[Matt Wiser]

And more....


2150 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas


General Suraykin was talking with his Air Force liaison, and right now, he wasn't very pleased. The Air Force was trying to get some additional night attack sorties, but with the Su-24 force not only having taken heavy losses, but was now flying from fields in Mexico, at least an hour's flight time away, if not longer. Not to mention that American fighters were now prowling the skies over Northern Mexico, looking for any nocturnal raiders. “Colonel, just get us a few more dammed aircraft!”

“Comrade General, we're doing our best, but right now, if we send a dozen aircraft your way, only three or four will make it. The rest....”

“I know, either shot down by the Americans or forced to jettison their ordnance loads and avoid the fighters,” Suraykin acknowledged.

“Comrade General, I've said this before, but I don't want to make promises that the Air Force won't be able to deliver.” the Colonel said.

“Do your best, Colonel.” Suraykin told the SAF colonel. And with that, he went over to General Golvoko. “Sometimes, Golvoko, I wonder how we managed to get as far as we did in 1985-86 with an air force like that.”

“We had the advantage back then, Comrade General. Not so any more.” Golvoko said.

“True. So, now: what's the situation with the 105th Guards Airborne?” asked Suraykin.

“Right now, they're holding, but barely. American aircraft hit their main supply point, and now, they're short of just about everything: mortar rounds and Grad rockets are at the top of the list at the moment,” commented Golvoko.

“Contact General Malinsky or his Chief of Staff, Golvoko. Request air drops direct to 105th Guards if at all possible,” Suraykin said.

“That may not be possible, Comrade General. The Air Force, as you know, has veto over requested drop zones.”

“That's true, but right now, if the 105th doesn't get what they need, then we'll have to put at least a regiment from either 20th or 38th Tanks to back them up, and that weakens our counterattack force.” Suraykin pointed out.

“Yes, Comrade General,” Golvoko agreed. “However, those drop zones may be too close to enemy lines for the Air Force to risk their transports. And the possibility exists that those drop zones are probably known to the enemy now, and are probably covered by artillery fire at the very least.”

General Suraykin paused. Then he slammed his fist down on the table. “General Powell's not making it easy for us. He's got to have more than enough intelligence.”

“Evidently so, Comrade General,” Golvoko said as a staff officer brought him a message form. “From the 105th: “'American attack helicopters now raiding divisional rear area.'”


2210 Hours: K-236: the Gulf of Mexico.

“Captain to Central Command Post!” the intercom barked.

Captain Padorin jumped out of his bunk. Once again, he put on his shoes before proceeding to the CCP: he'd been sleeping fully clothed ever since they'd left Cienfuegos. Then he rushed to the CCP. “Yes?”

“Comrade Captain,” said Senior Lieutenant Vadim Antuykh, the officer of the watch. “Sonar contact, on the surface, bearing zero-seven-zero relative.”

Padorin went to the sonar room. His senior operator had taken over. “What do you have, Comrades?” asked the Captain.

The senior operator held up a hand, asking for silence. Padorin looked out of the sonar room to the watch officer. “Slow to five knots, and silence in the boat.”

“Five knots, and silence in the boat, aye, Comrade Captain.” Antukyh said, relaying the order.

Padorin looked at the display. “I don't like it,” he told the sonar officer. He stuck his head out of the sonar room. “Vadim, Call Battle Stations, silently.”

The alarm lights flashed red, and both officers and crew raced to their battle stations. The Starpom, Security Officer, and the Zampolit joined the Captain in the CCP. Padorin acknowledged the former two with nods, and the latter with a cold stare, before going back to the sonar operators. “Anything?”

“There's quite a lot of ships up there. Bearing zero-seven-zero relative to zero-nine-zero relative.” the sonar operator said.

Captain Padorin turned to the Starpom: “Make our depth two hundred meters. Smartly, mind you.”

“Two hundred meters, aye, Comrade Captain.” acknowledged the Starpom.

K-236 moved up to two hundred meters. And a lot of tension built up in the boat, as it was clear that a lot of ships were up there. “Any identification?” Padorn asked.

“There's a lot of ships there, but I can pick out at least two Tarawa-class amphibious carriers, one or two Iwo Jimas, and several other amphibious ships. And there's numerous escorts,” the sonar officer reported.

Padorin looked around the CCP. Men were turning and looking at their shipmates. And to no one's surprise, the officers did the same. “Range?” he asked the sonar officer.

“Best guess is 20,000 meters, Comrade Captain, to the nearest ships. Wait, there's several more coming.”

More? Padorin knew about the carrier group and the battleship group, along with the ASW group he'd attacked earlier. Did the Americans have that many ships? He asked, “Who are the newcomers?”

“It's the battleships, Comrade Captain. Four of them, with their escorts. They're on a parallel course to the amphibious group.....Comrade Captain, they're turning, all of them.” the sonar officer reported.

“What's their course?” The Starpom asked: he was in charge of the plot.

“Two-seven five, Comrades.” the sonar operator replied.

Padorin went to the plot. Not only did the Starpom and the navigator make the plot, but the Security Officer looked over it as well. “They're headed right for the coast. Just south of Brazos Island, there's a beach, according to the chart,” said the navigator.

“Mother of God. They're heading in,” Padorin said. He turned to the Starpom. Make your depth twenty meters: we've got to report this.”

“We're not going to attack?” the Zampolit, Zirinsky, asked.

“No. First we have to report the contact. And we still have another mission, in case you've forgotten.” Padorn said.

The Zampolit stood to his full height and glared at the Captain. “Comrade Captain....under my authority, you are relieved of command for cowardice before the enemy. Comrade Shelpin will escort you to your quarters. Weapons officer, make ready all tubes, and...” Zirinsky stopped, hearing a click. He turned, and saw the Security Officer pointing a pistol in his face. “What's the meaning of this?”

“Clearly, Comrade Zirinsky, you're attempting a mutiny,” Shelpin replied. “You've been sounding out the other officers, isn't that right, Comrades?”

All the officers nodded. “And they would be willing to so testify in a court-martial, if necessary?” Those same heads nodded again.

Captain Padorin went over to the Zampolit and glared at him. “It's fools like you who led us into this war, and have gotten how many good men killed or maimed for life? You've never seen faces of wives and parents, who've found out their loved ones aren't returning from a patrol, nor little brothers finding out their elder brother is buried somewhere on the Kansas prairie, never to return home. Party zealot....just like those in Moscow who keep spouting nonsense about 'Final Victory' when there's hardly any food on the table, and shortages of just about everything!”

“What shall we do with this insect, Comrade Captain?” asked Shelpin.

Padorin turned to the weapons officer. “Yuri, we do have an empty 65-centimeter tube?”

“That we do, Comrade Captain,” the weapons officer replied. “And he'll fit neatly inside.”


2240 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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


2300 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed so, Comrade General.” Lukin said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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