything the Socialist World could throw at you, you've won.” Tsernik said.

“It's over?” Pearson, a former C-130 pilot, asked.

“Yes, it is. At least here,” replied the commander.

“You do know what we'll report, when our troops arrive?” Caldwell, who had been captured at First Houston, asked.

“I know,” Tsernik said. “I do hope you'll point out that I did improve conditions here, and put an end to the worst.....of things.”

“Not enough, Major,” Caldwell said. “You didn't do enough. All you did was improve things enough to keep us fit for labor, or,” he said, looking at Pearson, “other....activities.”

“I did not participate in that, and you, Captain, know it.” Tsernik replied.

“The hell you did! You may not have dropped your pants, but you either looked the other way, or worse, watched. We call that command responsibility, Major.” Pearson shot back.

Their conversation was interrupted by a low-flying aircraft. Everyone went to a window and saw a C-130 banking around after it had apparently flown over the camp. Then came the sound of jets, and two F-16s came over, obviously escort for the C-130. The C-130 came around for another pass, and first leaflets, then parachutes came from the rear door. Underneath the parachutes were pallets with boxes, obviously supplies. The two Americans turned to the commander. “Well, Major?” Pearson asked.

The adjutant turned to the commander. Tsernik knew not to interfere. He turned to Dimtriev, “Order the guards not to get involved, immediately. And morning roll call will not be held.” Then Tsernik turned to the two Americans. “I suggest you get what's obviously yours, both of you.”

The two nodded, then turned as Dimitriev came back. “The guards have been informed, Comrade Major,”

“Good. Now, please assist the two senior officers in helping to distribute the supplies. I have...something to attend to.” Tsernik said.

Dimitriev nodded. “Follow me, please,” he said, and the two American officers followed him. As they left the camp office, they heard a shot. The trio went back into Tsernik's office, and found him slumped over his desk, a Makarov pistol still in his right hand, and a hole in his temple. “Not the way I wanted another command,” was Dimitriev's response.

The two Americans went over to the body. They simply glared at the now-deceased commander, and Captain Pearson kicked the body, then they turned to Dimitirev. “Captain, you were different. You actually tried to help whenever you could, and we'll remember that. And you never laid a hand on anyone that we know of.” Caldwell said.

“Thank you, Major. Let's get these gifts from heaven passed out to the prisoners. I will have the guards leave the watch towers, and they will go to their barracks, with weapons stacked in front. There will be no trouble.” Dimitriev said. “Things will be orderly when your forces arrive.”


0630 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas:


General Andreyev got up off of his cot. He'd been sleeping in a tent next to his command BMD, and for the first time since 1985, he knew that no one would be dying today. After shaving, he put on his best uniform-the only good dress uniform he had left, and then went into the command post. His staff was still at work, even though things would be wrapping up in under a couple of hours. His chief of staff came to him, “Comrade General,”

“Anatoly,” Andreyev said, “Were there any....incidents?” That was something that he knew Marshal Alekseyev would be very concerned about as the day went on.

“No, Comrade General, nothing of the sort. Some soldiers decided to take the chance and head to Mexico, but most have remained.” the chief said.

“To be expected: either they genuinely wish to continue the fight, or have...other worries.” Andreyev said, and everyone knew what the phrase 'other worries' meant: a potential trial as a war criminal. He did know that some of his men had come from Spetsnatz into the airborne forces, and had participated in some very nasty counterinsurgency operations, usually leaving a very bloody path in their wake.

“That is so, Comrade General,” the chief replied. Actually, the chief was glad to see them go, though no one doubted their fighting spirit and tenacity, the fact that some of the men in the division were associated with such.....events made him uneasy.

“And the Americans?” Andreyev asked.

“Once midnight came, there wasn't any shooting into the air, much to our surprise. But they did shoot off a lot of flares, there were horns sounding from the ships, and all manner of lights came on from the beach and the ships offshore.”

“If I had been commanding those Marines, I'd be doing the same thing. Would you want any of your men wounded by falling bullets?” Andreyev asked dryly.

A thin smile came to the chief's lips. “No, Comrade General,”

“I gather all sensitive materials have been destroyed?” Andreyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade General,” the chief said. “All codes and communications materials have been destroyed, along with the most sensitive intelligence materials.”

Andreyev nodded. “Very good, Anatoly. Let's get the men a good breakfast, the best we can provide, before the Americans arrive.”


0710 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville:


Marshal Alekseyev came into the Operations Room once again, only this time, he knew, it would be for the last time. He glanced at the map, which had last been updated prior to his leaving for the meeting with General Powell, and knew just by looking at it, that he'd made the right decision. Lack of ammunition, fuel, medical supplies, and above all, food, meant that continuing the fight was senseless. And if his actions here started the process by which the war ended? So be it, he felt. It has to start somewhere.

He had risen early, taken one final bath, and wanted to be properly groomed. After all General Powell would be here in a while, and he wanted to be properly dressed to receive the American commander. Then he'd breakfasted with Colonel Sergetov, before coming down. He then found General Chibisov. “Good morning, Pavel Pavlovitch,”

“Good morning, Marshal,” Chibisov replied. “So far, no....regrettable incidents to report, and Colonel Demichenko reports that the matter of cleaning up those elements who may try to disrupt things has been....dealt with. In most cases, things were settled with a minimum amount of force, but in some....”

“In some, those scum-and I believe I'm referring mostly to the PSD, correct?” Alekseyev asked. Seeing Chibisov nod, he finished, “Demichenko's men had to kill them all.”

“That is so, Comrade Marshal. And as per your orders, files, documents, etc., have been secured. And all POW and labor camps, as per your orders, remain intact. There were some....incidents prior to the time of our meeting, but those were mainly due to the KGB and PSD taking action before the cease-fire.” Chibisov reported.

“Let me guess: they decided to kill those who might be able to testify against them later on, in any future legal proceedings?” Alekseyev asked. “How many?”

“About a couple hundred or so, Comrade Marshal. However, Demichenko says that those responsible have already paid-the Chekists when the headquarters guard attacked their headquarters, and the PSD when the police headquarters was stormed. The bodies were found in the basements, I'm afraid.” Chibisov said.

“Something we'll have to mention to Powell, when the time comes,” Alekseyev noted. “And things at the front?”

“All quiet. Though the Americans, once midnight came and went, did celebrate. Not that much in the way of shooting into the air, but a generous amount of flares-in many different colors, lights being shone into the sky, and the ships offshore sounded their horns.” Chibisov reported. “There's a couple of other matters....”

“Yes?” Alekseyev asked.

“Malinsky's chief of medical services went forward, and has returned. The Americans have all the information they need to assist us in treating, then evacuating, the wounded,” Chibisov said.

“It will probably be too late for some,” Alekseyev said, remembering a visit he'd made to a hospital in late September. And the filth had disgusted him. The shortages of even clean linen, let alone things like bandages, antibiotics, antiseptic, and other medical supplies made a bad situation a great deal worse. And one medical officer had said to him that he expected the Americans' sense of cleanliness to be shot away, and that once the wounded had been moved, they'd probably burn the place down and simply rebuild. That doctor was probably right, Alekseyev thought. Another thing that he'd wished those Party bosses in Moscow could've seen, because if they had, they would have at least tried to terminate the war. “And the other?”

“He also brought a message from General McCaffery: since the cease-fire took effect, some of the American reporters may decide to go forward, ahead of their troops. He calls it 'getting the exclusive.' In other words........,”

Alekseyev was incredulous. “In other words, those journalists are competing to be the first into Brownsville, even ahead of their own army?”

“That is correct, Comrade Marshal.” Chibisov said. “If Dudorov was still here, he'd be able to explain it much more than I could. But that is basically it.”

Alekseyev shook his head. “All right, inform Malinsky of that, and inform him that any such reporters are not to be interfered with.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”


0745 Hours: Along U.S. 281, near La Paloma, Texas:


For Captain Nancy Kozak and her Company Team, it had been an eventful evening. After they'd secured the convoy full of Soviet servicewomen and sent them on their way to the rear, they had pushed on south, until they had reached the site of what had been a Soviet ribbon bridge across the Rio Grande, near what had been the town of La Paloma, but was now more a collection of ruins than a town. The Team had found some KGB troops stationed there for traffic control, and wiped them out in the process. Then Kozak had received an order to halt for the night, and when she protested that she “could be in Brownsville by midnight,” her battalion commander sympathized, but the orders came down not from division or corps, but higher. A cease-fire was a distinct possibility, and so the order had gone out to hold fast on current positions. Sure enough, at 2100, word came down of a cease-fire effective at midnight, with the advance to be resumed at 0800, with orders not to fire unless fired upon.

At midnight, celebrations broke out all over the line, with some shooting into the air, but mostly colored flares, while an artillery unit to their rear fired off a bunch of star shells. Then the platoon leaders and the sergeants calmed everyone down, and a normal night routine set in. Everyone was awakened at 0530, with the usual stand-to an hour later. And everyone was glancing at his or her watch every two minutes, or so it seemed, waiting until 0800, when they could head on to Brownsville, and be the first to reach the old International Bridges over the Rio Grande. And, in the words of the battalion commander, “beat the airborne mafia there,” for he'd heard that the 82nd Airborne was going in along Highway 77-83 to secure Soviet headquarters and be General Powell's honor guard. The 49th Armored had been chewed up badly during the initial invasion, and had earned the right to be the first into Brownsville at the end, the divisional commander was heard to say over the radio.

Now, Kozak was in the commander's seat of her Bradley, counting down to 0800, and when her unit could lead the battalion's advance. Her gunner, busy peering through his sight, said, “Ma'am, it's weird. We're still at war, but not here. And if somebody shoots at us from across the river?”

“If somebody's that stupid, he gets shot in return. Simple as that,” Kozak said.

Then the First Sergeant came in over the Company net. “Six, there's a Humvee coming up behind us. Wait, there's two of them.”

“Find out who they are, and let me know.” Kozak replied.

The First Sergeant went over to the Humvees in his M-113 and spoke to the occupants. Then he got back onto the net. “Ma'am, they're reporters. One Humvee's got a guy from UPI, another from the Chicago Tribune, along with a fella from some paper in England, and the other has a CNN crew.”

“Who's the CNN crew?” Kozak asked.

“Jan Fields' bunch, Ma'am.”

Kozak smiled. She'd seen Fields' reports when she had been on R&R, and often that reporter had been there at the front, and had even reported live from the front lines at Wichita-the battle that turned the tide of the war: that had earned Fields an Emmy award, as well as the gratitude of the 3rd Armored Division-she had brought a lot of publicity to that division.. “All right, just tell 'em to follow behind us, and they'll be first into Brownsville.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

The clock ticked by slowly, but surely. With five minutes to go, Kozak stood in the seat of her Bradley and gave the “start engines” signal that any pilot would recognize. The tanks and Bradleys cranked their engines, and all were up and running. She looked at her watch one final time. 0800 and ten seconds. “All Bravo Three-Six units, this is Bravo Six. Let's go.” And Kozak's Team rolled forward, heading south to Brownsville.


0805 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas:

Captain Gaipov walked out of his regiment's command post for the last time. His regiment was such in name only, for he only had two hundred or so effectives, and some of those were walking wounded. As he did so, he saw the Americans whom they'd fought with for control of the intersection come forward. Gaipov had inherited the regiment simply because he was the highest ranking officer not killed or wounded, given that the regimental commander and his deputy had both been killed by a sniper, and the chief of staff had been severely wounded by American artillery fire. Now, it was over.

Lieutenant Moore and her company came forward on foot, since the flyover ramps at the intersection had been blown down into rubble, and that would have to be cleared before the highway junction could be used by heavy vehicular traffic. Her company now numbered 65, having had 225 when it had started, and like the Soviets, a few of those still fighting were walking wounded, but their wounds were not serious enough to require hospitalization. And everyone was dressed for the occasion, though the troops wore their field caps instead of their Kevlar helmets. She led the company to where the Soviets had come from when they came forward to surrender the day before. And the first Russian she found was an airborne captain, who spotted her and came forward.

“Captain Gaipov, 351st Guards Air Assault Regiment,” he said, saluting.

“Lieutenant Moore, 116th Infantry, 29th Division,” she said, returning the salute. “How many do you have here?”

“Two hundred and five left in the regiment, Lieutenant,” the Russian replied.

“All right, call your men out. Have them lay down their weapons in front of the building, then form up outside. No funny business.”

“It will be as you say,” the Russian said. He turned and shouted orders in Russian. And the Soviet paratroopers, who were just as dirty, ragged, and tired as her people were, came out, and laid down their weapons, as they were told. When they were finished, the captain asked, “Your orders?”

“Start walking north on 77. There's a unit coming behind us that will process you and your men, and start you on the way to wherever they'll send you.”

The Russian saluted again, and she returned it. And even though they were disarmed and now POWs, the Soviet paratroopers marched north, still as a unit. Moore remarked to her first sergeant, “Now that's the strangest thing I've seen.”

“Ma'am?”

“They may be POWs now, but they still have their unit pride. And they're not letting anyone forget it,” she said. “Now, get these buildings secured. Get all the heavy weapons and get them out here as well. Machine guns, RPGs, AGS-17s, any antitank missiles or SAMs, get it all. I'll notify battalion to get people down here to pick this stuff up-and get rid of it. Hopefully, in a nice bang.”

“Right, Ma'am,” the first sergeant said, barking out orders.

Her RTO came over, “Ma'am, there's some more Russians coming, and they've got a white flag.”

“Now who are these guys?” Moore asked. She didn't have long to wait. This time, it was an armor officer, leading what appeared to be tank and other vehicle crews, all on foot. And it was clear from his appearance that he was looking for an officer. He spotted her and came over. Just like the airborne officer, he saluted her first. “Colonel Chesnikov, 41st Independent Tank Regiment. I present my men to you,”

“Lieutenant Moore, 116th Infantry, 29th Division,” She replied, returning the salute. “How many do you have, Colonel?”

“About eleven hundred or so,” Chesnikov answered. “We have left all of our weapons next to our vehicles. They are about a kilometer south of here, along the freeway.”

“All right, Colonel. Like I told that airborne officer who was just here, start walking north along Highway 77. There's people following us who will process you and your men, and send you off to wherever.”

Chesnikov nodded, saluted again, and returned to his men. He barked out an order, and what was left of his regiment, some 1100 men, marched north along the highway. As they did so, Moore turned to the First Sergeant, who'd watched the whole thing. “Two in fifteen minutes.”

“Ma'am?”

She laughed. “That's twice in fifteen minutes I've taken the surrender of a regiment.”


0820 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas:


General Andreyev came out of his command post to watch, first with his binoculars, then with the naked eye, as the U.S. Marines came forward. And they did so under the watchful eye of Cobra helicopters and Harrier attack aircraft. The Marines clearly weren't taking any chances, and if he was in their place, neither would he. Nodding, he turned to his chief of staff and the political officer-who had stayed, much to his surprise. He'd half expected the Zampolit to either take off for Mexico, or shoot himself, but instead, the man had stayed. While the Americans were not as harsh with Political Officers as, say, the Germans had been, the fact that many Zampolits had played a part in suppressing guerrillas and in taking measures against civilians, up to and including reprisal executions. As a result, the Americans considered Political Officers as potential war criminals, and treated them as such, unless there was proof the man in question had not participated in any such activity. And Andreyev knew this, and he fully intended to vouch for his political officer, since the man had not participated in any such actions during his tenure with the division.

Now, as the Marines advanced, Andreyev and his staff watched as a Marine UH-1N helicopter landed nearby, and several armed Marines came out, securing the area around the helicopter. Then an officer came out, and began walking towards Andreyev, who began walking towards the Marine. Then both saluted.

“Major General Charles Lowe, United States Marine Corps, 4th Marine Division.” the Marine said.

“I am Lieutenant General Andreyev, 76th Guards Air Assault Division. I surrender the division, and the attached 47th Tank Brigade, to you.”

The Marine general nodded. A radioman came up to him, holding out a radio receiver. Lowe spoke into it, and then waved the Marines forward. As they did so, Andreyev's paratroopers came out of their holes and laid down their weapons.

“General,” Lowe was saying. “Congratulations on your promotion. Last my Intelligence Officer told me, you were a Major General.”

Andreyev nodded. “A lot of us got such promotions in the last days, General. Just as the failed art student did with his generals at Stalingrad.”

The Marine general nodded, watching as a steady stream of Soviet paratroopers and tankers came forward, laying down their weapons. “I hope you don't get seasick, General.”

“Oh?” Andreyev asked.

“My intelligence people want to have a talk with you and your staff. They're still aboard one of the ships offshore, so you'll get a nice helicopter ride out to one of the amphibious carriers.” Lowe said as a CH-53E Super Stallion came in and landed nearby. “That helo will take you to the ship. The admiral who commands the amphibious force is aboard that carrier, Saipan, and he'll receive you. One thing: you'll be wearing ear protection: it gets pretty loud in those things.”

Two squads of armed Marines came out of the helicopter, and a Marine Captain came to General Lowe with a bag of “Mickey Mouse” ear protectors. Nodding, Lowe turned again to Andreyev, “General, you and your staff put these on, and follow the captain. Like I said: hope you don't get seasick.”

At least they know they'll get to the ships. If the situation was reversed, they might have gotten toss off the helicopter.

Just thinking, did the US ever consider a relativley shallow incursion into western Sonora near the end of the war? A relativley short advance would have cut off Baja California from the rest of Mexico.

Bernard Woolley wrote: ↑Sat Mar 15, 2025 2:55 pm Just thinking, did the US ever consider a relativley shallow incursion into western Sonora near the end of the war? A relativley short advance would have cut off Baja California from the rest of Mexico.

Actually, that was done in 1985 to help secure MCAS Yuma and the Morelos Dam. Marines raised the flag over San Luis Rio Colorado on September 6th, 1985, the US Army arrived to fortify the place, and the Mexican Army pretended to try and take it back over the next four years (and got the crap beaten out of them on the regular). After Baja requested American troops, the city fathers of SLRC said, "Um, actually, we were really supposed to be part of Baja California, we got put in Sonora because of an administrative error." Also cut Mexican Highway 2 into Tecate and TJ, which made a bad situation far worse.

Earlier than I thought! But makes sense.