[Matt Wiser]

And the battle continues...


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Golikov nodded. “Right away, Comrade General.”


0640 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right here.” an SAF Major said. He noted the two Generals. “Comrade Generals!”
“Major, this is General Lukin. He's being flown out of here on my express orders. Get him to Mexico City, or wherever your destination is in Mexico.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the pilot said.

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

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


0705 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

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

“Colonel. Is the Marshal still sleeping?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chibisov handed it to Sergetov. “Read it.”

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

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