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Old 03-31-2015, 06:27 PM
Matt Wiser Matt Wiser is offline
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And the clock keeps ticking...


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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