[Matt Wiser]

And more:

1330 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about enemy fighters?” Sorokin asked.

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

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


1355 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

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

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

“And at sea?” Alekseyev asked.

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

“Any sign of an amphibious landing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Belgin's bridges?”

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

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

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

“Your thoughts, Pavel Pavlovitch?” Alekseyev asked.

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


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


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

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

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

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

“So, they still want us near the coast?” Padorin growled. He went to the chart. One carrier group had been plotted, along with the amphibious force, but he knew that there were two more carrier groups out there, and in addition, that ASW group he'd tangled with earlier.
“Someone's still not giving up on extraction,” the Starpom noted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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