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Old 03-03-2015, 09:43 PM
Matt Wiser Matt Wiser is offline
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Location: Auberry, CA
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And another: FYI when the war began, the Hell's Angels offered their services to the U.S. Army. After filtering out those who had no military experience, the rest formed the 13th Armored Cavalry Regiment, equipped with Cadillac-Gage Stingrays and LAV-25s, though also forming several motorcycle scout troops. They use less ammunition and produce more corpses than any other unit of comparable size.



2345 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


General Alekseyev looked at his map, just as Malinsky was. “So far, Malinsky seems to be holding,” he said to General Chibisov.

“Yes, Comrade General, but when dawn comes, Powell will cut the leash of his other corps commanders, and Malinsky will have a major fight on his hands,” Chibisov said.

General Petrov, his Air Force commander, came into the Operations Room. “Comrade General, I've got some news, some good, some bad.”

“Let's have the bad news first, Petrov,” Alekseyev said.

“Any airdrops of supplies can't happen before tomorrow afternoon, Comrade General.”

“To be expected, I imagine,” Alekseyev said. “And the good news?”

“The runways at Brownsville/South Padre Island are still operational. That means the heavy transports can still come in,” Petrov said.

“Very good news, Petrov,” Alekseyev said. “How long can you keep them open?”

“That depends on how serious the Americans are about neutralizing them, Comrade General.”

“Of course. And how many fighters have we left in the perimeter? Not theater-wide, but here, in the perimeter. And I'm not asking about ground-attack aircraft,” Asked Alekseyev.

“Barely enough to contest the air above us, Comrade General,” Petrov replied. “And one can forget about any kind of offensive air operations, or escorting the evacuation aircraft.”

Colonel Sergetov came into the Operations Room. “Comrade General, this just arrived from Moscow.” He handed a message form to Alekseyev.

“Thank you, Colonel.” He read the message. “Of all the.....You're sure about this?”

“Yes, Comrade General. They want Hall, his cabinet, and a number of other top figures in the ALA and the PSD out. And those names will be sent to us tomorrow,” Sergetov said.

“Very well. Is there anything else, Comrades?” Alekseyev asked. Seeing his staff shake their heads no, he nodded. “I'm going to get some sleep. I suggest those not on duty do the same. It's likely sleep will be in short supply the next few days.”


0020 Hours, 1 October 1989: Texas Highway 336, North of Hidalgo, Texas.


Major Herndando Soto of the Mexican Army's 111th Brigade was lost. He was ordered to head to Cuban 2nd Army headquarters in Pharr, but his lead element had apparently taken a wrong turn. Seeing the flashes of gunfire in the distance, he remembered something from his officer training: when in doubt, march towards the sound of the guns.

His brigade was newly formed, and had not even been in combat before, even against the counterrevolutionaries infesting Northern Mexico. Soto had little confidence in his company grade officers, though his battalion commanders had had some experience, but none had served in America. He also had to put up with a political commissar who seemed to think Party dogma was a solution to each and every problem. Including the fact that his equipment was made up of thirty- and forty-year old Soviet castoffs. Though his men had plenty of small arms that were relatively new, his heavy equipment was from the 1950s at least, and some of his T-34s had been made back in 1946! And to top it off, he had no night-vision gear. Though the Army's performance in the invasion had been less than stellar, as the battle lines moved south, the Mexicans had fought hard. San Antonio, Victoria, and Uvalde had shown that.

Shrugging his shoulders, he trusted his lead battalion to at least find some of the Cubans they were supposed to link up with, and point them in the right direction. And when the time came, would his men emulate those who'd fought hard to prevent the Americans from stealing more of Mexico, or would they flee at the first sign of serious trouble, like in the early days?

About a thousand yards off to the west side of the road, a company team from the 3rd Battalion, 144th Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 49th Armored Division, was waiting. Their commander, a female captain two years out of West Point, sat in the commander's seat of her Bradley IFV and smiled. These Mexicans were coming along, fat, dumb, and happy, She had her Bradleys and M-60A4 tanks poised not only on the side of the road, but a platoon of tanks was waiting on the road itself. She smiled, and told her gunner. Time. With that, he raised the Bradley's twin TOW missile launcher and picked out a target.

Major Soto was jerked out of his reverie by the sight and sound of an ambush. “Deploy! Get off the road!” he yelled into his radio, as a T-34 exploded ahead of his BTR-152. But it was too late, as trucks, tanks, and APCs took fire and exploded. He watched as an Su-100 assault gun tried to move off the road to the right, and erupted in flame. Then an ISU-152 moved to his left, and it,too, exploded.

The Americans systematically destroyed each and every vehicle in the kill zone, and the ambushers then proceeded south, picking off vehicles as they went. Then they came across the brigade's command element.

“Get us support! We've been promised artillery support!” Soto screamed at his radioman.

“I can't, Major. The radios are jammed,” the man replied.

The American company commander led her own command element, with a tank platoon alongside them, against the clutch of BTRs and trucks. “Take'em!” She said over the radio.

“Tanks!” someone screamed at Soto. He turned, and saw the outlines of M-60A4 tanks-the beasts with the M-1 turret that ate T-72s like burritos, with their turrets pointed at his own vehicles. “Madre dios,” Soto said, not caring if the Commissar overheard him. They fired, and his vehicle, and everyone in it, erupted in a fireball.

“All Whiskey elements, this is Whiskey Six,” the company commander said into her radio. “Pursue by fire only. Repeat: pursue by fire only. We'll hold here for the moment.” And the company team did so, and methodically wiped out every vehicle belonging to the 111th Brigade in the process.

And in Hidalgo, Major Mendoza saw the battle. And was confronted with a stream of frightened Mexicans on foot, pushing south. Full of fight only an hour earlier, now he saw that the only thing that these Mexicans wanted was to get away. He turned to his regimental staff. “Our turn's coming, Comrades. Have the men stand to.”

0115 Hours: Kampfgruppe “Rosa Luxembourg” Headquarters, Elsa, Texas.

Major General Gerhard Metzler scowled as he looked at the map in what had been, prewar, a municipal courthouse. Now, he had the 9th Panzer Division and the 11th Motor-Rifle Division, or more correctly, what was left of them, along with the battered 40th Air Assault Regiment. Though still full of fight, and willing to do their duty, his soldiers were tired. There had been no news from home for several weeks, and though rumors of the wildest sort, something like the West Germans, French, and even the British joining forces to attack the GDR, had been going around, his political officers had made sure that rumor mongers in the ranks were dealt with harshly. And so his men were more than willing to carry on.

General Metzler knew his time was numbered. To his left, elements of XII Corps had gotten into a fight for Edinburg, and had overrun the Edinburg Airport, north of the city, driving his own forces back. The 9th Panzer Division had even been encircled at one point, but had managed to fight its way out, but had lost half of its armor in the process. That had changed his plan-since he had hoped that once the line was restored, the 9th Panzers could be his counterattack force, and now, he'd be lucky if the 9th could even fight a defensive battle. He turned to Colonel Johannes Adam, his Chief of Staff. “Comrade Colonel, we're between the proverbial rock and a hard place.”

“Quite so, Comrade General,” Adam said. His uncle had been in a similar position forty-four years earlier, at a place called Stalingrad.

“XII Corps can come in on us, they should have at least one division, maybe two, and if they do...” Metzler's voice trailed off.

“If they do, Comrade General, we're in for it,” Adam replied.

“Anything to the north?” Metzler asked.

“No, Comrade General. We're still in touch with Eighth Guards Army, and our liaison officer says that their front has been quiet since late afternoon,” Adam said, pointing at the map.

“That's XVIII Airborne Corps, or part of it, anyway.”

“Yes, Comrade General. The prewar elite of the American Army.” Adam said.

“At least we don't have to worry about those maniacs in the 13th Armored Cavalry. But I have to hand it to the Americans: when they formed that regiment, at first, only those with Vietnam experience were selected. Even if they were outlaws and gangsters,” Metzler said.

“Ah, yes, Comrade General. At least we won't have to worry about our nurses and other women being raped and then dragged behind their tanks,” Adam reminded his general.

“That's a bunch of nonsense and we both know it. But that unit has a well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness, no question. Who's facing us right now?”

“As best as we can tell, not having any prisoners, it's the 31st Mechanized Infantry Division-raised from Alabama, along with the 48th Mechanized Division from Georgia and South Carolina. And to our north, opposite our boundary with Eighth Guards, it's the 42nd Mechanized Division from New York, Comrade General.” Adam said.

Metzler checked the map again. Then he made his decision. “With no counterattack force, we'll wind up fighting another delaying action. And this time, we may need to sacrifice a unit. Have the 40th Air Assault Regiment dig in here. Their mission is to hold off the Americans as long as possible. I don't like it, but we've got no choice.”

“I understand, Comrade General.”


0200 Hours: Off Brazos Santiago Pass.


Captain Romonov brought the Boiky in, dead slow. He was sure that he was within sight of the shore, but he wanted to be sure. Both his Exec and his navigator were also certain, but with no night-vision gear available to his lookouts, let alone himself or any of the other officers, so he had to be careful. Then a lookout sang out. He'd seen breakers hitting the shoreline.

“All stop!” Romonov shouted.

“All stop, aye,” the helmsman said. “All engines answer stop, Comrade Captain.”

“Depth under the keel?” the Exec asked.

The sonar officer called back, “Twenty meters, according to the chart.”

“Your orders, Comrade Captain?” Asked the Exec.

“Come right. Bring us parallel to the shoreline. And dead slow.”

“Comrade Captain,” the Exec replied, relaying the helm and engine orders.

Romonov looked at the shoreline. He knew the Army was looking out at him. Or were there coastal-defense missiles ready to shoot? Those blockheads might shoot just on seeing the outline of his ship. “We're here, so fire the recognition flare.”

The Exec nodded. And the flare went up.

Then a blinker signal came from the shore. “What ship?”

Romonov let out a deep breath. He turned to his chief signalman. “Send the recognition letters, then 'Destroyer Boiky'. And request assistance in making port at first light.”

“Comrade Captain.” And the man sent the message. “Their response, Comrade Captain.”

Through his binoculars, Romonov saw the message. “Will relay your request to Naval Headquarters. Welcome to Texas.”
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