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Old 03-24-2015, 06:08 PM
Matt Wiser Matt Wiser is offline
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Location: Auberry, CA
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The clock keeps ticking...

1100 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas.

General Suraykin glanced at the operations map. It was time, now. The 105th Guards Air Assault Division was being ground down more steadily than he'd thought, and despite the situation with 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle Division, it was obvious: the counterattack force had to go to the aid of the 105th. Suraykin turned to his chief of staff. “That's it, Golvoko. Move the counterattack force. Notify 38th Tank Division to move to the Highway 77-83 junction to relieve the 105th Guards Airbone. The 41st Independent Tank Regiment is under operational control of 38th Tanks for this operation.”

Golvoko nodded. “Right away, Comrade General.”

“How much in the way of supplies have we received from the supply drops?” Suraykin asked.

“Several tons: food, bottled water, ammunition-mostly small-arms, but some 122 artillery shells and 125 tank rounds,” Golvoko reported.

Suraykin looked at the map again. “Send what you can from that to the 105th: they've been hanging on for dear life since last night. Any vehicles returning from that supply run can bring out their wounded.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

General Suraykin turned to the operations officer, “Get me General Gordonov. I'll inform him personally.”

A couple minutes later, the operations officer handed Suraykin the phone. “General Gordonov, Comrade General.”

“Gordonov? This is General Suraykin. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Comrade General. However, the Americans are making it very hard to hear you: we've had to move division headquarters three times since last night,” Gordonov said, with the sound of artillery fire and small-arms fire in the background.

“Gordonov, the counterattack force is heading your way. They should be there in an hour or so.” Suraykin said.

“Thank you, Comrade General. Any longer, and the only ones holding here would be dead.” Gordonov replied.

“They'll also be bringing you some supplies-food, ammunition, and some medical supplies. And your wounded will be evacuated south.” Suraykin told the airborne general.

An explosion came over the line-a loud one. “Sorry about that, Comrade General. They've been dropping heavy stuff: one-five-five and two-oh-three all morning.” Gordonov said. “My wounded will come out?”

“That's right. Just hang on for one more hour, and 38th Tanks will be there. After that, there are no more reserves.” Suraykin said.

“Understood, Comrade General. We'll be here-those of us still alive, that is. And thank you again.” Gorodnov said.

“Good luck, Gordonov,” and with that, Suraykin hung up. He looked at the map again. “Has 38th Tanks begun to move?”

“They've begun to move out, Comrade General. The 41st is closer, though.” Golvoko said.

“Just hope the air force can help out-if they can't, that counterattack force will get mauled before they even reach the front.”


1120 Hours: Port of Brownsville

Captain Romonov watched as the last warhead van was loaded into the Cherepovets' number four hold. With that, the ship's final cargo was secured. And it was time for the final voyage to begin. He turned to the freighter's first officer. “Start engines.” Then he went to the bridge wing and waved at the airborne troops who had guarded the warheads until loading was complete. He knew they were warheads of some type, but he didn't know exactly what. All he knew was that the warheads could not be allowed to fall into American hands.

Two tugs-operated by Soviet Navy personnel, edged the freighter's bow into the shipping channel, and the Cherepovets got underway. “All ahead one-third,” Romonov ordered.

“All ahead one-third, aye,” the quartermaster responded.

“Steady as he goes.”

“Steady as he goes, aye.”

As the freighter moved towards the Gulf, Romonov looked to starboard. He noticed a shipbreaking yard, and both Soviet and Cuban military personnel scavenging hulks for metal plates, or anything else that could be used to help shore up a bunker. Others, it appeared, were trying to build rafts, preferring to take their chances on the water than on shore. In their position, he didn't blame them at all. Though he'd prefer to take one of the remaining naval units out and face the U.S. Navy one final time, instead of risking a lingering, lonely death on the open water. Though he knew that wasn't very likely, given the fact that the Americans had mined the safe-passage channel through the Soviets' own minefields.

“Make turns for ten knots,” Romonov ordered.

“Ten knots, aye,” the quartermaster acknowledged.

“Captain?” the first officer asked. “Is that wise?”

“The sooner we've gotten to where we're headed, the better.” Romonov said.

The freighter moved down the waterway, and soon got to the entrance to Port Isabel's harbor. And Long Island soon appeared on their port side. The third officer, who was acting as navigator, looked up from his chart. “We're here.”

“Helm, ninety degrees to port.” Romonov ordered.

“Ninety degrees, aye.” the helmsman replied.

The Cherepovets swung until the ship was completely blocking the shipping channel. Both Port Isabel and Brownsville would be closed to shipping of any kind until the Cherepovets was cleared.. “Drop anchor,” Romonov ordered, “And open the valves, leave all watertight doors open. Engine-room staff topside.”

The first officer nodded, and then relayed the orders. The second officer came up from below. “All set, Comrade Captain.”

“Very well. Lower the boats, and all hands over the side.” Romonov said.

The abandon-ship drill went flawlessly, and only Romonov and the second officer remained aboard. The man showed Romonov the plunger. “Ready, Comrade Captain.”

Romonov pushed the plunger, and a muffled explosion sounded from below. Then the two officers jumped over the side and swam to one of the boats. As he was pulled into the boat, Romonov ordered, “Get to Port Isabel, now!”

As the boats headed to shore, everyone turned to watch. The Cherepovets settled down on an even keel, stern first. And she sank. Slowly, but surely. Until only her upperworks and cranes were above water.


1130 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th Guards Tank Division, Rio Grande Valley International Airport.


Captain Popov watched through his binoculars from the tank hatch. Though it wasn't a specialized command tank, it would have to do for his purposes. The tank commander had been wounded, and it had been easy to take over the vehicle, and now, it was his. But not for long, he knew. Popov saw the two regiments to the north under attack, and this time, it wasn't an air attack: the Americans were coming for them-tanks and mechanized infantry. Though his battered regiment was technically a flank guard, he knew that any counterattack would also involve his regiment, and thus was likely to be his last. His regiment's chief of staff came on the line. “Comrade Commander, division says to be ready to move within five minutes.”

“Understood,” Popov replied. He waved over to the BTR command vehicle, where his Zampolit was situated. And Grushin waved back. Popov waved him back, and Grushin knew it. It would be so easy to take out both vehicles, and leave the 8th GTR leaderless, and then wipe out the survivors at leisure.

Then the chief of staff came back. “We're to move. Forward.”

And Popov ordered the 8th Guards forward. He'd read about the British in the Crimean War, and that cavalry regiment that had charged headlong into Russian guns-and had been wiped out in the process. Now, his regiment was in a similar position, and was moving headlong into enemy armor. While the counterattack would be short, they would try anyway.

Artillery fire began to fall around the 8th Guards, but Popov paid it no heed. It was HE, not those irritating ICM rounds with those submunitions that could strip reactive armor off of tanks, or knock treads off. Or knock out an engine if there was a lucky hit to the tank deck. He reached for his radio: call signs were meaningless now, so he simply said, “Motor-Rifle troops ahead. Tanks to support.”

BMP-2s moved ahead of the T-80s, and they began searching out targets. Up ahead, they could see vehicles exploding in fireballs as the 144th MRR attempted its own counterattack, and its regimental guns began direct fire. Popov called for artillery fire ahead of his own unit, and the remaining 122-mm guns started to pump out shells. “All Dagger units, let's get them. Independent fires on contact,” Popov radioed.

Subunit commanders acknowledged, and T-80s began searching out their own targets and firing. Popov looked for a target, and found one: a Bradley. “Gunner, hard core. Bradley front!”

“Identified. Hard core loaded.”

“Fire.”

The big 125-mm gun roared, and the Bradley exploded. “Target destroyed!” the gunner shouted.

“Reload hard core,” Popov said. “Tank at eleven!”

The reload took its time, and as Popov watched, the American tank was laying its own gun on a BMP-2. That tank gun-a 120-mm, roared, and the BMP was just blown apart. The gunner shouted, “Hard core loaded! Target identified! Range one thousand.”

“Steady. And fire!” Popov shouted.

The T-80 fired, but the shot missed. Then the M-60A4 turned its turret, and Popov fired the T-80's smoke grenades, covering the tank in white smoke. Then Grushin came on the line, “We're hit! We're....” and the transmission stopped.

“Reload!” Popov shouted.

The driver moved the tank forward, and poked out of the smoke cloud. The tank was still there. And Popov's gunner tried to lay the gun on the American, but this time, the M-60A4 spoke first. And the 120-mm sabot round tore through the left side of the T-80, ripping into first the ammunition, then the crew compartment. Within two seconds, the T-80 exploded, but Popov and his crew never had a chance. They died as the tank fireballed around them. And their deaths preceded those of most of the 8th Guards Tank Regiment's survivors by minutes. The Soviet force was smashed, and the Americans began to push forward.


1155 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College.


General Isakov had just finished talking with General Rybikov at 28th Army. The Rogachev Guards had been overwhelmed, and it looked like the 20th Guards Tank Division was suffering the same fate. He knew that this would mean that Suraykin's counterattack would have to go elsewhere, but he'd also have to notify Malinsky. He went to the small office-which had served a professor of some kind before the war, and found his general, who was having a small lunch. “Comrade General,” Isakov reported.

“Isakov. Do come in. I know it's not much, but I insist.” Malinsky said. Lunch was a can of fruit cocktail, some canned fish, and some bread, along with a bottle of water. And both knew that those on the front lines were lucky to get even that, given all of their supply issues. Malinsky noted the expression on his chef of staff's face. “What is it?”

Isakov sat down. Before he took a bite, he said, “20th Guards Tanks has been overwhelmed at the Rio Grande Valley Airport. Suraykin will have to divert most of his counterattack force to block the penetration.”

Malinsky looked at him. He had his own operations map in the office, for when he had to talk to Marshal Alekseyev. “Show me.”

Isakov did so. “The 7th Armored Division has punched a hole-that endangers both 28th Army and 4th Guards Tank Army. If the Americans realize it, they can put whatever follow-on forces they have, and get in behind both armies.”

“Anything new? The Air Force has been out.” Malinsky noted. He'd been talking with his air force representative often that morning.

“They do report some movement along Highways 77 and 281, but what, they're not entirely sure.” Isakov said.

Malinsky finished his fruit cocktail.”Get whatever air force assets you can, and get them up there. Notify Suraykin to get 38th Tanks up to a blocking position, and have 28th Army get what they can: the Rogachev Guards were their last reserves, correct?”

“Their last reserve division, Comrade General.” Isakov said. “They do have an independent motor-rifle regiment available, and they can commit their remaining engineers as infantry, if necessary. As can the 4th GTA.”

“Then have them do so.” Malinsky said.

“And the 105th Guards Airborne?” Isakov asked.

“They'll have to make do with a single tank regiment, instead of a reinforced division,” Malinsky noted. “And as long as that amphibious force is off the coast, there's no way we'll get the 47th Tank Brigade or the 76th Guards Air Assault Division.”

Isakov nodded. “Understood, Comrade General.” He got up to leave.

“Isakov,” Malinsky said.

“Yes, Comrade General?”

“Select two or three officers from among the staff: men who are only sons, or have the most children at home. Have copies made of all of our documents about the last few weeks-especially the medical and supply situations, and designate them as couriers. Get priority passes for them on the airlift, or failing that, into Mexico. And see to it that all the staff have a final chance to write home. They'll also take the private letters out with them.” Malinsky said.
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