And the day goes on....


1500 Hours: Soviet evacuee convoy, along U.S. 281, north of La Paloma, Texas.


Captain Chernova looked out the window of the bus. Typical desert, she thought: she'd never been in a desert before coming first to Mexico, then to America, way back in 1985. Now, she knew, things were coming full circle. Back to Mexico, and either a new assignment there, or somehow, getting back to the Rodina. And maybe, just maybe, by the time we get home, the war will be over. And back to home to Vyborg, and try and get life going again. She'd said that to Commander Carlisle, who had nodded. She, too had postwar plans-namely, staying in the U.S. Navy and returning to flying status. “My father was an admiral, and he'd be very disappointed in me if I didn't make the Navy a career,” she had said.

Now, there was a good chance the convoy was getting close to a bridge. There looked like vehicles backed up, waiting to cross, and they had also passed a good number of trucks, buses, and even APCs, all caught by air attack as they had moved along the road. “Well, Commander, it looks like you'll be getting off soon,” Chernova said.

“Oh?” Carlisle said. She'd actually closed her eyes and dozed off for a few minutes.

“Yes, there's a convoy held up-and there must be a bridge up ahead.”

Little did anyone know that, just north of the bridge, Captain Nancy Kozak's Team was approaching. With the only aircraft in the air American for the most part, her Team advanced along the highway, occasionally picking off Soviet or Cuban stragglers as they went. A few rounds of machine-gun or 25-mm fire did the job in knocking out trucks and the occasional APC, though tank guns spoke on two occasions, when BMPs had been found. No one was taking any chances, not now. Then she heard over the radio from her Air Force ETAC: a ribbon bridge was still up about three klicks ahead. Though fixed-wing aircraft were busy, a pair of Apaches was called in onto the very attractive target: and the Apaches ripped into the bridge with their Hellfire missiles, while they used their rockets and 30-mm cannon on the vehicles that had been backed up, waiting for their turn to cross.

“Mother of God! What was that?” the guard officer in the bus asked. Those in front could see fireballs erupting as vehicles exploded ahead of them, and then it was obvious: Apache helicopters were working the bridge. Then they watched as the helicopters turned and headed north. The convoy bypassed the shattered bridge, hoping to find a place to turn around. As they did so, it was Commander Carlisle who noticed it. And a small grin came to her face. She turnd to Dr. Chernova, “Galina, I think you people are headed somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look out the side window.”

As Chernova did so, a chill came down her spine. American tanks and fighting vehicles were closing. .


Kozak, in her Bradley, saw the convoy. Five buses, with two BTR-70s and two BRDMs as escort. These had to be high-value evacuees: there was no way Ivan would waste captured school buses on POWs. She got onto the platoon net: “Take the escort vehicles, and fire ahead of the buses. There's probably VIPs on those buses. Let's bring 'em in.”

In his BTR, Major Kokarev was checking his map. They'd have to turn around and go back south. Maybe there was a way across south of the two bridges he'd found destroyed. Then his driver let out a cry, “Enemy tanks to the right!”

“What are you babbling about?” Kokarev asked as he poked his head up and looked in that direction. His eyes became wide as saucers. “Mother of....” He never finished the sentence.

Third Platoon's tanks opened fire on the escort vehicles, destroying each with the first shot, and then machine-gun fire went in ahead of the buses. All of them screeched to a stop, and the Bradleys closed in.

Commander Carlisle peeked up, and saw the Bradleys closing in. She turned to Chernova. “You do have something white, I presume, being a doctor?”

“Yes, my coat. Are those the lunatics?”

“What lunatics are you talking about?” Carlisle asked.

“That maniacal motorcycle gang that became a regiment, that's who!” One of Chernova's fellow doctors said.

The American laughed. “That's not them. They don't use those tanks and APCs. I've seen them on TV enough times. Give me something white, now!”

Chernova opened her bag and gave Commander Carlisle her white coat. Then Chernova looked at the guard officer, who was properly terrified. No doubt he was expecting a trip to a gulag-or worse, if he returned to Russia having allowed those under his protection to be captured. To her shock-and everyone else's, he took out his service pistol, put it to his temple, and fired. Then she watched as Commander Carlisle shoved the driver aside and opened the side door. And she waved the coat out the open door.

“Six, this is Three-One. Somebody's waving something white out of the lead bus,” Third Platoon called to Kozak.

“Hold fire! I'll be right there. Repeat: all units hold fire!” Kozak then ordered her Bradley forward, and it approached the bus, traversing the turret away as she did so. She stopped fifty feet from the bus and yelled. “Come on out, with your hands up!”

Commander Carlisle told Chernova, “I'll go out and vouch for you. When they tell you to come out, do exactly as they say. And tell the other buses to do the same.”

Chernova nodded apprehensively. Even if these weren't the maniacs in the 13th Cavalry, who knew what these Americans would do to them? She watched as Commander Carlisle got out, still waving the white coat.

“That's one of ours, Ma'am!” Kozak's driver called. Sure enough, Kozak watched as a woman in a U.S. Navy flight suit came out of the bus, waving what appeared to be a doctor's white coat. Kozak got out and walked forward. And she saw that whoever that woman was, she outranked Kozak. She saluted, just as if it had been back on the parade ground at West Point. “Ma'am?”

“Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle, United States Navy. These buses are full of Soviet servicewomen, apart from a few guards. All of them will surrender.”

“Begging your pardon Ma'am, but what were you...”

“Doing on the bus, Captain? They could've sent me to a POW compound, but instead...” Carlisle explained for a few minutes, and Kozak was surprised. The Soviet Theater Commander wanted her for this? “Not that I had any choice, Captain. They would've handcuffed me to a seat if I said no.”

“They'll surrender?” Kozak asked.

“Yes, they will.”

Kozak went back to her Bradley and issued orders: She told the First Sergeant to come forward, and get things organized. And she called battalion for instructions. She was told to hold her position, and the Battalion Commander would come and see for himself. And he'd bring some extra female soldiers to handle the prisoners.

The First Sergeant's vehicle arrived. Kozak turned to him. “There's a couple of female troopers in company headquarters; get them on that first bus. Radio Second Platoon to come forward. Only female soldiers board the buses and secure the prisoners. Is that clear, First Sergeant?”

“Yes, Ma'am,”

Commander Carlisle looked at Kozak. “I'll go back and tell them they're going to be OK. They think you guys are from the 13th Cav.”

“Of course, Ma'am,” Kozak said.

Carlisle went back to the bus. She explained to the Soviet women that the Americans were regular Army, and that the unit had women, and they'd be under the supervision of female soldiers for now. “Just get off the bus, hands on your heads, and do as they say.” Chernova and several others translated for those who didn't know English, and heads nodded. “All right, time to get off. And your war's now over.”

Commander Carlisle waited until all of those on the first bus were off. Before she left, she picked up the guard officer's AK-74 as a souvenir. At least I get something else besides that pass-which I never got to use, thank God-to remind me of how crazy this was. She looked to the right, and the occupants of the other buses were coming off-the guards and drivers were segregated from the women, and the Soviet women were, as promised, searched and guarded by Kozak's female troopers. And Kozak herself came up. “Commander, I've got a question: is there anybody I should be worried about coming north?”

“Everybody I saw was doing the same thing: looking for a way across the river. They're licked, and they don't want to be here when things fold up.”


1525 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.


General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov got out of the little UAZ-469 jeep, and entered the headquarters of the 105th Guards Air Assault Division. General Gordinov was there, shouting into a phone. Then he saw his visitors and hung up. “Comrade General, Colonel. General Suraykin told me you were coming.”

“You do know why we're here?” Chibisov asked.

“Yes, Comrade General,” Gordinov said. “I'll escort you to the junction myself. The 351st Guards Air Assault Regiment is there; they've fought like lions, but are down to only three hundred or so effectives, and even some of their wounded have been fighting. Please follow me, Comrades.” Gordinov said, and the two officers went out of the building, and followed Gordinov on foot to the area just south of the junction. There, they found Colonel Chesnikov still leading the 41st Tank Regiment, but he was now down to eighteen tanks, and only a half-dozen artillery pieces, and those were short on ammunition. When Chesnikov saw the party, and what they were going to do, he felt a sense of relief: it meant that he, and his men, would live. Chesnikov ordered his men to hold fire on the area, and the party arrived at the 351st's command post, where Captain Leonid Gaipov had managed to rally what remained of the regiment, but there were dozens of badly wounded men in need of treatment, and ammunition was running very low. Seeing those wounded only reinforced both Chibisov and Sergetov in their mission: it had to end, and very soon. Sergetov reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a carefully folded white sheet. “If someone can find a piece of wood, or a pipe?”

After a few minutes of searching, a sergeant found a broom handle. Fixing the sheet to the handle, Sergetov nodded to the two generals. “Whenever you're ready, Comrade Generals.”

Chibisov nodded, and the party went out towards the interchange, which had been turned to rubble by air and artillery fire, as well as being pockmarked by small-arms and infantry weapons fire. Sergetov waved the flag continuously as the party went forward.


Ahead of them, 1st Lieutenant Jennifer Moore was having a bad day. She'd taken over her company-Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 116th Infantry, 29th Infantry Division, after both the Company Commander and the Executive Officer had been caught in a mortar barrage. Both men had been badly wounded-and the CO had died before he could get a medivac out. She was the next senior officer-having been a 1st Lieutenant all of a week-so she'd turned her platoon over to her platoon sergeant, and had the company all of three hours when someone shouted, “There's three Russians coming under a white flag.”

She grabbed her binoculars-which had belonged to the Captain-and saw for herself. “Hold fire!” She called. And she thought, this might be it. Lieutenant Moore took off her helmet and put on her fatigue cap, and told the First Sergeant to come with her. Then she walked out onto U.S. 77 and went to meet the enemy. As she approached, she could see that one officer was Guards Airborne-that figured-they'd been battling their way against the 105th Guards Airborne for the past three days, while the other two were clearly Ground Forces. Then she saw that one of them was a full General. Turning to the First Sergeant, she said, “When's the last time a General surrendered to a Lieutenant?”

“Maybe in Germany, Ma'am, back in '45.”

Chibisov and the party got close to the two Americans. One, wearing a helmet, was obviously an NCO, while the other was an officer, and despite the short blond hair, was female as well. Chibisov said in Russian to the two other officers, “Well, we clearly can't pick and choose, can we?” Both Gordonov and Sergetov nodded, and the party stopped. And the female officer stepped forward and saluted-as if she was back at an Academy-Chibisov thought.

After she saluted, and the Russians returned it, Moore said, “First Lieutenant Jennifer Moore, United States Army. And you are?”

Chbisov bowed slightly. “I am General Pavel Chibisov, Chief of Staff to Marshal Alekseyev, the Commander of the Soviet and Cuban forces in the Brownsville area. I would like to speak to a superior officer, to arrange a meeting between Marshal Alekseyev and General Powell.”

“Before I notify my superiors, General, they're going to want to know what the subject of the meeting is going to be.” Moore pointed out.

“I understand, Lieutenant. Marshal Alekseyev wishes to arrange for the orderly surrender of the forces remaining in the pocket.”

Moore and her First Sergeant looked at each other. Had they heard right? “General, Did you say 'surrender'?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I did.” Chibisov replied.

Well, Moore thought. They didn't say anything on how to handle something like this at OCS. She nodded. “Very well, if you'll follow me. First Sergeant,”

“Yes, Ma'am. And the Russians came forward, with Moore leading and the First Sergeant following behind the Russians. As they entered the company's positions, her soldiers stood up to watch. Except for a couple of sergeants, none were original members of the 116th-the rest had been killed, wounded, or reassigned during the long war. All were either wartime volunteers or draftees, she explained, and about a quarter of them were women. When the party got to her company CP, she had her radio operator contact battalion, and she informed the battalion commander of the Russians' arrival and purpose. The battalion commander nearly had a coronary, or so she thought, but composed himself, and told her that he'd inform brigade, and then division, but that vehicles would be sent to bring the Russians to Battalion HQ.

“It'll be a few minutes, at least, before they get here,” Moore explained. She turned to the First Sergeant, “Get our guests some bottled water. It's been a hot day, even for Texas.”

The First Sergeant nodded, and went to get the water. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Chibisov said. “I'm surprised, even after all this time, to see women on the front lines.”

“Why shouldn't you, General? You yourselves had women as combat soldiers in World War II,” Moore reminded Chibisov.

Chibisov nodded. That had probably been a wartime necessity, so why shouldn't the Americans have done the same? “How long have you been in the Army?”

“Four years, General. I joined two days after you invaded. Two years in a supply job, then I was sent to Officer School, and then I volunteered for infantry. Been with the 29th ever since.” Moore said.

The First Sergeant came back with the water. The Russians gratefully accepted the liquid, and drank and drank. It was obvious to the Americans that the Soviets in the pocket were short of a lot of things-and potable water was probably high on the list. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Chibisov said.

Just as that happened, a pair of Humvees arrived, with Moore's battalion commander coming out to see for himself. Like her, he was initially surprised, but now knew this was nearly over. And about time. “General, I'll escort you to my battalion headquarters. I've spoken with brigade and division, and they've cleared things. A Blackhawk will pick you up at my headquarters, and you'll be flown to XVIII Airborne Corps to meet with General Powell's Chief of Staff, General McCaffery.”

Chibisov noted the battalion commander was a major. No doubt there because of casualties, he knew. And this battle in Harlingen had been a nasty one at that. “Thank you, Major. I believe General Gordinov here, from the 105th, has a request for your divisional commander?”

Gordinov turned to the American major. “I would like to request a cease-fire between your division and my own. To allow the party to return, so that I may return a number of your wounded to you, and....I have a number of seriously wounded men who need more treatment than my own medical staff can provide.”

The American Major nodded. “If you'll all come with me, everything will be taken care of.”

As the party got into the Humvees, one group of soldiers took notice. A group of intelligence specialists were looking at a wrecked T-80, when one of the soldiers called down to another inside the tank, “Sarge, have a look at this!”

A bespectacled intelligence sergeant stuck his head out the commander's hatch, and saw a four-star Soviet General, a two-star Guards Airborne General, and a colonel-obviously an aide, get into a Humvee with that battalion's commander. And the Humvee drove off, with another Humvee escorting it. “Well, well.”

“What was that, Sarge?” a corporal asked.

“That, Clancy, might be the end of this war. Now get me a Phillips screwdriver, and a socket wrench, so I can get this fire-control gear out of the gunner's station. NOW!”


1540 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev had finished washing up in his office. He was preparing for a meeting that he expected to take place either that evening, or at worst, the next morning. Until he signed whatever papers Powell had, the war was still on, and he knew it. The door to his office opened, after a knock, and Lieutenant General Mikhail Glasov, Chibisov's deputy, came in.

“Comrade Marshal?”

“Yes, Glasov, what is it?” Alekseyev asked.

“A message from Moscow is coming in. It's a list of decorations and promotions.” Glasov said.

Alekseyev put on his uniform jacket. He'd already had a Gold Star from when he'd been an Army commander in 1985, and he knew full well what a second award would mean-and it wasn't about any kind of bravery on the battlefield. “Let's go, Glasov.”

The two went into the operations room, where things were still being updated, as best as could be. The Cuban 1st Army was coming apart at the seams, while 28th Army was being enveloped by both XVIII Airborne Corps and II MAF. Suraykin's Army was still clinging to its holdings, but they would soon be trapped with no way out. Both 8th Guards and 3rd Shock were also in deep trouble, from both XII and VIII Corps, and the Cuban 2nd Army had been outflanked, and Highway 281 was now completely open and undefended. Alekseyev knew that time was up, and that he'd have to do what no Marshal of the Soviet Union had ever done, if any of his men were to see their homeland ever again. Before he took the message, Alekseyev turned to Glasov. “Any word on the evacuee convoy? The women, Glasov.”

“No, Comrade Marshal. We do know that two, maybe three, of the bridges are down. Perhaps they had to hunt for an intact bridge to cross over into Mexico.”

“All right. The message,” Alekseyev ordered.

A communications officer came with the message form. Alekseyev looked at it, then glanced at Glasov. “Every divisional commander is promoted one grade, while all regimental commanders who aren't colonels? Well, they are now.”

“Someone wants a mass suicide of senior officers, it seems,” Glasov observed. “That person will be greatly disappointed.”

“Yes, and I know exactly who,” said Alekseyev.

Another officer came in with a message form. “For you, Comrade Marshal,”

Alekseyev took the form and read it. He then crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the map. “Of all the....! Well, I have no intention of shooting myself for this Chekist bastard who calls himself General Secretary! A lot of good what that message said does now!”

Glasov retrieved the message and managed to read it. The message announced Alekseyev's award of a second Gold Star, the Hero of the Soviet Union. “My congratulations, Comrade Marshal, for whatever they are worth.”

Alekseyev shot him a vicious look. Then he calmed down. “Thank you, Glasov.” He turned to the communications officer: “Destroy all remaining radios and codes-except for one of each, at once. If you can, then get any remaining code personnel on a helicopter. If you have to, get them across the river by walking, but there's not that much time left.”


1540 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, Highway 4, east of Brownsville.


Major Stepanov led his battalion forward. He commanded the Second Battalion, 47th Tank Brigade, and he was in a fury. His battalion had been hit hard by air strikes and the accursed battleship gunfire, and had been reduced from thirty-one tanks down to eighteen, and Third Battalion, right behind his, had gone from thirty-one down to fifteen. Now, he thought, we'll show those Amerikantsky Marines what real Soviet soldiers can do-not those penal scum on the beach, who, he had been told, had either run away or simply put up their hands. No, not today. Even on what may be the last day, we'll show you how real Soviet soldiers fight. Just you see.

General Andreyev watched from his command post as the two tank battalions advanced. The Marines, he could see, were pulling back. With their control of the air, they could see the tanks coming long before the armor could see the Marines. And with that, Andreyev knew, the Marines were bound to have something up their sleeve. Just as the tanks reached where the 235th Guards Air Assault Regiment had been fighting, a hail of antitank rockets and missiles came from the front and both flanks. Did every Marine have a rocket launcher or an antitank missile launcher? It seemed that way to Andreyev. And Marine Cobra helicopters were overhead, taking shots at tanks with their TOW missiles, while Harriers and A-10s were overhead, adding their own bombs, missiles, and gunfire to the proceedings.

Stepanov cursed inside his T-72A. The Marines had lured his battalion into ambush, and had closed the door behind him-and Third Battalion as well. They were stuck on some high ground, while the road behind them was blocked, and there was no way out-not with several wrecked tanks blocking the road. Abandoning the tank and getting away on foot was unthinkable, so he did what naturally came to him: he pressed forward, “All units, advance!” he shouted into the radio. “Advance!” Then he checked his periscopes: a few tanks were following him, but most of the rest were burning, and a few had been abandoned by their crews. I'll deal with them later, if there is a later, he promised.

Up above, a flight of A-10s was circling overhead, waiting to be cleared in by a Marine Forward Air Controller, They had a birds-eye view of the whole thing, and one had to admit, Ivan still had a lot of guts, moving forward, in the face of all that fire. Then the FAC cleared them in hot, and directed the flight on some T-72s that were pressing forward, on that little chunk of high ground just off the north side of Highway 4. The flight leader rolled in, and the rest of his flight came in right behind him, each pilot picking out his or her target.

“Sokol One, this is Verona Three, aircraft coming in from the east!” One of Stepanov's platoon leaders called. He lifted his head out of the tank to see four A-10s coming in, and as he reached down to fire his smoke grenades, missiles came off the A-10s' rails. He barely had time to shout as the Maverick missile tracked his tank and exploded, turning Stepanov and his tank into a ball of flame and debris.

Andreyev let out a howl of rage, then he turned to his chief of staff. “Pull everyone back. At least two kilometers, no, make it three. We've got to get out of range of this naval gunfire.”

The chief looked at him. “Comrade General, with all these aircraft-”

“I know, we're going to lose more people and more vehicles, But if we stay here, we'd be pounded into pulp by both aircraft and those battleships. Have what's left of 235th Guards-if we're still in touch with them-act as the rearguard. And have the 47th move their intact tank battalions up as a screen. The 234th and 236th will fall back behind the tanks.” Andreyev ordered.

“Yes, of course, Comrade General,” the chief said, going off to issue the order.

And some more...


1550: XVIII Airborne Corps Headquarters, Raymondville, Texas.

General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov looked out the windows on the Blackhawk's sliding door. U.S. Highway 77 was jammed with traffic. American supply convoys and tank transporters headed south, hauling supplies and replacement equipment to the front, and in the northbound lanes, empty convoys returned north. And in the median strip, trudged hundreds of Soviet and Cuban, and presumably Nicaraguan, prisoners, headed north into American captivity. What they saw confirmed what they had been feeling, and what the Marshal himself had been likely feeling for days, that the fighting must come to an end. A pity that it had to be done this way, instead of those stubborn old men in the Kremlin dropping their fantasies of winning the war, and coming to a negotiated settlement that would have enabled the Soviet Union to withdraw from the war with its honor and dignity intact. Now, both knew, there would be not much of either, no matter how cordial the proceedings went. The Soviets had lost, and the Americans would make sure the whole world knew.

Their American escort, a major from 29th Division headquarters, spoke into his headset, then tapped Chibisov on the shoulder. “One minute to landing, General.”

Chibisov nodded. The sooner things got done, the better. They felt a small thump as the Blackhawk landed outside the Corps HQ.. The crew chief got up, and opened the sliding door on the left side. Both Soviet officers and the escort, got out and noticed a group of American officers waiting for them. Ducking to avoid the rotor blades, the party went to meet the Americans. Chibisov pulled himself together, put his service cap on, and, noticing a three-star general leading the American delegation, saluted first. “I am General Pavel Chibisov, Marshal Alekseyev's chief of staff.”

The senior American officer returned the salute. “Lieutenant General Barry McCaffery, General Powell's chief of staff. We've been expecting you, General.”

Both Chibisov and Sergetov recognized the name. McCaffery had been a brigade commander with the 8th Infantry Division at the start of the war, and had led his brigade through First Houston, and the retreat into Louisiana. After that, he'd been in command of the reactivated 30th Mechanized Division, made up of units from Tennessee and the Carolinas, before taking over XVIII Airborne Corps. He'd dropped out of the GRU's picture after that American Summer Offensive in 1988, and it was now clear who had wanted him and why.

The party went into what had been a classroom at the Raymondville High School, where things had been arranged, and before things got going, the Americans noticed the Soviets eying the finger food that had been put out. “Go ahead,” McCaffery said, and the two Soviet officers helped themselves.

After they'd eaten a little, things got underway. “General McCaffery, I have instructions from the Marshal to arrange a meeting with General Powell,” Chibisov said. “I realize that we are in no position to demand anything, except maybe generosity, but I do hope that things will proceed with a bit of respect, even among enemies.”

“Everything will be handled according to International Law, General. Before you bring the Marshal, you can tell him that he and his men will be treated as Prisoners of War, and will be accorded the proper treatment guaranteed under the Geneva Convention. Something, I might add, your own side failed totally in its obligations-not just to prisoners, but to the civilian population.” McCaffery said.

Chibisov sighed. He knew full well what McCaffery meant. “I understand, General. We cannot change the past, no matter what we wish. But I can assure you, that after the surrender, an orderly transition will take place.”

“It had better,” McCaffery growled. “Very well, General. General Powell will meet with the Marshal at 1700. You may return to your lines, and so inform the Marshal. A Blackhawk will be waiting at the headquarters of the 29th Division, and will fly the Marshal to General Powell's headquarters.”

Chibisov nodded. “Is there anything else, General?”

“Yes. I realize you're not used to a free press. So you had better brace yourselves: there's going to be a lot of members of the national-and international-press there,” McCaffery said. “And take my advice: treat the press like you would the proverbial nest of vipers. Some of 'em are decent, but others...they're like sharks at a feeding frenzy.”


1600 Hours: U.S. 281, north of La Paloma, Texas.


Commander Carlisle sat in the First Sergeant's APC, just relieved that it was all over. She had been worried, though, about friendly aircraft shooting up the convoy. Now, the Army was sitting at that bridge site, and she saw Kozak's troops bringing in stragglers. Some of them were obviously wounded, and Kozak's people had allowed some of the Soviet medical personnel to treat them. Now, she was finishing up an MRE-a “Meal Rejected by Everyone”-but the tuna casserole meal the First Sergeant had given her was actually good. Personally, she thought, I'll be glad to be back on the ship. Captain Kozak had fired off a message to her battalion reporting Carlisle's experience, and a request that the ship be notified that Carlisle would be coming back. Then a commotion came up, and she got out to see what was going on-stepping over the Team's mascot, who was fast asleep in the back of the APC. Several trucks were arriving, and a Humvee was coming up to Kozak's Bradley. This might be the battalion commander. He got out, and talked with Kozak. She pointed in Carlisle's direction, and both came to her. “Commander, I'm Major Dan Little, 3-144 Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 49th Armored. Welcome back,” he said, saluting.

She returned the salute. “Thanks, Major. How soon can I get back to my ship?”

“Ma'am, that's gonna have to wait. There's a chopper coming for you.”

Carlisle was stunned. “What for?”

“Commander, we passed your story up the chain of command. This comes from Third Army HQ: General Powell wants to talk to you.” Major Little said.

“About what?”

“Seems he wants to know what kind of a man he's dealing with-Alekseyev, I guess.” Little replied.

The sound of a pair of Blackhawks interrupted things. One had a red cross on its side doors, and was obviously a medievac bird, and the other was a plain A-model UH-60. Both landed, stirring up a lot of dust. “Commander, that vanilla Blackhawk's for you.” Little said.

She looked over at the Soviet prisoners. Most of the women were still sitting in the shade of the buses, though some were helping the Team medics treat the injured. But Commander Carlisle noticed Dr. Chernova taking a break. “Where are they headed?”

“There's an EPW camp for women-the Army reactivated a base outside Salt Lake City, and that's where they send some of the female prisoners, or so I understand. There's another one in upstate New York.” replied the Major.

Carlisle nodded. “All right. There's one I want to say goodbye to: we were seatmates on the bus. Then I'll get on that helo.” She saw both Little and Kozak nod, and then walked over to Dr. Chernova, “Galina.”

“Commander! This is a lot better than we expected, but then again, this is not the 13th Cavalry.” Chernova replied.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, and wish you good luck. Not for your side, you understand, but you, personally.”

“Where will they take us?” Chernova wondered.

“Either Utah, or someplace in Upstate New York. You'll sit out the rest of the war there.” Carlisle replied. “I'm going back to my ship in a day or so.”

Chernova nodded understanding. She hugged Commander Carlisle, and kissed her on the cheeks in the traditional Russian manner. “Thank you again.”

“I have to go, but one day, maybe, we can get together again and share our war stories-it happens after every war.” Carlisle said. “Good luck.”

Chernova nodded as the Commander went back to the two Army officers. “That's that, Major.” She went back to the APC and picked up that AK-74 she wanted to keep. “Thanks again, Captain,” she said to Kozak, shaking her hand. “Major, this could've ended a lot worse. Remember, they're not the KGB or the GRU: they got sent here to do their job, that's all.”

“We know, Ma'am. Let's get you to that chopper.” Little said. And with that, he escorted Commander Carlisle to the Blackhawk, and she got in. The crew chief made sure she was seated and strapped in, then gave her a headset. “Where are we going, exactly?” she asked the pilot.

“Edinburg, Ma'am. General Powell's HQ is there.” the pilot replied as the Blackhawk took off, made a turn, and headed north.


1615 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev peered out to sea once again, and again, there were American ships on the horizon. But this time, they didn't appear to be menacing his defenses, just cruising up and down the coast. From what he'd heard over the radio net, the Americans were pouring ashore, and the Army was having a hard time with American air attacks and naval gunfire. Having been on the receiving end of two bombardments himself, he did not blame anyone for pulling back in the face of fire that could not be countered. But still, there was still a chance that there'd be a landing on this beach, and so he went up to Captain Lieutenant Kamarov's observation point to have a long-range look for himself.

He found Kamarov peering through his long-range glasses and consulting his ship recognition manual. “Well, what do we have now? Lazarev asked.

“So far, not much. I've seen one of the battleships, though. Not sure which one-they're too far away to see the hull number. There's what appears to be a couple of supply ships-and helicopters going back and forth, with sling loads carried underneath.” Kamarov said.

“You've seen that before?”

“Yes, Major. Once, before the war. In the Mediterranean: their Sixth Fleet did something like that, and our ship was there. We saw them fly supplies from the supply ship to the carrier, back and forth, for most of a day.”Kamarov said.

Lazarev peered through the glasses. He did notice something else, though. “What are those other helicopters doing?”

“Too far away exactly to tell what they're up to,” Kamarov replied. “Best guess, though, is they're on antisubmarine patrol.”

Lazarev was surprised at that. “So we still have our comrades in submarines out there?”

“I don't know, Major.” Kamarov admitted. “But they must think so, otherwise, no patrols. I'd still do it, if I was in their place.”

The door to the OP opened, and it was one of Lazarev's staff officers. “Comrade Major, this came in from Admiral Gordikov.”

Nodding, Lazarev replied, “Thank you.” He took the message form and read it. “Mother of God....”

“What is it?” Kamarov asked.

“No, repeat, no demolitions of any kind are permitted from now on. This includes the Queen Isabella Causeway and the Port Isabel oil refinery.” Lazarev read.


Kamarov let out a sigh of relief. “That's that, Major. No demolitions means only one thing: this battle is almost over. And you won't have had to fire a shot.”


1625 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.


General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov were in the 105th's command post, having recrossed back to their own lines. Their trip had been uneventful, though as they walked through the American lines, both had noticed scores of American soldiers watching them. For many, it had been their first sight of a live Soviet general, and Sergetov had noticed soldiers taking out something that in the Soviet Army, was strictly forbidden: personal cameras, and they were taking pictures. When Sergetov commented about it, Chibisov admitted noticing it was well. Once they got back to the 105th's command post, General Gordonov was waiting. He'd arranged his local cease-fire, and so far, it was holding.

Now, Chibisov was waiting on the phone for Marshal Alekseyev. Then Alekseyev's voice came on the line, “Pavel Pavlovitch, did you accomplish your mission?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. I was able to speak to General McCaffery, Powell's chief of staff. He has arranged a meeting with you for 1700. Please come to the 105th's command post, and we will cross the American lines, where a helicopter will take us to Powell's headquarters.” Chibisov said.

“Something has come up, Chibisov. Send Colonel Sergetov back, and ask the Americans for a two-hour delay. Some....housecleaning, for want of a better term, needs to be taken care of before the meeting.” Alekseyev said.

Chibisov understood. No doubt the Political Department, along with some KGB and possibly even GRU, had to be dealt with first. A pity Andreyev's paratroopers were busy fighting the U.S. Marines, as they would perform that task splendidly. But the headquarters guard battalion would be able to handle matters, he knew. “I will do so, Comrade Marshal.”

“Good, Chibisov. One other thing: we received a message from Moscow. You have a Gold Star, whether you want one or not.” Alekseyev told his chief of staff.

“Someone not only wants heroes, Comrade Marshal, but also dead ones,” Chibisov observed.

“Yes, and that Chekist who got himself to become General Secretary and start this whole chain of events is likely that someone. He's not going to get what he wants, that I assure you.”

“I have no doubt about that, Comrade Marshal,” said Chibisov. “Shall I inform the Americans of the reason for the delay?”

“By all means, Chibisov. I would like to keep that meeting time, but circumstances require these preliminary matters to be dealt with first. I will be there, however, at 1830.” Alekseyev said, then he hung up.

Chibisov turned to Sergetov, “Colonel, go back and inform the Americans that the Marshal will be delayed, and of the reason for such a delay.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Sergetov replied. He picked up the white flag and returned to the American lines, where the same female infantry lieutenant received him. She took him into her company command post, and got on the radio with her battalion commander. The message was relayed to General McCaffery, who only had one question: “Is the reason for the delay either KGB or GRU?”

“Please tell the General that though I was not told, it may be either one,or a combination of the two.” Sergetov said.

The female officer did so, and McCaffery replied. “Very well, Colonel. We'll meet at 1900.”

Sergetov thanked the general, and returned to his own lines. As he did so, he saw American medics coming back from the 105th's positions, carrying wounded Americans on stretchers. Gordonov had indicated he had American wounded, and was anxious to return them. Sergetov also noted that some civilians had come out of hiding, hoping that the fighting was over for good. Hopefully, it will be, he thought.

Sergetov returned to the 105th's command post and relayed McCaffery's granting of the request. Chibisov relayed the news to Marshal Alekseyev, who reconfirmed his arrival at 1830.

Almost time for an event similar to one on 7 May 45....

1655 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo High School, Rancho Viejo, Texas.


Malinsky surveyed the gymnasium at the high school, and noted that under more ideal circumstances, it would make a fine operations area for a headquarters. Now, they'd be there, at most, for a day or two, and everyone knew it. Still, until there was a cease-fire, things went on as usual. And Isakov was giving his Front Commander a status update.

“The Cuban 1st Army's right flank is still holding, as is their center, but the left, Comrade General, has given way. There, the only thing delaying II MAF's forces are prisoners in quantity.” Isakov reported.

“Just like in Colorado, after the American offensive after Wichita,” Malinsky remembered. “It's been said that the only thing holding up the American advance there was the mass of prisoners that clogged the roads.”

“Ah, yes, Comrade General,” Isakov replied. “In 28th Army, they're facing also II MAF, and some of XVIII Airborne Corps still, though they're being cut off by the 7th Armored Division, slowly but surely. Our men are still fighting, but the ammunition...”

“Is the factor. I know, Isakov. And the Americans now control the sky totally. We haven't seen a friendly aircraft since midmorning.” Malinsky said. “Continue.”

“In Suraykin's army, the 24th Tanks has finally been overwhelmed, and what's left of 38th Tanks is still clinging to their positions. If they had the ammunition, they could hold another day,” Isakov said. “On the left, both 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle have been pushed back, almost to the 77-83 freeway, and the Americans there have opened the right flank of 8th Guards Army.

“In that sector, they're pushing VIII Corps forces into 8th Guards as well, and they've annihilated the 276th Motor-Rifle Division almost to the last vehicle: they were holding the juncture with 4th Guards Tank Army. Elements of VIII Corps are also facing 3rd Shock, as is part of XII Corps. The 3rd Shock Army is falling back, still in good order, but again, fuel and ammunition shortages mean that intact tanks and combat vehicles are simply being abandoned. Finally, the Cuban 2nd Army is also teetering, with an open left flank, and a clear Highway 281.” Isakov said, finishing his report.

Malinsky surveyed the map, and simply shook his head. “The amphibious landing?”

“Andreyev's group has taken heavy losses from air strikes and naval gunfire. But they are keeping the Americans from pushing to the Intracoastal Waterway and crossing it. If they do, that whole area north of the waterway is practically undefended. And there's nothing to stop them if they did so.” Isakov commented.

Malinsky let out a sigh. “This has to end. Isakov. It has to. Now, I do know there may be those who want to continue fighting. That would be some KGB, and the PSD, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“I've got my own headquarters battalion left: fully equipped and ready. If Marshal Alekseyev needs them to....clean house, as they say, that battalion's at his disposal.”

Isakov nodded, and went to notify Alekseyev's headquarters. As he was talking to Alekseyev's operations officer, Malinsky's communications officer came to him with a message. “Comrade General, this came direct from Moscow.”

“From Moscow?” Malinsky asked, stunned. “What does it say?”

The man took a deep breath. “It's from the General Secretary. It says that if Marshal Alekseyev attempts to surrender, you are to relieve him of his command and continue resistance as long as possible. 'Every day you fight is of paramount importance.' the message says.”

Malinsky scowled. “Of all the....'paramount importance.' The only thing that's of importance is that bastard Chekist's personal vanity.”

The room went silent at that. Finally, someone had been able to speak what he thought of their leader, who had led the Soviet Union into this war, and had stubbornly refused to find a way out when it was obvious that a battlefield victory was impossible. “Do you have a reply, Comrade General? The message requests acknowledgment.”

“Simply acknowledge receipt of the message. Nothing more.” Malinsky ordered.

The man grinned. “Yes, Comrade General!” he said as he went off to send the message. As he did so, Malinsky addressed the staff. “How many here wish to continue the fight? If there are, then I release you from your duties, and urge you to get across the Rio Grande as soon as possible.”

Isakov, still on the phone, looked around. None of the staff raised their hands, and he smiled. He finished his conversation and hung up. “Comrade General, may I say that it has been an honor to serve with you, and that it is a pleasure to be with you at the end.”

The staff stood up and applauded. Malinsky nodded, then ordered them back to their duties. Isakov came over and informed him, “Marshal Alekseyev has the situation in hand, but that if there are any such elements that you are aware of, you may deal with them at your discretion.”

Malinsky nodded. “We'll do just that. There's a KGB checkpoint at Olmito, just south of here on 77-83, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade General. A company-sized unit, I believe.” Isakov said. “There's also a labor camp and a POW camp nearby.”

“Good. Have that unit disarmed. If they refuse, the battalion commander may deal with them appropriately. And secure those camps. The guards are to be disarmed and the prisoners turned over to the Americans, as per the Marshal's orders.”

Isakov grinned again. Dealing decisively with a KGB unit? “It will be a pleasure, Comrade General.”


1710 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev knew that the Political Department-along with certain KGB elements, would oppose his intention to conclude matters, and so he'd unleashed his headquarters guard on the nearby KGB offices. He'd briefed the battalion commander personally, and the captain was eager to deal with the KGB once and for all before things ended. Now, two companies of motor-rifle troops and a platoon of tanks had surrounded the building, which was close to the headquarters on the old university campus, and were busy reducing it to rubble. And any of the Chekisti who tried to run were gunned down as they did so, while others were shot down where they stood. As he watched from the roof of the headquarters, a smile came to Alekseyev's face. Now, the chief of the Political Department needed to be taken care of. If Chibisov was here, I'd have him handle it. But now, I'll do it myself, he thought. He turned to General Glasov. “I'd say the Chekisti won't be in a position to object to whatever decisions I make, Glasov.”

“Comrade Marshal, there are many officers who would have loved to do just as you have done. Only they didn't have the courage to do so.” Glasov commented.

“I know. But then, those men weren't in the position we're in now.” Alekseyev said. “Let's go take care of the Political Department,” Alekseyev said, motioning to the door leading to the stairwell.

Glasov nodded, and both officers went down to the fourth floor, where the Political Department had its offices. Most of the Political Officers there had left-knowing full well that if they were caught by the Americans, they would be considered war criminals unless proven otherwise, so many had fled, either on their own to Mexico, or had tried to get on the airlift. A few had stayed-and shot themselves, much to Alekseyev's pleasure: he had no use for political officers, and in many cases, leaving “pacification” or “political re-education” to the Zampolits had left a bad taste in his mouth-let alone leaving numerous corpses in their wake. Not to mention the political interference in running the war: oh, he knew full well that the Soviets were not likely to win an outright victory, but Chebrikov's stubbornness, and with Political Officers and the KGB purging officers for supposed defeatist tendencies, meant that his loathing of those two species had been magnified.

Now, the two officers came to the office of the highest-ranking political officer in the entire American TVD. Lieutenant General Valentin Drachev had been in the job for two years, and according to the GRU, the Americans had him on their “wanted” lists. Alekseyev had decided, that if Drachev wouldn't get out-and there were still helicopter flights-he'd 'retire' the political officer and order the remaining political staff out. And so the two officers came to Drachev's office and knocked on the door. Glasov frowned. “Comrade Marshal, I think I hear sobbing.”

“I think you're right,” Alekseyev said, and he opened the door. Inside the office, they found Drachev sitting at his desk, with two empty vodka bottles on top, and the general sitting with his back turned to the entrance, weeping. The Marshal looked at Drachev, and shook his head. “Comrade Political Officer?” Alekseyev said.

Drachev turned, and both generals saw tears in his eyes. “Marshal....I have something for you.”

“Drachev? Why are you in this state?” Alekseyev asked.

“When this war started, I was an idealistic, sincere, communist. Convinced that what we were embarking on was a war of liberation, to free America from the shackles of capitalism, and bring about a new age of peace and justice. Now, I am ashamed of what has been done in the name of socialism, and in the name of the Party.” Drachev said, still sobbing uncontrollably. “Instead, we have outdone the Fascists in their brutality, and our hands are red with innocent blood.”

“Comrade-”

“We had no business coming here!” Drachev shouted, “We all know it, and yet, our leadership in the Kremlin betrayed us, betrayed our soldiers and the people, and now, the Soviet Union is held in the same low regard as Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan in terms of the number of atrocities committed. And yes, I have seen the results of such.....activity.” Drachev sobbed, taking a swig of vodka from the bottle he was holding.

Alekseyev and Glasov looked at each other. “Comrade Drachev,” Alekseyev said. “I can get you on one of the last helicopters out of here, before the end.....”

“I cannot leave. Nor will I surrender to the Americans, Marshal.” Drachev put the bottle down and opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a Tokarev TT-33 pistol, cocking it as he did so. And before either Alekseyev or Glasov could say or do anything, Drachev put the pistol to his head and fired. His body dropped to the floor, leaving a bloody mess on the office window.

The two generals turned and left. As they returned to Alekseyev's office, so that the Marshal could compose his final message to Moscow, Glasov turned to the Marshal and said, “Comrade Marshal, that was probably the best....outcome in this case.”

“Yes, it was. I would have killed him, but better that he took care of that detail himself. I expect that there will be quite a few suicides between now and when the cease-fire takes effect.” Alekseyev observed. “And the Americans will be...disappointed.”

“How is that, Comrade Marshal?” Glasov asked.

“There are those whom the Americans wish to put on trial as war criminals; finding out that some of them evaded the gallows in this way won't make them happy.”

1725 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

Colonel Gregor Alexandrov was at the point of simply throwing up his hands and giving up. He'd been General Lukin's deputy, and had stayed in the job when Lukin was flown out and General Petrov remained in charge of the airlift. Now, Petrov was gone as well, and things had gone to hell in a handbasket very quickly. Only a few aircraft had come in since Petrov's departure, and none of the heavy lift aircraft-like An-22s or Il-76s. A few An-12s and An-24s or -26s had come in, as had a couple more An-74s, but there were still priority specialists awaiting evacuation, and, unless a miracle happened, none of them would leave. Neither would the hundreds of wounded whose injuries gave them a ticket out, and it appeared that everyone's next stop would be an American POW compound.

And those were the least of his problems. American fighters had been prowling around all day, taking shots at the transports whenever they had the chance, and out to sea, carrier-based fighters were feasting on those aircraft making the run to and from Cuba. And just an hour earlier, A-6s had come in and put laser-guided bombs onto two of the runways, leaving only one intact, and that, he suspected, was because the Americans wanted to preserve the field for their own use when they invaded Mexico. Not just the hits on the runways, but also two other A-6s had bombed the ramp area, wrecking an An-12 and a Tu-154, along with a Mexican Air Force 727. He was about to declare the field closed to all traffic when a civilian came up to him. Alexandrov glared at him until he realized the man was the Ambassador to the collaborationist government that had been evacuated. “Yes, Comrade Ambassador? You were saying?”

“Is there any chance of an aircraft coming in this evening? I must get out of here.” said Makarev.

Alexandrov surveyed the man. Clearly, this was as close as he'd ever came to a fighting front, and the rumble of artillery fire from the north and the east was getting ever so slightly louder with each passing hour. Not to mention all of the air attacks they'd gone through. And the man was obviously rattled. “I'm sorry, Comrade Ambassador, but the runways have been cratered. My men likely won't get them repaired in time before the end.”

“But I must leave!”

“So? Look over there, by the terminal building. All of those men there have a higher priority than you, and it's a near certainty that they'll never get out of here,” Alexandrov yelled. He pointed at the last remaining intact hangar, with its doors open and the stretchers all over the hangar floor. “Not to mention those poor wretches. None of them will get out. And you insist on leaving?”

“Yes, Colonel! If I stay, the Americans will no doubt try me as a war criminal for having helped form and support the Liberation Government.”

Alexandrov regarded the Ambassador. “If those bastards were half as bad as the rumors say they were, then you ought to face a trial. Now, get the hell out of my airport. If you want out of here so bad, try getting to Mexico on foot. Just start walking south, and you'll cross the river.”

Makarev was stunned. Obviously, Alekseyev's contempt for him and his duties here had spread. But when several Air Force guards came over, he went back to his car. The Cadillac had served him well, and it was a pity there wasn't enough gas to get him to Mexico, even if the border bridges were still up. His driver, who he suspected, but couldn't prove, as being KGB, had disappeared. No doubt the KGB had their own escape routes already planned and were using them. Makarev sat down in the back seat, and opened his briefcase. He looked at the Makarov pistol, and stared at it. He took out a letter for his wife, then took the pistol, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Alexandrov was watching as an Mi-26 helicopter came in to land. Another eighty-five men would be getting out, thank heavens. He was waving the evacuees to the helicopter when a captain came up to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade Colonel, that civilian you were arguing with?”

“What about him?” Alexandrov asked.

“Some guards found him in his car. He shot himself,” the captain said.

“No great loss. Put his body with all the others. We're flying these helicopters out of here until dark.”


1745 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, University of Texas Pan-American, Edinburg, Texas.


Commander Carlisle waited outside General Powell's office at Third Army Headquarters. The Soviets had used the University as a headquarters, first during the initial invasion, then it had served as a rear-area HQ during the next three years, also hosting a KGB and DGI “pacification” office, before serving as Third Shock Army's Headquarters during the final offensive. The Soviets had stripped the university of anything that could be useful, from the library (obviously) to the contents of labs belonging to the various sciences: biology, physics, chemistry, and so forth. Even office equipment and sinks had been stripped out. Now, the U.S. Army was back, and General Powell had set up in what had been the University President's office.

Her helo ride had been a wild one: instead of climbing to altitude, the helo pilot had stayed at treetop level almost the entire time. And what she'd seen out the window brought a big smile to her face. Columns of American armor and infantry headed south, supply convoys bringing supplies forward, and going north on U.S. 281, columns of Soviet and Cuban prisoners marching north to EPW compounds that had been set up. What was it that General Dudorov had said to her, once? “If those men in the Kremlin could see what we see, they'd bring an end to this.” Well, she thought, it's going to end. And on our terms.

“Commander?” a voice said.

Commander Carlisle opened her eyes. I must have dozed off there, she thought. “Yes?”

“Ma'am, I'm Major Scott Dixon, General Powell's aide. He's ready for you now.” the Army officer said.

She got up and followed the major into Powell's office. An Army-issue desk and chairs, several map boards, and a map showing North America, with the battle lines clearly marked, hung on the wall. “General, this is Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle.”

She came to attention and saluted. Powell returned the salute, and said, “Welcome back, Commander,” putting out his hand.

Carlisle shook hands with the General, “Thank you, sir.”

“Have a seat. My J-2 has told me about your experience. A little unusual, but given how things are from Ivan's viewpoint, it's not surprising they'd pick someone for something like that.” Powell said.

“Believe me, Sir, I was just as surprised. I expected a long Q&A session with a bunch of GRU thugs, and instead, it's practically the royal treatment.”

Powell nodded. He'd been just as surprised as his own staff when they relayed her story to him. “And you think that even if you'd said no, they would've put you on that bus anyway?”

“Yes,sir. I really do.” Carlisle said.

“Well..that settles that. Now, what kind of a man will I be meeting with in a while?” Powell asked.

“Sir?”

“Alekseyev. What kind of man is he?” said Powell.

“Well, General, I got the impression that he's doing a job that he'd rather not be doing. And he's frankly disgusted with the KGB and all of their...activities. Not to mention the ALA and the PSD. He told me that creating them-along with the Hall government, was a mistake.”

Powell looked at his J-2. The Intelligence Officer nodded. They'd had similar information, and this verified some of what they'd picked up earlier. “What else?”

“I gathered the impression he's also disgusted with what he's getting from Moscow. I don't know Russian, sir. But a couple of times, he got messages while I was in his presence, and he looked pretty disgusted at what he'd read.” Carlisle reported. “He wanted me to understand that not all Soviet officers were barbarians.”

Powell leaned back against his desk. “Could he have gotten orders to carry out certain...actions, and that only reinforced his disgust?”

“General, I just don't know. You'll have to ask him.”

“I will. In the meantime, get yourself a shower, and cleaned up. You'll be there.” Powell said.

“Sir?”

“It's only fitting, Commander. You're going to be there at the surrender. All you have to do is stand back and watch. You won't have to say a word. But you'll be able to tell your grandchildren: you were there when the Russians surrendered in Texas.” Powell said. He turned to Major Dixon, “Major, get the Commander to a shower, and see if our Navy liaison has a fresh uniform for her. If not, get her flight suit through the laundry while she's cleaning up.”

Major Dixon nodded, “If you'll come with me, Commander?”

Carlisle stood up to leave. Powell shook hands with her again, and said. “Major Dixon will see that you're there at the ceremony. Is there anything else?”

“Sir, I'd like to let my father know I'm OK. He's retired and living in Maine. Chances are, the Navy's told him I went down.”

Powell nodded understanding. In her position, he'd want to notify his wife by whatever means. “Major, see to her request.”

“Thank you, sir.” Carlisle said.

“No. Thank you, Commander. You've earned it. And remember: tonight you'll be a witness to history.” Powell reminded her.

“Aye, Aye, Sir.”

Almost time....


1815 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.

Generals Chibisov and Gordonov, along with Colonel Sergetov, were waiting outside the 105th's command post. A brief radio message had informed them that Marshal Alekseyev was on his way, and after that, they'd be going to the Americans. In the meantime, they'd been talking about the war, the current battle, and lost comrades. All of them had had old classmates, or friends they'd served with before, reported killed, wounded, or missing (the Soviets refused to acknowledge their POWs, just as in the Great Patriotic War), but all three knew of friends who were sitting out the war behind American barbed wire. Another subject came up, and that was what would happen in the Rodina once it was obvious the war was over for all intents and purposes. Not to mention the fate of their families once it was clear that they had surrendered. But the same subject kept coming back: could the Soviets have won the war? Chibisov was emphatic.

“No! Absolutely not, Comrades. Unless the Americans had totally collapsed in the first six months, there was no way to win.”

Sergetov nodded. “Comrade Generals, from the perspective of a tank commander, this was a first-class mess. A dreadfully long supply line, hostile populations in three countries-the problems with our supplies in Mexico come to mind, along with those in Canada-and totally losing the battle for world opinion. All of which guaranteed failure.”

Gordinov looked at the young Colonel. A Freunze graduate himself, he'd been hoping to attend the General Staff Academy, but the outbreak of war had prevented that. But it was clear that Sergetov, speaking from the view of a junior officer's eyes, was right. “So easy to draw the sword, but very hard to put it back in its sheath,” he observed. “A pity those in Moscow never learned that.”

Chibisov nodded agreement. “Yes. And something a Japanese Admiral once said applies to our situation-not just now, but back in 1985.”

Both Gordinov and Sergetov looked at him. “A Japanese Admiral, Comrade General?” Sergetov asked.

“Yes, Admiral Yamamoto: the man who planned the attack on Pearl Harbor, back in 1941. He is supposed to have said 'All we have done is awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve.' He also said something else that equally applies to us.”

“And that is?” Gordonov asked.

“It is impossible for a foreign army to invade the United States. There would be a rifle behind every blade of grass, and every tree.” Chibisov said. “In both, he was correct.”

Gordonov's aide came into the room. “Comrades, Marshal Alekseyev is here.”

Chibisov raised an eyebrow. “He's early.”

“Who knew who might have been listening in on the conversation, when he said 1830, Comrade General?” Sergetov pointed out.

“Quite so, Comrade Colonel. Let's go.” Chibisov said. And the three went out to greet the Marshal, and escort him across to American lines. They saluted, and Alekseyev returned it. He was in his last clean uniform, with all of his decorations, and the shoulder boards of a Marshal of the Soviet Union. “Are you ready, Comrade Marshal?” Chibisov asked.

Alekseyev nodded. “Let's go, then.”

Sergetov picked up the white flag and the party crossed into American lines. Once again, American soldiers stood up from their holes and positions to watch, and some, again, took pictures.


On the other side, Lieutenant Moore's First Sergeant called to her; “L-T, they're coming. Four of 'em. And one looks like he's the head honcho.”

Here we go again, she thought. And this time, a Marshal? Boy, if the guys from OCS could see this. She turned to her radioman. “Call battalion, and let them know the Russians are back. With their CO.”

The RTO nodded. “You got it, L-T.”

As he did so, she put on her fatigue cap, picked up her M-16, and went out to greet the Russians. She also handed her First Sergeant her own camera. “When we start talking, take a picture. This time, I want something to show my kids someday.”

The first sergeant nodded. He'd do the same. And the two Americans went to meet the Soviets. When they got there, she saluted, just like it was, back at Fort Benning. “Sir. First Lieutenant Jennifer Moore, United States Army, 29th Infantry Division.”

Alekseyev regarded the American in front of him. So, Commander Carlisle was right. First a female naval aviator, now a female infantry lieutenant. Just as we did in the Great Patriotic War. And he noticed that she had come to strict attention, just like a cadet at one of his own Military Colleges. Alekseyev returned the salute, and said, “I am Marshal Pavel Alekseyev, commander of the forces in the Brownsville area. I have a meeting arranged with General Powell.”

Moore nodded. “Yes, sir. I've notified my superiors, and a helicopter will be here shortly. If you'll come with me. First Sergeant,” she said.

The party went back to Moore's command post, and her RTO came out. He saw the Soviet brass, and just as if it was General Powell paying a visit to the front, he saluted the party. “Ma'am, the battalion commander's on his way. He said 'they're early', but he's coming.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” Moore said. “Sirs, my battalion commander will be here in a few moments.”

Alekseyev nodded and looked around. There were about sixty to seventy troops in the area. “This is your company?” he asked.

“Yes,sir. There were 225 when we started this,” Moore said. “Those paratroopers of yours didn't want to give up easily,” she said, looking at Gordonov, who nodded as well.

The Marshal looked at the American again. So young, and in a harsh business, he thought. But then again, we did the same forty-five years ago. “And how many are women?”

“About a quarter of the original company was female,” she said, matter of factly. “Why do you ask?”

“It's nothing, Lieutenant. Just curious, that's all.” Alekseyev said. Then he noticed a pair of American Humvees coming. “Is that your battalion commander?”

“It is. Wait a moment, Sir.” Moore said. She went over and talked with a Major who got out of the lead vehicle. He nodded, and waved them forward. After introductions, the Soviets got into the Humvees and the small convoy pulled out and headed towards 29th Division Headquarters. As they did so, they passed a small group of soldiers working on an abandoned T-80 tank.

“I told you a socket wrench! Jonesy, did you ever work on a car or truck before you got in the Army?” The sergeant shouted from inside the turret.

“Not much of that in the Detroit inner city, Sarge,” the corporal replied. “Sarge! They're back.”

The sergeant came up and stood in the tank's open hatch. He saw two Humvees, with four senior Soviet officers inside, and one of them had the single gold star of a Marshal of the Soviet Union on his shoulder boards. “That's it. They're going to sign the papers. But they had to get their CO first.”

“What do you mean, Sarge?” the corporal asked.

The sergeant looked at the young corporal from Detroit. How on earth did he wind up in a MI unit? Mentally cursing whoever in the Army bureaucracy had saddled the unit with this guy, the sergeant said, “That's a Marshal of the Soviet Union. And you just saw the end of the war-at least north of the Rio Grande, Jonesy. Now, get me that socket wrench!”


1830 Hours: 29th Infantry Division Main CP, north of Harlingen, Texas.


The Soviet delegation arrived at the main command post for the 29th Infantry Division, and Alekseyev was met by Lieutenant General Gary Luck, who commanded XVIII Airborne Corps, and by Major General Richard Armistead, the 29th's Divisional Commander. After the usual pleasantries, even between enemies, Alekseyev commented that if it had been Schwartzkopf in command instead of Powell, this meeting might have been held a few days earlier. General Luck looked at the Marshal in amazement, then let out a laugh. Puzzled, Alekseyev asked what was so funny, and Luck replied, “You may not know this, but some commentators on CNN have been saying things like that for the past week.”

“And they are not censored?” Alekseyev asked.

“Marshal, even in wartime, there's one thing we Americans pride ourselves on: a free press. The news media knows what it can and can't report, but when it comes to the basics, they can say whatever they want. Even when a Senator or Congressman makes a floor speech, offering criticism of how the war is being fought-or what future strategy should be in their view-it's broadcast. That's the difference between our society and yours.” General Luck said.

“Comrade Marshal, General McCaffery warned us about this: there will be many, many reporters there,” Sergetov said.

Alekseyev nodded. Then the sound of a helicopter broke things up, as a UH-60 came in, made a circle, then flared for landing. The helicopter kept its engine going, and the side door slid open, and two American officers got out. One of them was General McCaffery. Both the division and corps commanders saluted him, and then McCaffery recognized Alekseyev from his file photograph. “Marshal, I'm Lieutenant General McCaffery, General Powell's chief of staff,” he said, saluting.

“General,” Alekseyev said, returning the salute. “I gather this is our helicopter?”

“It is. If you and your party will follow me?” McCaffery said.

The Soviet delegation followed McCaffery and his aide to the waiting Blackhawk and everyone got in. The crew chief made sure everyone was seated and seat belts fastened, then he slid the door shut and the UH-60 lifted off. McCaffery passed out headsets to the Soviets: “It's too noisy to talk otherwise,” he explained, and the Soviets did so. Alekseyev and Chibisov looked out the side windows, and the scene on U.S. 77 said it all: American supply convoys and reinforcements were moving south, empty supply vehicles were going north, and in the highway median, columns of Soviet, Cuban, and other Soviet bloc prisoners, headed north towards American POW compounds. The sight only reinforced Alekseyev's desire to bring matters to an end, before any more of his men died. Then the helicopter turned west, and flew to General Powell's headquarters in Edinburg. Alekseyev recognized the location: it had been 3rd Shock Army's headquarters when the pocket had been formed, and he'd visited that brute Starukhin several times.

As the Blackhawk orbited, Alekseyev could see how things had changed: the Americans were using the athletic fields for helicopter landings, a field hospital was nearby, and there was a tent city set up, apparently to provide living space for Powell's headquarters personnel. Not to mention the Patriot and HAWK missile batteries that had been set up to provide air defense. Then Alekseyev noticed a crowd gathered near the helicopter landing area. He asked General McCaffery. “Are these the reporters you warned my aide and chief of staff about?”

“They are, Marshal. You don't have to say a word to those people,” McCaffery said. Then he spoke to the pilot. “We're getting ready to land, gentlemen.”

The UH-60 flared and landed. As the pilot shut down the engines, everyone made ready to get out. Only when the crew chief signaled that they could do so, did the passengers leave the helicopter. McCaffery led the Soviet delegation past the reporters, who were being kept a distance away by MPs, to one of the campus administration buildings, and took them into a meeting room.

“Gentlemen, since we weren't expecting you this early, General Powell isn't ready to see you. He will see you, though, at 1900, which is in about fifteen minutes or so. Is there anything you need at the moment? Something to eat, perhaps?” McCaffery asked.

Alekseyev nodded. “Thank you, General. Something to eat would be most welcome.”

“Good. I'll have some sandwiches and cold drinks-nonalcoholic, I regret to say, brought in. Make yourselves as comfortable as possible, and the General will see you in about fifteen minutes.”


1850 Hours: K-236: the Gulf of Mexico.


Captain Padorin looked at the message he'd just received from Caribbean Squadron HQ. He looked at the message, then his communications officer. “Have you decoded this correctly?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” the man replied.

Padorin sighed. “All right. Thank you.” the captain said. The communications man nodded and left the Captain's cabin. Padorin then got up and went into the CCP. The Starpom was there, though Shelpin, the Security Officer, had taken over as officer of the watch. “Comrades, we have a new mission.”

“What?” asked the Starpom.

Padorin showed him the message form. “We're to conduct search-and-rescue operations along the flight path from Brownsville to Cuba. Evidently a plane or planes with some VIPs aboard has gone down, and somebody important is out there on the water.”

Shelpin looked at the Captain. Even though he was KGB, he was also a submariner. “Comrade Captain, does the message say who?”

“No, it doesn't,” Padorin admitted. “And this sounds like another chance to get us killed. Just like that failed pickup on the coast.”

The Starpom looked at the chart. “So where do they want us?”

“A point fifty kilometers off the western tip of Cuba. Then proceed west to a point about halfway between that location and Brownsville.” Padorin said, going over the message.

Shelpin cursed. “Like you said, Comrade Captain. This is another chance to get us killed. That place is likely swarming with American aircraft. If they catch us on the surface...”

“I know,” Padorin said. “But we won't be on the surface. We'll proceed submerged along the route, and only occasionally going to periscope depth to do a visual search. There's no doubt the place has plenty of P-3s and shipboard helicopters, and I won't make it easy for them.”

The Starpom nodded. “Still...it's going to be nasty there.”

“No doubt,” Padorin agreed. Like I said: I won't make it easy for them.” He turned to the Navigator. “New course: three-five-zero.”

“Three-five-zero, Aye, Comrade Captain.”

Padorin then turned to Shelpin. “Come left to three-five-zero. Make turns for twenty knots. Depth: two hundred meters.”


1900 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, Edinburg, Texas.


The Soviet delegation walked with General McCaffery across what had been the University of Texas-Pan American campus before the war. To Alekseyev, it had come full circle: he'd been here in 1985 as a deputy Front Commander, and the campus had served as Gulf Front's headquarters. Now, he was back. McCaffery escorted the Soviets to what had been the main administration building, where Powell maintained his offices, and escorted them into a conference room. There, tables had been set up, and General Powell and his staff were waiting to receive them. “Marshal,” Powell said, saluting.

“General Powell,” Alekseyev responded.

“I only wish this had happened earlier, but...you had your duty to perform, until it could no longer be done,” Powell said. “Please, be seated, gentlemen.”

The Soviet delegation sat, followed by Powell and his staff. One thing that Powell was happy about was that Alekseyev spoke fluent English, as did Chibisov and Sergetov. Though General Gordonov did not, Sergetov would act as an interpreter. “Marshal, I gather that you wish to surrender the forces under your command?”

“That is correct, General. However, I do not have control over those forces that have escaped south of the Rio Grande, nor do I control those at sea.” Alekseyev said.

Powell knew it already. But he wanted it for the record. “I see. How long will it take to ensure that the forces under your command will obey an order to lay down their arms?”

“A few hours, General. Your attacks against our command-and-control systems have proven to be effective. Notifying every headquarters down to battalion level will take some time, if they cannot be contacted by radio or by field phone.” Alekseyev replied.

“Very well. And prisoners? There are a number of POW and labor camps within your perimeter,” Powell pointed out.

“I have already issued orders that they are to be turned over to your forces, when the time comes.” Alekseyev said. “Though, I fear, that those held by the KGB or the PSD may have already been moved to Mexico-or worse.”

Powell looked at the Marshal. It was to be expected, he knew. Not even a theater commander could entirely control the KGB, or those scum in the PSD. “I see. You do have the locations of these camps?”

“Of course, General.”

“We'll also need to have the locations of all land and sea mines. As well as which facilities within the pocket have been rigged for demolition.” Powell said.

“Those will be provided to you,” Alekseyev said. “My chief of staff has all of the necessary materials.”

“Good. The airlift will cease, and there will be no more ships sailing,” Powell stated.

Alekseyev simply nodded.

Powell then asked, “Finally: are there any nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons or materials within the pocket?”

“There are some artillery shells and Grad rockets with chemical warheads: they are already secured, and will remain so until your troops arrive.” Alekseyev said. “I can assure you there are no biological weapons. As for nuclear, you would be advised to inspect the wreck of the freighter Cherepovets, scuttled in the Intracoastal Waterway. You may find some very interesting things there.”

Powell's J-2 raised an eyebrow at that. So that's where they put them, he thought. But Powell himself said nothing, but he did give his approval with a wink and nod. Then Powell spoke:

“The cease fire takes effect at one minute after midnight, Central Time. U.S. Forces will move in to take the surrender of Soviet and Soviet-allied forces beginning at 0800 Central Time. You may keep your headquarters guard and any Military Police under arms to maintain order until they are relieved by U.S. Forces. Any KGB or PSD units remaining are to be taken into custody, and handed over to the appropriate U.S. personnel.”

Alekseyev looked at the other Soviet officers. It was about what they expected. “And our wounded?”

“They will be given whatever medical attention is required, and you own medical personnel will be allowed to continue treating them. It would be advisable to have your chief of medical services come forward soon, so that my own medical personnel can make whatever preparations they need.” Powell said. “You and your men will be treated in full accordance with the Geneva Convention as Prisoners of War, and will be treated well. Just as those in the convoy you tried to send out to Mexico earlier today.”

Alekseyev was stunned. The convoy had been intercepted? “The convoy with Soviet servicewomen?”

“Yes. You may be assured that they will be properly treated,” Powell replied. “And your choice of...shall we say, envoy, was unusual, but given your circumstances....”

The Marshal didn't try to show it,but he was relieved. “They are safe?”

“Yes. And they will be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp where we do hold a number of Soviet servicewomen from previous engagements. They are safe, and able to sit out the rest of the war as comfortably as possible.”

“Thank you, General.” Alekseyev said. He was now resigned to signing whatever surrender document the Americans had.

“You are welcome, Marshal,” Powell said. “Now, we'll adjourn to the gym. Things have been set up there, for the actual signing.”

Alekseyev nodded. “And who will sign?”

“I will, as Commanding General of Third Army. You, of course, as Commander of the Soviet Forces in Texas”

The Marshal nodded.

“There's one thing I should warn you about: there will be representatives of the news media there to witness the signing. They've been told not to ask questions, and other than what is necessary, you do not have to say a word to them-or to anyone.” Powell said.

Why is Scott Dixon only a major?

ADCs for generals are usually Majors or Light Colonels.

Things are winding down....



1920 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev was actually pleased. His division and the 47th had managed to extract themselves from their previous position, and had established new positions on high ground, about halfway between Brownsville and the coast. One battered air-assault regiment, the tattered remnants of another, and one full-strength, supported by the 47th, which had been reduced by half, but was still formidable, despite American air attacks and naval gunfire. Now, he hoped, they were out of range of those blasted naval guns, and could meet the advancing U.S. Marines on more equal terms. Andreyev turned to his chief of staff. “This position's good, Anatoly. High ground above the beach and tidal flats, no sand or marsh, just nice, firm ground.”

“Yes, Comrade General. Though I expect they won't come forward until dawn.” the chief replied.

“Quite so; they'll have to get those wrecked tanks out of the way that block the road,” Andreyev observed.

“There is that, Comrade General. And we still have two days' worth of ammunition: we can still make it hot for somebody,” said the chief.

Andreyev looked at his map. “And Glavchenko's brigade?”

“One battalion, here, Comrade General: right in the middle, between the 234th and 236th. What's left of the 235th is in front of us, with the rest of the 47th. Division artillery is at half strength, as is Glavchenko's own artillery.” the chief noted.

“Divisional reconnaissance?” Andreyev asked.

“Our reconnaissance has patrols out in front, as does both the 234th and 236th. They do report that the Americans are consolidating their positions, and there is some patrol activity, but they do not appear to be preparing to resume their advance at night.”

The General nodded. In their position, he'd do the same: get more supplies and some reinforcements up from the beach, clear those wrecked tanks-even if it meant shoving them into the marsh, if necessary, and wait until dawn. Then have as much air strikes as possible to prepare for the attack to resume. And hopefully, he thought, when they do fire their naval guns, all they'll be doing is hitting empty positions; just like the Fascists did to us: hit an empty sack, and our own defense is intact-and waiting. He checked his watch: “They'll move in what, ten to twelve hours?”

“I would expect that, Comrade General. Not until then.” the chief said.

“Good. Now, let's have something to eat. It has been a long and trying day, and tomorrow will be no better.” Andreyev said.


1945 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, Edinburg, Texas.


Commander Carlisle went into the gym, freshly showered and wearing her flight suit, fresh out of the laundry. Powell's naval liaison didn't have anything available for her, so she made do. Major Dixon was by her side, and the first thing she noticed was the crowd of reporters there, as well as staff officers, and liaison officers from not just the other services, but from the other Allies. There were British, Canadian, Australian, South Korean, and Taiwanese officers there, as well as observers from several other countries, such as Israel, South Africa, Brazil, and a few others that had been minor combatants. Major Dixon had explained that even if they couldn't contribute much in the way of equipment or manpower, these countries had done their part, and had earned a spot at the end. She also noticed that the reporters were in two areas: one for American and Allied media, and one for those from neutral or ex-neutralist countries. And the reporters from the Allied media were sneering at those from the neutralist countries, especially those from newspapers or other outlets that had championed the neutralist cause in their editorials.

The Commander did recognize some of the reporters there: CNN's Christiane Armanpour was there: covering this war had made her a star reporter, and she'd been there almost from the beginning. Jan Fields, also of CNN, was there as well: her constant presence with units such as 3rd Armored Division or the 7th Infantry Division, not to mention a live broadcast from the front lines at the Battle of Wichita, had made her a household name-along with an Emmy Award. The other networks had sent their DOD correspondents, though: CBS' David Martin was talking with a PAO, while ABC's Bob Zelnick and NBC's Jim Michelweliski were glaring at each other: Zelnik had been in the Pentagon on Invasion Day, and had picked broken glass out of his producer's arms after the bomb had gone off, while Michelweslki had been on vacation, and had never made it on the air that day. The reporters from the wire services: AP, UPI, Reuters, were also there, chatting amongst themselves, while the big papers, like the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Philadelphia Inquirer, the Boston Globe, and the East Coast Times-Post, were also there, glaring at the TV reporters-the old rivalry between the broadcast and print media was still there. And there were the allied reporters: the BBC, CBC, ITN, two different Australian channels, KBS from South Korea, The Times of London, Sydney Morning Post, and on and on. There was just so much.

The other side, the neutral or neutralist reporters, were somewhat subdued, though some were able to exchange pleasantries with their Allied counterparts-especially those from Swedish or Swiss media, though those from West Germany, Italy, Holland, Belgium, and even France got more hostile looks than warm smiles, though the West German networks like ZDF or Deutsche Welle were more welcome, but the newspaper correspondents were not so well regarded. Old stories about atrocities in North America being “wildly exaggerated,” or editorials urging the Americans and Canadians to accept Soviet peace offers were still not forgiven or forgotten, and the American media people-not to mention the PAOs, made sure of that.

Major Dixon pointed to where the staff officers and Allied liaison officers were gathered, “Over here, Commander,” and the two walked on over. Several shook her hand, as her story had spread, and a PAO came by: the reporters had sniffed out her story, and Jan Fields of CNN and a couple of print reporters wanted to have interviews. “After this is over,” Carlisle said, and the PAO nodded. He went off to speak with some of the media, and Dixon told her, “Now that you've said you'll talk with 'em, they'll make sure you keep those appointments.”

“I know, Major,” Carlisle replied. “What's taking so long?”

“Who knows? This is the first time something like this has been laid on since the Germans surrendered to Eisenhower, back in '45.” Dixon replied. Then he noticed General McCaffery coming into the gym. “I think it's time.”

McCaffery came to a microphone; “Ladies and Gentlemen, General Powell and Marshal Alekseyev will be here momentarily. Remember; there will be no questions, so don't bother asking. Though there may be a statement from both, that's not a given.” McCaffery then looked at a side door. “They're here. It's showtime.”

Commander Carlisle watched as General Powell walked in with his senior staff officers, and sat down at the table set up in the middle of the gym, right where the center of the basketball court would be. Then Marshal Alekseyev and his officers-she recognized Chibisov and Sergetov, though the airborne officer was somebody she hadn't seen, came in and sat down, and a hush set in. While Alekseyev was calm, as was Chibisov, Sergetov looked nervous, while the airborne officer was stiff as a board. Then she caught his eye, and Alekseyev gave a slight nod. And she returned it. And then General Powell adjusted the microphone, and began to speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here now to conclude hostilities in the Continental United States. While this surrender does not apply to Soviet and Soviet allied forces in Mexico, nor does it apply to the war at sea, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, 'it is not the end of the beginning, but it is the beginning of the end.' I have given Marshal Alekseyev the terms of the cease-fire, and he has accepted them totally. I will read them for the record, and after that, we will sign the document.”

And Powell read the terms of the cease-fire. It was obvious: Soviet and Soviet-allied forces were to lay down their arms, release all prisoners held in the pocket, disclose all land and sea mines as well as demolitions, turn over all KGB or ALA/PSD personnel, halt the airlift, and reveal any stocks of nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons. Soviet and Soviet-allied wounded would be cared for, and all would be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Conventions. “The cease-fire takes effect at one minute after midnight, Central War Time, and U.S. Forces will move forward to take the surrender, and reestablish civil law and order, at 0800 Central War Time tomorrow. Marshal Alekseyev, you do understand these terms?”

Alekseyev stood. “I do, General.”

“Are you prepared to sign?” Powell asked, and Alekseyev simply nodded. Powell then turned to General McCaffery: “General, show him where to sign.”

General McCaffery stood, and showed Marshal Alekseyev where to sign. He did so, and then returned the document to General Powell, who signed on behalf of the U.S. After he did so, Powell asked, “Marshal Alekseyev, do you have any kind of statement to make, for the record?”

Alekseyev nodded and stood. “Thank you, General. With this signature, the Socialist Forces in Texas are delivered into the hands of the victor. It is my hope, and earnest wish, that the victor will, despite being flush with victory, treat them with generosity, despite what has happened in the past.”

Powell then stood up. “Thank you, Marshal. You may return to your headquarters to make the necessary arrangements on your side. And I will see you tomorrow morning. And this concludes our business.”

The Soviets stood up to leave, and they were escorted out. As Powell stood up, there was applause from the media. Then Powell went back to the microphone and had a further statement: “Ladies and Gentlemen, in four hours or so, the shooting stops on this front. So many good men and women have died, or been seriously wounded, to make this event happen. Let us pause for a moment of silence in their memory.” Following the moment of silence, Powell went on. “Due to the fact that there may be those in the pocket who wish to continue fighting, despite the Marshal's signature, there is a news blackout on this until 0800 Central War Time tomorrow. He has indicated to me privately that certain elements within the pocket need to be put under his firm control, and that there are no unpleasant events before U.S. forces arrive. So: no civilian communications in or out until then. I know you want to share this with America and the world, but everything needs to go smoothly on his end to make this work out. Now, I'll take exactly two questions.” He noticed Christiane Armanpour “Yes, Christiane?”

“General, first, my congratulations on achieving this victory. Now, when the Marshal said there were those who wished to continue fighting, did he mean the KGB or ALA?”

“He didn't say exactly, but we can assume that there are such elements present. Those with everything to lose if they come into our hands. He needs time to deal with them, in one way or another. One more question. Yes, Joe?”

“General, Joe Galloway from AP. I'd like to add my congratulations. Will you be going into the pocket tomorrow?”

“Yes. I will be there to meet the Marshal at his headquarters, and watch as the Soviet flag is lowered, and the Stars and Stripes are raised. And then we'll be busy for quite a while as we try and get some sense of normalcy restored. This won't be like Oklahoma City or Waco: it'll be more like Dallas or San Antonio after things wrapped up there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a very important phone call to make. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” And with that, Powell and his staff left the room, to the applause of the media.

Dixon turned to Commander Carlisle. “Well?”

“Just like that?” she asked.

“Yep. Just like that. Let's get you over to the Officer's Mess, and get you something to eat. I'll find you a bunk someplace, and you can get some sleep. You can see those hyenas in the morning.”

“Major, lead the way,” said Commander Carlisle.


2015 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo, Texas.


General Isakov, Malinsky's chief of staff, came into his office, what had been the principal's office at the high school. He found Malinsky taking a nap, sitting back in his office chair. “Comrade General?”

Malinsky had long since developed the habit of waking when he was called, no matter how deep his sleep was. “Oh, Isakov. It's you.”

“Comrade General, Marshal Alekseyev is here. He has come from a meeting with General Powell.”

Malinsky stood up. “Well, Isakov. I think we know what that meeting was about. You disagree?”

General Isakov shook his head. “No, Comrade General. I think the Marshal had no choice. The only question was when.”

General Malinsky nodded. “Let's not keep the Marshal waiting,” he said.

Isakov nodded, and waited for his general. Both went back to the Operations Room, where they found Marshal Alekseyev, General Chibisov, and Alekseyev's aide, Colonel Sergetov. “Comrade Marshal,” Malinsky said.

“Malinsky,” Alekseyev said solemnly. “It is done. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute after midnight, local time. American forces will move in beginning at 0800.”

“Comrade Marshal....” Malinsky said. “We have done all that we can do. Any further fighting only gets good Russian boys killed.”

“I'm glad you agree. Remember that meeting, not that long ago, with the Army commanders and yourself? The only one who really opposed any kind of termination of the war was that brute Starukhin.” Alekseyev reminded Malinsky.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. And I was wondering whether or not someone would either shoot him, or he would shoot anyone who disagreed with him.” Malinsky said, remembering that meeting.

“My thoughts exactly, Malinsky. Now, to business. Are there any KGB, ALA, or PSD units in the vicinity? They're the ones most likely to cause trouble. They must be....neutralized, before Powell's forces arrive.”

“The only KGB were those assigned to checkpoints, Comrade Marshal. I can assure you that they have been all dealt with. And I have instructed all Army commanders to secure any ALA or PSD personnel-by force if necessary. Though most appear more concerned with saving their own skins than causing trouble.”

“Good. Now, whatever chemical warheads left in your ammunition dumps are to be handed over to the Americans. And one other thing: have your chief of medical services ready to go forward.”

“May I ask why, Comrade Marshal?” Malinsky wondered.

“The Americans have indicated they will take care of our wounded. They need to know how many, and what kind of conditions they'll find when they arrive.” Alekseyev said.

Both Malinsky and Isakov nodded.”When does he leave?” Isakov asked.

“Right away. Send him to the 77-83 highway junction: the same one that had so much blood spilled on both sides. The Americans will receive him, and he'll be taken to meet with General Powell's senior medical officers.” said Alekseyev.

Malinsky turned to Major General Mikhail Levechenko, his chief of medical services. “You do know what you'll need to do?”

“Of course, Comrades,” Levchenko replied.

“Good. Go at once,” Aleksyev said. “Now, we'll be returning to headquarters. Inform your army and division commanders, by whatever means are necessary. If you can't contact anyone by radio or land line, send reliable staff officers to inform them.”

Malinsky nodded. “Understood, Comrade Marshal.”



2040 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev went outside his command post, and peered through his binoculars, to the east. So far, the Marine lines were quiet. And visibility was good, so good that he could see almost to the beach. The Americans were still unloading, he could see, even at night, and no doubt they were landing troops and additional supplies. Come morning, he knew, they'd resume the attack, and maybe, just maybe, he'd give them a bloody nose before his forces were overwhelmed. Then he noticed his chief of staff coming with a message form. “Anatoly? What have you got there?”

“Comrade General.....” the chief of staff said, “It's over.”

Andreyev was surprised. So soon? But he knew from talking not only with General Chibisov, but Marshal Alekseyev, that the end would be coming. “When?”

“One minute after midnight, Comrade General. The Americans will come beginning at 0800.” The chief replied.

“That's it, then.” Andreyev said. “Get all secret materials together and destroy them the best you can.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“Has the 47th been notified?” Andreyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade General. Colonel Glavchenko was relieved, but he mentioned some of his staff and at least one battalion commander were more....distraught.” the chief said. “But Colonel Glavchenko was firm, and two of those officers went out from the command post-and shot themselves.”

“I'll bet there's going to be a lot of that: especially those who were supposed to leave but weren't able to do so.” Andreyev commented. “All right. Recall all of our patrols. Tell our men to fire only if fired upon.”

“Right away, Comrade General.”

Andreyev looked at his chief of staff. “One other thing: I realize there may be some of our officers and men who do wish to continue the fight. If they want to make a run for Mexico, release them from their duties. I, however will stay, and share the fate of the men.”

“I'll relay the message, Comrade General, but I don't think hardly anyone will take the offer.”

And the reaction, especially in Moscow. And has anyone caught who the KGB Chairman is?


2115 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas.

General Suryakin breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Not quite yet: the clock hadn't reached 0001, but for all intents and purposes, it was over and done. Alekseyev had stopped by the headquarters to inform him personally, and to start the process of notifying unit commanders. All units were to stay in their present positions until the Americans arrived, and that any ALA or PSD were to be taken into custody and handed over to the Americans. If necessary, by force, Alekseyev emphasized.

Now, he looked at his situation map one last time. The 38th Tanks had been reduced to a battered remnant, while 24th Tanks had been finally overwhelmed. On the left, 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle had been split, while the 105th Guards Air Assault Division and the 41st Tank Regiment had clung to the highway junction, but had been ground down in the process. If the Americans had launched a major attack that day, or had the surrender not happened, both units were not likely to hold out much longer. It appeared now that the Americans had gotten word of the cease-fire, as they had halted. Though some units still reported exchanging small-arms fire, that was likely soldiers on both sides who hadn't gotten the word. Still, he ordered Golikov to send reliable staff officers to all units to ensure compliance with the cease-fire.

Suraykin walked back to his command vehicle. He fully intended to have a good night's sleep, the first in days, and then in the morning, he'd put on his best uniform and receive the Americans when they arrived. If he was going into an American POW compound, he wanted to show the Americans that he was not a brute like Starukhnin was, nor a barbarian like the KGB or the GRU field security units. As he did so, he heard sobbing coming from another vehicle. He opened the hatch and found his political officer, crying hysterically.

“Comrade Zampolit?” Suraykin asked.

“Comrade General....” Major General Vassily Ossipov said. “I know what awaits me.”

“I don't follow,” Suraykin said.

“Comrade General, I was told by the intelligence officer before he boarded that helicopter that I was on an American 'wanted' list. I was on the staff of General Gennady Bratchenko in Louisiana, and they want anyone who was even associated with him.” Ossipov said, tears streaming down his face.

“Bratchenko....that brute....” Suraykin remembered. He'd been a divisional commander in 1985-86, but he'd heard stories about that monster. Even his front commander at the time had felt the man was out of control, but due to his rank and position, nothing could be done about him. “You were his political officer?”

“No. But I was in the political department for that area. And the Americans consider political officers equally responsible for rear-area suppression: and justifiably so. Many of us not only condoned such activity, but actively encouraged it, even if we did not participate. Now....if I'm convicted of even one of what the Americans call war crimes, I face either life in prison or a trip to the gallows.” Ossipov said.

“Comrade...”

“No. I will not run like a coward, trying to escape to Mexico. Nor will I go into American hands.” said Ossipov, determination creeping into his voice. He got up out of the vehicle, pulled out his service pistol, and went outside. Suraykin and those inside heard a shot.


2145 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev came into the operations room once again. After returning to the headquarters, he'd actually sat down with Chbisov and Sergetov and had a meal, though the Americans had offered a more substantial dinner once the cease-fire had signed, he had politely declined. There would be time enough for things like that the next day, he felt. But he wanted one last meal with his staff before things were truly over and done. After the meal, he'd taken the opportunity to thank those who didn't work in the operations room, but helped keep the headquarters running. Then he went back into the operations room, where the staff was waiting. “Comrades. I take it things are going smoothly?”

Chibisov nodded. “Yes, Comrade Marshal. The KGB and ALA are more concerned with getting away than causing any trouble, though the PSD is a different matter.”

“I take it they're refusing to surrender?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.” Chibisov said. “They're holed up here, in what used to be the Brownsville Police Headquarters.”

“Send a company from the headquarters guard battalion, with a tank platoon. Give them one chance to follow my orders. If they refuse, destroy the building, and kill every last one of them you find. In this case, we'll do the Americans a favor-and do something we should have done ourselves a long time ago-and cleaned up those scum.” Alekseyev ordered.

Chibisov smiled. “It will be a pleasure, Comrade Marshal.”

Marshal Alekseyev then turned to his communications officer; “Send this message to Moscow, then destroy your remaining radios, codes, and code machines.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” the man replied.

“The Socialist Forces in Texas have given their last full measure of duty. We have done all that can be done and are in a position where no more can be done. The strategic and tactical situation is hopeless. With no reliable resupply, shortages of fuel, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, and thousands of wounded who need to be tended to, my forces have done all that can be done given the circumstances. I have arranged for the surrender of the forces remaining in the Brownsville area, and I hope that those who have withdrawn to Mexico will continue to do their duty when the Americans move south. Greetings to the Rodina. We are destroying our communications. Alekseyev.”

“It will be done, Comrade Marshal.” the communications man said.

“Very good. Now, once you're finished destroying the radios and code equipment; if you so choose, you and your men may go south to Mexico. Though the communications gear has been destroyed, the Americans would dearly like to have a few words with you and your men.” Alekseyev said.

“Comrade Marshal, I will stay, but will relay the offer to the men. Some will go, I have no doubt.”

“As you wish. Now, get that off at once.”

Alekseyev then turned to address the staff. “Comrades, we have done everything that can be done, and we can do no more. There comes a time when loyalty to those who serve under you takes precedence over loyalty to a particular individual. My first duty now is to our men, and to see to their survival and welfare. Nothing more. Those of you who wish to leave before the cease-fire takes effect, and want to continue the fight in Mexico, may do so. Otherwise, we still have our duty to the men, and we shall carry on, until the Americans arrive.”

Chibisov looked around the room. No one wanted to leave. “Comrade Marshal, it appears that the staff wishes to remain.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Very good. Now, we still have things to do. There are still Spetsnatz teams in the pocket, correct?”

“Of course, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied.

“Have them eliminate whatever KGB, DGI, or PSD they can find. Let's do the Americans a favor, and give them a head start in cleaning up this mess.”


2200 Hours Central Time (0800 Moscow Time): The Defense Council, the Kremlin, Moscow, RSFSR.


The Defense Council was holding its morning briefing, one of two held each day since the start of the war, to review developments overnight, and consider what the day might bring. Given the time differences between North America and Moscow, often, the situation at the front lines in the two theaters had changed since the Defense Council had met, and the morning briefings were a way of getting the Defense Council caught up on developments.

Marshal Sergei Akhromayev, the Defense Minister, had the message from Marshal Alekseyev in his hand. He looked about the room, where General Pavel Grachev, the Chief of the General Staff, was waiting to give his briefing to the Defense Council. Unfortunately for the Marshal, the other members of the Council were firmly in favor of continuing the war. He had been forced to go along, despite one-on-one meetings with other members, showing the reality of the situation on both fronts, and that the Soviet Union had clearly lost the war. Saving the Army in North America, and finding an honorable exit, ought to be the priority, not continuing to throw away lives and treasure in a useless struggle, one that Akhromayev knew should never have been started in the first place.

Now, who might change? He knew that Kosov, the Chairman of the KGB, had been wavering. He knew full well what the battlefield situation was, and that given how despised and loathed the USSR had become ever since 1987, a way out was very desirable. But, as the Marshal knew, Kosov was one who owed his job to General Secretary Chebrikov, and very much wanted to retain that position and the power that went with it. The Marshal looked at Tumansky, the Foreign Minister, whose job had gotten a lot harder than his predecessor, Gromyko, had ever been. The longtime Soviet Foreign Minister had died of a stroke not long after the war began, and Tumansky had been appointed to replace him. He, too, was a hardliner, someone who would have fit right in under Khrushchev, and didn't care what the rest of the world thought of the USSR, as long as they were winning. He also didn't care now that the USSR was losing the war, and had been losing for two years.

There was Boris Pugo, the Interior Minister, who controlled the Interior Troops, the VV, who had military training and equipment, and had been used to brutally suppress any dissent in the form of strikes or riots-which had become more commonplace since 1987-88. Not even the KGB had been able to silence every dissident, and when strikes broke out in the Ukraine, or ethnic riots in Central Asia, the VV came in to crack heads, and when necessary, summarily execute rioters. And Pugo was one of those who'd been on the Council, back in 1985, when the decision to go to war had been made.

Of the two other members, Volkov, the head of GOSPLAN, valued his job more than anything else, and would hardly oppose the General Secretary. And Alexandrov, the Party Ideologist, was just as doctrinaire as his predecessor had been, the man who had said “All we have to do is kick in the door, and the whole rotten edifice of capitalism will come crashing down,” and had sanctioned the nuclear strikes on cities such as New York and Kansas City, saying that “if the heart of capitalism is burned out, they will not fight for such a rotten system.” Clearly, those statements had proven blatantly false, and no amount of Party dogma could change the reality of the battlefield situation.

The door to the meeting room opened, and everyone stood as Viktor Chebrikov, former head of the KGB, and General Secretary since 1984, came into the room. He was accompanied by his bodyguards, and the Army Colonel who carried the “football” the case containing the Soviet Union's nuclear release codes, a book of strike options, and a transmitter. Chebrikov had become increasingly detached from reality, both at home and at the front, with Eastern Europe in turmoil, instability in Central Asia, a naval war that had long since been lost, and a land war in North America on the verge of being lost. “Be seated, Comrades,” he said, and everyone took their seats. “I trust you all had a pleasant evening. Now, I see General Grachev is ready to brief us. You may begin, General.”

Grachev began his briefing by going into the situation in Canada and Alaska-where things had been stalemated for nearly three years. The overland supply route from Alaska into Canada was a treacherous one, and only a third of what was delivered to Alaskan ports had made it. The situation would have been better, both Ahkromayev and Grachev knew, had the Battle of Vancouver gone the Soviets' way, but that campaign, which some on the General Staff compared to Stalingrad, had gone the Allies' way, and there wasn't much the Soviets could do about it. Then there was the naval interdiction: the U.S. Navy and both Japanese and South Korean naval forces had devoted considerable efforts to interdict supply convoys from Far Eastern ports to Alaska, with considerable success. And the Americans and British with their Operation EASTERN EXPRESS bombing raids, the Americans with B-52s and B-1s, and the RAF with Vulcans and their own B-1s, made life difficult along the Trans-Siberian and BAM railways, hitting industrial centers, power plants, and the rail lines themselves.

Then Grachev turned to the situation in Texas and along the Mexican-U.S. Border. No U.S. or Allied forces had as yet crossed the border in strength, having closed up along the border everywhere except in the Brownsville Pocket. So far, there was no sign of a U.S. invasion of Mexico becoming imminent, but the presence of the U.S. Fifth Army close to the border meant that such an invasion was a distinct possibility.

“And the pocket itself, General?” Chebrikov asked.

Grachev looked at Akhromayev. Then the Marshal stood, with a grave expression on his face. “Comrades. I have a message from Marshal Alekseyev. He has arranged for the surrender of the forces in the pocket.” Those on the council were stunned. “He cites a lack of fuel, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, and is clearly in a hopeless position. He has destroyed his communications, and has signed off.”

“He did WHAT?” General Secretary Chebrikov said.

“Marshal Alekseyev has surrendered his forces, Comrade General Secretary. There is no more Brownsville pocket.” Akhromayev replied.

“Of all the....Doesn't he realize that I promoted him so that he would organize his men for a final stand, and go down fighting? They got a Marshal of the Soviet Union! No Marshal of the Soviet Union, or Russia, has ever been taken alive!” Chebrikov was raging.

“Comrade General Secretary-” Kosov was saying.

“He doesn't have the decency to even kill himself? I can't believe this! The bravery of so many officers and soldiers is stained by that, that, coward! At the very most, he could have organized and led a final attack, and gotten himself killed leading it! If he wasn't willing to do that, then he should have killed himself!” fumed the General Secretary.

Kosov looked at Marshal Akhromayev, then back at Chebrikov. “Comrade-”


“He surrendered! He didn't commit suicide! And then I offered the command to Malinsky, who only bothered to indicate he'd received my message. Clearly it is obvious that the rot of defeatist and treacherous behavior has spread throughout that command! Alekseyev and his generals could have chosen eternal glory and national immortality, but instead, they prefer to go to Philadelphia or Boston!” raged Chebrikov. “This meeting is adjourned!”

With that, Chebrikov stormed out of the room, followed by Tumansky, Pugo, and Alexandrov. The other members left, until only Marshal Akhromayev and Chairman Kosov remained.

“Comrade Chairman, I fear our dear General Secretary will soon not be fit to hold his office.” Ahkromayev observed. “Who knows what kind of rash actions he may decide to take?”

“I know what you mean, Comrade Marshal. You may be assured that those who carry the codes have been informed of the grave responsibility they bear, and that nothing will happen along those lines.” Kosov replied.

The Marshal let out a sigh of relief. “That's a relief. Nothing of the sort will happen unless you issue the codes that you possess.”

“Correct. Now, I believe we must act as our predecessors did in 1964. Obviously no one on the Council can replace him, and hardly anyone else on the Politburo. We must look elsewhere.” Kosov said.

Ahkromayev nodded. He turned to General Grachev. “We'll need to talk with the commanders of the Moscow, Leningrad, Beylorussian, and Kiev Military Districts. Not to mention the candidate members of the Politburo who have been urging a settlement for some time: that's Minister Sergetov, as well as Comrades Bromkovsky, Gorbachev and Yeltsin.” He returned to Kosov. “Who's that deputy foreign minister, the one who has those useless trips to Geneva to explain things at the UN?”

“That would be Bessmertnykh: his English is impeccable, and he has had back-channel discussions with the Americans in the past-though not since the Battle of Wichita.” Kosov said.

“I suggest you get him.” Ahkromayev said. “Now, where to meet?”

General Grachev spoke up. “May I suggest a location that is secure, well guarded, and is the last place anyone would suspect where such a meeting is taking place?”

“And that is?” Kosov asked.

“Why, the headquarters of the First Shock Army, of course.” Grachev said. “The Moscow Military District headquarters, not to mention either of your dachas, is far too obvious. A meeting can be camouflaged as an inspection of the troops under the Army's command, and there are secured facilities to be used in the event of nuclear war. Those facilities haven't been used since the last nuclear event, back in 1986, but can be activated on very short notice to house such a meeting.”

Both Ahkromayev and Kosov nodded. “Excellent, General,” Ahkromayev said. “How long?”

“The arrangements can be made with full discretion. Two days, three at the most.” Grachev said.

“See to it. And have those couriers who've made it out of the pocket there as well,” Ahkromayev ordered. “And order some maneuvers as well, to maintain cover.” He turned to Kosov. “We do not seek to overturn the State. We seek to save it.”

It's over in the pocket, but not over elsewhere....


2225 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico.


Captain Padorin came into the CCP, intending on a status update before getting some sleep. He saw Strenlikov, the officer of the watch, and nodded. “Any contacts, Strenlikov?”

“No contacts, Comrade Captain.”

“Very good. Our course and speed?”

“We're maintaining three-five zero, at twenty knots. Depth is two hundred meters.” the young Lieutenant replied.

“Good. Let me know at once if anything develops. I'll be in my cabin.” Padorin said.

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” Strenlikov said.

Then the communications man came in. “Comrade Captain, there's an ELF message for us. We need to go to antenna depth to get the full message.”

Padorin nodded. “I have the deck and the con.” He turned to the diving officer. “Make your depth thirty meters, and slow to five knots.”

“Thirty meters, and slow to five knots, aye, Captain.” the officer replied.

K-236 rose through the depths, and was soon at her new depth. “Raise the ESM antenna first.” Padorin ordered.

The ESM was raised. “No contacts, Comrade Captain,” the operator reported.

“Very well. Raise the antenna.” Padorin said, and the antenna was quickly raised.

“We've got the message, Comrade Captain,” the communications man replied. “They're repeating it.”

Padorin looked at his officer of the watch. The Starpom and the Security officer were both in their cabins, asleep. “Why would they do that? Normal procedure is to wait twelve hours before repeats.”

“I have no idea, Comrade Captain,” Strenlikov replied.

“I don't like it,” Padorin said, just as the communications man came in. “Well?”

“Comrade Captain....” the man said.

“What?”

“It's over in Texas, Comrade Captain. They've surrendered in the pocket.” the communications officer said.

Padorin looked at the man. His expression was one of shock. And Padorin knew it was more than that: he had a younger brother who was serving in an airborne unit in the pocket, and he had had no word of his brother since before they'd sailed from Cienfeugos. And there were other officers and crew who either had relatives serving there, or knew of friends who were also there. Now, they were either dead or prisoners. “Very well.... Up periscope.”

The periscope came up from its well, and Padorin swung it in a 360-degree arc. “No contacts. Down scope, and lower antenna.” As the periscope and antenna went down, he came to his decision. “Back to two hundred meters. Maintain speed.”

Strenlikov nodded, and relayed the orders. The young officer was actually relieved. Maybe, just maybe, he'd find out just how his two brothers had died, now that things were winding down.

Padorin looked at him, and nodded sympathetically. Though he had not lost any relatives, he knew many Academy friends who were either dead or listed as “overdue, presumed lost.” About fucking time, he thought. This has gone on long enough. Then he decided to announce it to the crew. He picked up a microphone connected to the boat's PA system. “Comrades, this is the Captain. We have received a message from headquarters in Cuba. The battle for the Brownsville Pocket has ended. Our forces there have been forced to lay down their arms. Our orders remain unchanged. We'll carry on as best we can. That is all.”


2310 Hours: Cuban 2nd Army Headquarters, Rangerville, Texas.


General Perez received the order from two of Malinsky's staff officers. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute past midnight. And U.S. Forces would move in to take their surrender in the morning. He'd acknowledged the order, and relayed it to his commanders. Only when all of them had acknowledged the order, and confirmed that they'd carry it out, did he relax. About time, he knew. How many good Cuban fathers and sons had died in this war, and for what? He did know that the cease-fire only applied here in the pocket, and not to either Mexico or Cuba, and Perez feared that the Americans, having reclaimed their own land, would move to settle scores with either country-maybe even both in due course. If he was in their place, he'd invade Cuba first, dealing with the island in only a couple of weeks-knowing full well the Americans had the combat power to do just that, and then deal decisively with the Mexicans. His acting chief of staff-the regular chief had left for the border, carrying a copy of the Army's War Diary with him, and taking the Army's chief political officer with him as well: and there'd been no word since. “Yes, Jose?”

“Comrade General, there are a few officers who wish to go south. They'd rather take their chances attempting to reach the border instead of taking their chances with the Americans.”

Perez knew there would be some who wanted to continue, and deep down, he felt that way himself. But he also had a duty to his men, and he intended to do whatever it took to ensure their welfare. “How many?” he asked.

“A couple dozen in all, Comrade General. Mostly younger officers, though a couple of the remaining political officers wish to leave as well.” the chief replied.

Perez nodded and went to the staff. Everyone came to attention. “Comrades, I realize that a number of you wish to continue the fight, by going to Mexico. If you can get through American lines-for the Americans are fully established on our left-you may do so. However, I will remain with the men, and will share their fate. How many of you wish to continue the fight?”

As the chief said, two dozen officers raised their hands. “I see. Very well, I release you from your duties. Good luck, all of you. And should any of you manage to make it to Mexico, and then get to Cuba, give my greetings to the homeland.” Perez then saluted his staff, and those who wanted to leave got up and did so. But the majority of his staff remained.

“Comrade General, your orders?” the chief asked.

“We are in communications with all units?” Perez said.

“Yes, but some links are more reliable than others, as you know,” the chief replied.

“Send reliable staff officers to all units, and make sure that they know that fighting ceases at one minute past midnight. And do it fast.” Perez ordered.


2335 Hours: 315th Independent Helicopter Transport Regiment, near Villa Hermosa, Mexico.


Major Sabin got out of his Mi-26 heavy-lift helicopter, and walked over to the hangar that served as his regiment's headquarters. It had been a very long day, and he wasn't looking forward to tomorrow. He was down to two flyable Mi-8s, and two flyable Mi-26s, though he had a third Mi-26 that would be back on the flight schedule in a day or so, and two more Mi-8s were undergoing battle-damage repair. Still, he knew that if things had been that bad today, tomorrow would be worse. And there were still hundreds of men who were awaiting evacuation who had not gotten seats on the airlift, and who needed to get out. Shaking his head, he went to the status board, where he found Captain Kovpak sitting at a desk, with a bottle of vodka waiting to be opened. “Ivan, you have the shakes or something? We'll be flying again in the morning.”

“Not into Brownsville.” Kovpak replied.

“What do you mean? We've been going in and out there all day. And there's still those who need to get out.” Sabin replied.

Kovpak showed him a message form. It was from General Petrov himself, ordering a halt to all flights into the pocket as of 2300 Hours. And they would not resume at first light.

Sabin read it. “What's this about? There are people in there depending on us.”

“It's over on that side of the Rio Grande. General Petrov called to confirm that. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute past midnight. No more flights in, and anyone stuck there overnight isn't leaving-except as a prisoner.” Kovpak said, a bitter tone creeping into his voice.

“So no flying tomorrow.” Sabin decided.

“Yes. All I can say, is that I'm glad it's over. I've never been shot at by so many weapons since we got here.” Kovpak said. He reached for the bottle. “A toast?”

“To what?” Sabin replied. This is hardly the time for something like that, he thought.

“We've lost too many friends to this war, and I've lost a brother, up in Alaska. Roman was a Naval Infantry officer-he was killed on the first day.” Kovpak said.

Nodding, Sabin reached for a glass. Kovpak opened the bottle and poured for the both of them. “So, to absent friends?”

“To absent friends,” Sabin agreed. And both men took a drink.


2355 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


Marshal Alekseyev went up to the roof of his headquarters, with Colonel Sergetov and his senior Spetsnatz officer. Colonel Arkady Demichenko had assumed command of the various Spetsnatz units in the pocket, many of whom were shadows of their former selves, and he'd organized them into a provisional regiment. Now, his Spetsnatz men were busy cleaning up rogue KGB and DGI elements, as well as the PSD. Some had gone quietly into custody, while lethal force had been used on others. And the Colonel-a two-tour Afghan vet, as well as a veteran of that horrid war that had been fought in the Louisiana bayou, was among those who were glad that it was over. He'd lost way, way, too many of his men, not to mention classmates from the Air Assault Academy at Ryazan, and if he could have, he would've just walked away from the whole mess. “Comrade Marshal, we've made good progress in cleaning things up. We won't be done by the time of the cease-fire, but not that long afterwards.”

“Not to worry, Colonel.” Alekseyev said. “The Americans know we've got some....housecleaning, for want of a better term, to take care of. Just have everything finished by 0800.”

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal. Though some of my men aren't too thrilled about being here when the Americans arrive.” Demichenko said. “Some of them participated in counter-guerrilla operations, and some of the reprisals that followed.....”

“Colonel, I understand, but no one leaves after midnight. General Powell has privately assured me that those accused of ....war crimes (he used the American term), will be given the full protections of international law, and will be given a fair trial, should things proceed that far.” Alekseyev said. “You do understand that?”

“I do, Comrade Marshal.” Demichenko said.

Chibisov looked at the luminous dials on his watch. “Comrades, one minute.”

Everyone was filled with anticipation, and then Chibisov said, “I make it 0001, Comrade Marshal. The cease-fire is now in effect.”

And those on the rooftop listened. The dull rumble of artillery fire, which had been growing louder in the past couple of days, had stopped. Nor were there the flashes of gunfire on the horizon. The only sound was that of American aircraft overhead, making sure no Soviet aircraft or helicopters tried to get out of the pocket once the cease-fire was official. “So that's what it sounds like,” Colonel Sergetov said.

“What do you mean, Comrade Colonel?” Alekseyev asked.

“The sound of peace, at least in this corner of the war, Comrade Marshal.” Sergetov replied.

Chibisov nodded, then reached into a bag, then pulled out a bottle of vodka and four glasses. “Comrades, I had been saving this for a more.....appropriate occasion. However, I feel that this is such a moment.” He passed out the glasses and poured. “I would like to propose a toast: To absent friends, and an honorable peace.”

“Hear, hear, General,” Alekseyev said. After they drank the toast, he went on, “Now,Comrades, we still have a good deal of work to do.” He turned to Colonel Demichenko, “Colonel, finish cleaning up those scum-especially the PSD. I'll explain to the Americans that they gave us trouble, and had to be eliminated. Just make sure that their documents, files, and so on, are saved, if at all possible. I want to show just what kind of....animals these slime were, and how ashamed we all should be in having had anything to do with them.”

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal,” Demichenko replied.

“Now, Chibisov, we still have to ensure that things proceed smoothly tomorrow. No incidents of any sort, is that clear?”

“It is, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied.

“Good. Now, if we can, some rest is in order. The first good night's sleep in days, and then we greet the Americans,” Alekseyev said. “Remember, you are still Soviet officers, and conduct yourselves accordingly.”

And it winds on and down...


0020 Hours, 5 October, 1989: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev sat with his staff in his headquarters, in the cellar of the condominium. A couple of bottles of vodka were opened, and several toasts to lost comrades had been drunk, and so far, no one was actually drunk, but that wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Then his chief of staff came in. “Comrade Major, Admiral Gordikov is here.”

“What? The Admiral?” Lazarev said, clearly surprised.

“Yes, Comrade Major.”

“By all means, bring him in,” Lazarev said, putting the bottles away as he did so. He and his staff came to attention as Admiral Gordikov came into the headquarters. “Comrade Admiral,” Lazarev said with a slight bow.

“Major. I trust things here have gone without any incidents?” Gordikov asked.

“Things have gone well, Comrade Admiral. Though the PSD office and the KGB were hit an hour ago, by Spetsnatz, apparently.” Lazarev said.

“That's good,” Gordikov replied. He went from staffer to staffer, shaking their hands. “Is there anyone from the Boiky still here? I would like to thank them for their efforts.”

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. We have most of the survivors organized into a provisional company, and the former executive officer had an observation post on the fifth floor.” Lazarev told the Admiral.

“Show me the observation post, Major.”

“Of course, Comrade Admiral,” Lazarev said. “If you will accompany me...” The two officers walked up the stairs, until they came to the fifth floor. Lazarev then walked to the rooms-the destroyer men had knocked out most of the wall between the two rooms-and opened the door. Kamarov was still at his spotting glasses, peering out to sea. “In here, Comrade Admiral.”

Upon hearing those words, Kamarov got up and stood to attention, “Comrade Admiral?”

“You must be Kamarov, I gather?” Gordikov asked.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.”

“A pity about the loss of your ship and those of your shipmates who were still aboard. You did the best job you could getting here. It's....unfortunate that things have gone the way they have, but that's war.” Gordikov said.

“At least most of the crew will get home, Comrade Admiral. It may be some months, but.... that's what we're all hoping, anyway,” Kamarov said.

“I'm not going to argue with that sentiment, and I imagine everyone here shares it. Just remember that you are still a Soviet officer, and your responsibility is now to your men. No suicides: that's an order. You, too, Major.” Gordikov reminded the two officers.

Both nodded. “Now, there still are civilians here?” Gordikov asked as they did so.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.” Lazarev said.

“Until the Americans arrive, we are still responsible for civil law and order. Fortunately, they'll be here in the morning. We hand over our weapons, turn in our vehicles, and leave this island.” Gordikov said.

“Understood, Comrade Admiral.” said Lazarev.

“Good. Just be glad it's over, Major. And also be glad you didn't have to fire a shot. Enough good Russians have died here, and I'm glad you won't be among them.”


0600 Hours: Camp 24, near Laguna Vista, Texas.

Major Tsernik sat in his office, an open bottle of vodka on his desk. He'd been drinking most of the night, ever since he'd gotten word of the cease-fire. A staff officer from Front Headquarters had come to him, with a written order signed by General Malinsky, reminding him of the directive from Marshal Alekseyev about turning prisoners over to the Americans. He had no orders to eliminate the prisoners, prior to that directive, and would not have done so without such an order.

Now, as the first light of dawn began to break, he knew the Americans would be there in a few hours, and Tsernik knew that he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Though he was not the original camp commander, the camp had had such a reputation for brutality and back-breaking forced labor, that even a number of Soviet senior officers were appalled. The previous commander-a sadistic psychopath by anyone's standards-had been “retired” and Tsernik appointed to replace him. And conditions had improved considerably, but even so, the camp was nowhere near what the Geneva Convention required, even if the Soviets had been inclined to follow it. He'd also put an end to most of the brutality, as well as the worst of the “entertainment” that the inhabitants of the North Compound were forced to provide guards and visiting VIPs.

Tsernik stood up, and went to his adjutant's office. Captain Yegor Dimitriev had been an artillery officer, until he'd been wounded in 1987 during the American Summer Offensive-the one that followed Wichita-having been burned on his arms and legs when his 2S3 SP gun had been hit by an A-10. Though unfit for front-line service, his knowledge of English landed him in this assignment. “Comrade Captain,”

Dimitriev stood up. He'd been sleeping on a cot in his office, “Comrade Major,” he nodded.

“Get the two senior officers-from South Compound and North Compound-and bring them here. Right now,” Tsernik said.

“Immediately, Comrade Major,” the adjutant replied, and he went out to get the two officers. A few minutes later, he was back with two very shabby and disheveled American officers, U.S. Army Major Richard Caldwell and U.S. Air Force Captain Rachel Pearson. Both had been captured in the war's early days, had endured the brutality, forced labor, and poor diet, and they both showed it. The two Americans looked at each other, then at the commander. “Comrade Major, the two senior officers,”

“Well, Major, Captain, today's the day for you.” Tsernik said.

Both looked at the other again. Then Caldwell said, “What do you mean by that?”

“Simple: a cease-fire is in effect since midnight. Your forces will be here this morning. Despite everything the Socialist World could throw at you, you've won.” Tsernik said.

“It's over?” Pearson, a former C-130 pilot, asked.

“Yes, it is. At least here,” replied the commander.

“You do know what we'll report, when our troops arrive?” Caldwell, who had been captured at First Houston, asked.

“I know,” Tsernik said. “I do hope you'll point out that I did improve conditions here, and put an end to the worst.....of things.”

“Not enough, Major,” Caldwell said. “You didn't do enough. All you did was improve things enough to keep us fit for labor, or,” he said, looking at Pearson, “other....activities.”

“I did not participate in that, and you, Captain, know it.” Tsernik replied.

“The hell you did! You may not have dropped your pants, but you either looked the other way, or worse, watched. We call that command responsibility, Major.” Pearson shot back.

Their conversation was interrupted by a low-flying aircraft. Everyone went to a window and saw a C-130 banking around after it had apparently flown over the camp. Then came the sound of jets, and two F-16s came over, obviously escort for the C-130. The C-130 came around for another pass, and first leaflets, then parachutes came from the rear door. Underneath the parachutes were pallets with boxes, obviously supplies. The two Americans turned to the commander. “Well, Major?” Pearson asked.

The adjutant turned to the commander. Tsernik knew not to interfere. He turned to Dimtriev, “Order the guards not to get involved, immediately. And morning roll call will not be held.” Then Tsernik turned to the two Americans. “I suggest you get what's obviously yours, both of you.”

The two nodded, then turned as Dimitriev came back. “The guards have been informed, Comrade Major,”

“Good. Now, please assist the two senior officers in helping to distribute the supplies. I have...something to attend to.” Tsernik said.

Dimitriev nodded. “Follow me, please,” he said, and the two American officers followed him. As they left the camp office, they heard a shot. The trio went back into Tsernik's office, and found him slumped over his desk, a Makarov pistol still in his right hand, and a hole in his temple. “Not the way I wanted another command,” was Dimitriev's response.

The two Americans went over to the body. They simply glared at the now-deceased commander, and Captain Pearson kicked the body, then they turned to Dimitirev. “Captain, you were different. You actually tried to help whenever you could, and we'll remember that. And you never laid a hand on anyone that we know of.” Caldwell said.

“Thank you, Major. Let's get these gifts from heaven passed out to the prisoners. I will have the guards leave the watch towers, and they will go to their barracks, with weapons stacked in front. There will be no trouble.” Dimitriev said. “Things will be orderly when your forces arrive.”


0630 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev got up off of his cot. He'd been sleeping in a tent next to his command BMD, and for the first time since 1985, he knew that no one would be dying today. After shaving, he put on his best uniform-the only good dress uniform he had left, and then went into the command post. His staff was still at work, even though things would be wrapping up in under a couple of hours. His chief of staff came to him, “Comrade General,”

“Anatoly,” Andreyev said, “Were there any....incidents?” That was something that he knew Marshal Alekseyev would be very concerned about as the day went on.

“No, Comrade General, nothing of the sort. Some soldiers decided to take the chance and head to Mexico, but most have remained.” the chief said.

“To be expected: either they genuinely wish to continue the fight, or have...other worries.” Andreyev said, and everyone knew what the phrase 'other worries' meant: a potential trial as a war criminal. He did know that some of his men had come from Spetsnatz into the airborne forces, and had participated in some very nasty counterinsurgency operations, usually leaving a very bloody path in their wake.

“That is so, Comrade General,” the chief replied. Actually, the chief was glad to see them go, though no one doubted their fighting spirit and tenacity, the fact that some of the men in the division were associated with such.....events made him uneasy.

“And the Americans?” Andreyev asked.

“Once midnight came, there wasn't any shooting into the air, much to our surprise. But they did shoot off a lot of flares, there were horns sounding from the ships, and all manner of lights came on from the beach and the ships offshore.”

“If I had been commanding those Marines, I'd be doing the same thing. Would you want any of your men wounded by falling bullets?” Andreyev asked dryly.

A thin smile came to the chief's lips. “No, Comrade General,”

“I gather all sensitive materials have been destroyed?” Andreyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade General,” the chief said. “All codes and communications materials have been destroyed, along with the most sensitive intelligence materials.”

Andreyev nodded. “Very good, Anatoly. Let's get the men a good breakfast, the best we can provide, before the Americans arrive.”


0710 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


Marshal Alekseyev came into the Operations Room once again, only this time, he knew, it would be for the last time. He glanced at the map, which had last been updated prior to his leaving for the meeting with General Powell, and knew just by looking at it, that he'd made the right decision. Lack of ammunition, fuel, medical supplies, and above all, food, meant that continuing the fight was senseless. And if his actions here started the process by which the war ended? So be it, he felt. It has to start somewhere.

He had risen early, taken one final bath, and wanted to be properly groomed. After all General Powell would be here in a while, and he wanted to be properly dressed to receive the American commander. Then he'd breakfasted with Colonel Sergetov, before coming down. He then found General Chibisov. “Good morning, Pavel Pavlovitch,”

“Good morning, Marshal,” Chibisov replied. “So far, no....regrettable incidents to report, and Colonel Demichenko reports that the matter of cleaning up those elements who may try to disrupt things has been....dealt with. In most cases, things were settled with a minimum amount of force, but in some....”

“In some, those scum-and I believe I'm referring mostly to the PSD, correct?” Alekseyev asked. Seeing Chibisov nod, he finished, “Demichenko's men had to kill them all.”

“That is so, Comrade Marshal. And as per your orders, files, documents, etc., have been secured. And all POW and labor camps, as per your orders, remain intact. There were some....incidents prior to the time of our meeting, but those were mainly due to the KGB and PSD taking action before the cease-fire.” Chibisov reported.

“Let me guess: they decided to kill those who might be able to testify against them later on, in any future legal proceedings?” Alekseyev asked. “How many?”

“About a couple hundred or so, Comrade Marshal. However, Demichenko says that those responsible have already paid-the Chekists when the headquarters guard attacked their headquarters, and the PSD when the police headquarters was stormed. The bodies were found in the basements, I'm afraid.” Chibisov said.

“Something we'll have to mention to Powell, when the time comes,” Alekseyev noted. “And things at the front?”

“All quiet. Though the Americans, once midnight came and went, did celebrate. Not that much in the way of shooting into the air, but a generous amount of flares-in many different colors, lights being shone into the sky, and the ships offshore sounded their horns.” Chibisov reported. “There's a couple of other matters....”

“Yes?” Alekseyev asked.

“Malinsky's chief of medical services went forward, and has returned. The Americans have all the information they need to assist us in treating, then evacuating, the wounded,” Chibisov said.

“It will probably be too late for some,” Alekseyev said, remembering a visit he'd made to a hospital in late September. And the filth had disgusted him. The shortages of even clean linen, let alone things like bandages, antibiotics, antiseptic, and other medical supplies made a bad situation a great deal worse. And one medical officer had said to him that he expected the Americans' sense of cleanliness to be shot away, and that once the wounded had been moved, they'd probably burn the place down and simply rebuild. That doctor was probably right, Alekseyev thought. Another thing that he'd wished those Party bosses in Moscow could've seen, because if they had, they would have at least tried to terminate the war. “And the other?”

“He also brought a message from General McCaffery: since the cease-fire took effect, some of the American reporters may decide to go forward, ahead of their troops. He calls it 'getting the exclusive.' In other words........,”

Alekseyev was incredulous. “In other words, those journalists are competing to be the first into Brownsville, even ahead of their own army?”

“That is correct, Comrade Marshal.” Chibisov said. “If Dudorov was still here, he'd be able to explain it much more than I could. But that is basically it.”

Alekseyev shook his head. “All right, inform Malinsky of that, and inform him that any such reporters are not to be interfered with.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

I recently learned that TOPGUN was operating F-86Hs as late as 1982. How would they figure in all this?

Keep them in the training role.

And it won't be long now until Powell arrives to take the surrender...


0745 Hours: Along U.S. 281, near La Paloma, Texas.


For Captain Nancy Kozak and her Company Team, it had been an eventful evening. After they'd secured the convoy full of Soviet servicewomen and sent them on their way to the rear, they had pushed on south, until they had reached the site of what had been a Soviet ribbon bridge across the Rio Grande, near what had been the town of La Paloma, but was now more a collection of ruins than a town. And the Team had found some KGB troops stationed there for traffic control, and wiped them out in the process. Then Kozak had received an order to halt for the night, and when she protested that she “could be in Brownsville by midnight,” her battalion commander sympathized, but the orders came down not from division or corps, but higher. A cease-fire was a distinct possibility, and so the order had gone out to hold fast on current positions. Sure enough, at 2100, word came down of a cease-fire effective at midnight, with the advance to be resumed at 0800, with orders not to fire unless fired upon.

At midnight, celebrations broke out all over the line, with some shooting into the air, but mostly colored flares, while an artillery unit to their rear fired off a bunch of star shells. Then the platoon leaders and the sergeants calmed everyone down, and a normal night routine set in. Everyone was awakened at 0530, with the usual stand-to an hour later. And everyone was glancing at his or her watch every two minutes, or so it seemed, waiting until 0800, when they could head on to Brownsville, and be the first to reach the old International Bridges over the Rio Grande. And, in the words of the battalion commander, “beat the airborne mafia there,” for he'd heard that the 82nd Airborne was going in along Highway 77-83 to secure Soviet headquarters and be General Powell's honor guard. The 49th Armored had been chewed up badly during the initial invasion, and had earned the right to be the first into Brownsville at the end, the divisional commander was heard to say over the radio.

Now, Kozak was in the commander's seat of her Bradley, counting down to 0800, and when her unit could lead the battalion's advance. Her gunner, busy peering through his sight, said, “Ma'am, it's weird. We're still at war, but not here. And if somebody shoots at us from across the river?”

“If somebody's that stupid, he gets shot in return. Simple as that,” Kozak said.

Then the First Sergeant came in over the Company net. “Six, there's a Humvee coming up behind us. Wait, there's two of them.”

“Find out who they are, and let me know.” Kozak replied.

The First Sergeant went over to the Humvees in his M-113 and spoke to the occupants. Then he got back onto the net. “Ma'am, they're reporters. One Humvee's got a guy from UPI, another from the Chicago Tribune, along with a fella from some paper in England, and the other has a CNN crew.”

“Who's the CNN crew?” Kozak asked.

“Jan Fields' bunch, Ma'am.”

Kozak smiled. She'd seen Fields' reports when she had been on R&R, and often that reporter had been there at the front, and had even reported live from the front lines at Wichita-the battle that turned the tide of the war: that had earned Fields an Emmy award, as well as the gratitude of the 3rd Armored Division-she had brought a lot of publicity to that division.. “All right, just tell 'em to follow behind us, and they'll be first into Brownsville.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

The clock ticked by slowly, but surely. With five minutes to go, Kozak stood in the seat of her Bradley and gave the “start engines” signal that any pilot would recognize. The tanks and Bradleys cranked their engines, and all were up and running. She looked at her watch one final time. 0800 and ten seconds. “All Bravo Three-Six units, this is Bravo Six. Let's go.” And Kozak's Team rolled forward, heading south to Brownsville.


0805 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.

Captain Gaipov walked out of his regiment's command post for the last time. His regiment was such in name only, for he only had two hundred or so effectives, and some of those were walking wounded. As he did so, he saw the Americans whom they'd fought with for control of the intersection come forward. Gaipov had inherited the regiment simply because he was the highest ranking officer not killed or wounded, given that the regimental commander and his deputy had both been killed by a sniper, and the chief of staff had been severely wounded by American artillery fire. Now, it was over.

Lieutenant Moore and her company came forward on foot, since the flyover ramps at the intersection had been blown down into rubble, and that would have to be cleared before the highway junction could be used by heavy vehicular traffic. Her company now numbered 65, having had 225 when it had started, and like the Soviets, a few of those still fighting were walking wounded, but their wounds were not serious enough to require hospitalization. And everyone was dressed for the occasion, though the troops wore their field caps instead of their Kevlar helmets. She led the company to where the Soviets had come from when they came forward to surrender the day before. And the first Russian she found was an airborne captain, who spotted her and came forward.

“Captain Gaipov, 351st Guards Air Assault Regiment,” he said, saluting.

“Lieutenant Moore, 116th Infantry, 29th Division,” she said, returning the salute. “How many do you have here?”

“Two hundred and five left in the regiment, Lieutenant,” the Russian replied.

“All right, call your men out. Have them lay down their weapons in front of the building, then form up outside. No funny business.”

“It will be as you say,” the Russian said. He turned and shouted orders in Russian. And the Soviet paratroopers, who were just as dirty, ragged, and tired as her people were, came out, and laid down their weapons, as they were told. When they were finished, the captain asked, “Your orders?”

“Start walking north on 77. There's a unit coming behind us that will process you and your men, and start you on the way to wherever they'll send you.”

The Russian saluted again, and she returned it. And even though they were disarmed and now POWs, the Soviet paratroopers marched north, still as a unit. Moore remarked to her first sergeant, “Now that's the strangest thing I've seen.”

“Ma'am?”

“They may be POWs now, but they still have their unit pride. And they're not letting anyone forget it,” she said. “Now, get these buildings secured. Get all the heavy weapons and get them out here as well. Machine guns, RPGs, AGS-17s, any antitank missiles or SAMs, get it all. I'll notify battalion to get people down here to pick this stuff up-and get rid of it. Hopefully, in a nice bang.”

“Right, Ma'am,” the first sergeant said, barking out orders.

Her RTO came over, “Ma'am, there's some more Russians coming, and they've got a white flag.”

“Now who are these guys?” Moore asked. She didn't have long to wait. This time, it was an armor officer, leading what appeared to be tank and other vehicle crews, all on foot. And it was clear from his appearance that he was looking for an officer. He spotted her and came over. Just like the airborne officer, he saluted her first. “Colonel Chesnikov, 41st Independent Tank Regiment. I present my men to you,”

“Lieutenant Moore, 116th Infantry, 29th Division,” She replied, returning the salute. “How many do you have, Colonel?”

“About eleven hundred or so,” Chesnikov answered. “We have left all of our weapons next to our vehicles. They are about a kilometer south of here, along the freeway.”

“All right, Colonel. Like I told that airborne officer who was just here, start walking north along Highway 77. There's people following us who will process you and your men, and send you off to wherever.”

Chesnikov nodded, saluted again, and returned to his men. He barked out an order, and what was left of his regiment, some 1100 men, marched north along the highway. As they did so, Moore turned to the First Sergeant, who'd watched the whole thing. “Two in fifteen minutes.”

“Ma'am?”

She laughed. “That's twice in fifteen minutes I've taken the surrender of a regiment.”


0820 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev came out of his command post to watch, first with his binoculars, then with the naked eye, as the U.S. Marines came forward. And they did so under the watchful eye of Cobra helicopters and Harrier attack aircraft. The Marines clearly weren't taking any chances, and if he was in their place, neither would he. Nodding, he turned to his chief of staff and the political officer-who had stayed, much to his surprise. He'd half expected the Zampolit to either take off for Mexico, or shoot himself, but instead, the man had stayed. While the Americans were not as harsh with Political Officers as, say, the Germans had been, the fact that many Zampolits had played a part in suppressing guerrillas and in taking measures against civilians, up to and including reprisal executions. As a result, the Americans considered Political Officers as potential war criminals, and treated them as such, unless there was proof the man in question had not participated in any such activity. And Andreyev knew this, and fully intended to vouch for his political officer, since the man had not participated in any such actions during his tenure with the division.

Now, as the Marines advanced, Andreyev and his staff watched as a Marine UH-1N helicopter landed nearby, and several armed Marines came out, securing the area around the helicopter. Then an officer came out, and began walking towards Andreyev, who began walking towards the Marine. Then both saluted.

“Major General Charles Lowe, United States Marine Corps, 4th Marine Division.” the Marine said.

“I am Lieutenant General Andreyev, 76th Guards Air Assault Division. I surrender the division, and the attached 47th Tank Brigade, to you.”

The Marine general nodded. A radioman came up to him, holding out a radio receiver. Lowe spoke into it, and then waved the Marines forward. As they did so, Andreyev's paratroopers came out of their holes and laid down their weapons.

“General,” Lowe was saying. “Congratulations on your promotion. Last my Intelligence Officer told me, you were a Major General.”

Andreyev nodded. “A lot of us got such promotions in the last days, General. Just as the failed art student did with his generals at Stalingrad.”

The Marine general nodded, watching as a steady stream of Soviet paratroopers and tankers came forward, laying down their weapons. “I hope you don't get seasick, General.”

“Oh?” Andreyev asked.

“My intelligence people want to have a talk with you and your staff. They're still aboard one of the ships offshore, so you'll get a nice helicopter ride out to one of the amphibious carriers.” Lowe said as a CH-53E Super Stallion came in and landed nearby. “That helo will take you to the ship. The admiral who commands the amphibious force is aboard that carrier, Saipan, and he'll receive you. One thing: you'll be wearing ear protection: it gets pretty loud in those things.”

Two squads of armed Marines came out of the helicopter, and a Marine Captain came to General Lowe with a bag of “Mickey Mouse” ear protectors. Nodding, Lowe turned again to Andreyev, “General, you and your staff put these on, and follow the captain. Like I said: hope you don't get seasick.”


0830 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas.

General Suraykin and his staff walked out of the warehouse that had served as the Army headquarters during the final battle. He had half expected to get killed somehow, but instead, he was going to live, and fully intended to set a good example to his men in captivity. Suraykin and his staff were in their best uniforms, and waited for the Americans to arrive. They didn't have long to wait, for a column of M-60A4-120 tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles came down from the northeast, and reached the freeway, and the headquarters. One of the tanks pulled up to where Suraykin and his staff were waiting, and the tank commander climbed down and took off his helmet. General Suraykin noticed he was a Captain, and satisfied about that, walked up to him and saluted. “General Piotyr Suraykin, 4th Guards Tank Army,”

“Captain Jeff Ritter, 5-37 Armor, 2nd Brigade, 7th Armored Division.”

Nodding, Suraykin said, “We've been expecting you, or shall we say, someone from your division. I do have a question: were you at the airport?”

“In fact, General, I was. Those were your guys at the airport, I take it?”

“They were. First 20th, then 38th Tank Divisions.”

“Don't know if anyone's told you this, but General, your men fought hard. We took our share of lumps driving your men out of that airport.” Ritter said.

Suraykin and Isakov smiled. They weren't sure how many casualties they'd inflicted in the final battle at the airport, but at least they'd made the Americans pay a price-even if it wasn't as much as they'd hoped, for the airport. “At least we know that much. Captain, your instructions?”

“Gather your people up here, and get ready to walk north. I'll notify my superiors, and they'll probably send a vehicle or maybe a helicopter for you and any other general officers.” Ritter said. “Have you and your staff had anything to eat since last night?”

“No, Captain, other than some weak tea and some bread,” Suraykin replied.

“We'll get you some MREs-better than nothing, I suppose, but still, they're edible, mostly. First Sergeant!”

“Yes, Cap'n?” the company first sergeant asked.

Get some MREs and bottled water for the general and his men,” Ritter said, and the first sergeant nodded and went off to fulfill the order. “Best we can do, General, for right now.”

Suryakin had heard from prisoners what the Americans thought of their MRE rations. Some were good, some were despised. Well, he'd find out for himself. Soon, the first sergeant pulled up in a Humvee and brought some MRE boxes. “Sir, this should keep you for a while,” he said, saluting. Suraykin nodded and took the boxes, and Isakov passed out the rations. He looked at his: Beef Stew.

And more U.S. Forces arrive:


0850 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

Colonel Alexandrov was amazed at the controlled chaos that had been unfolding at the airport since 0800. Right on the dot, several C-130s had appeared-how he wished his side had such capable aircraft-other than the two or three Libyan examples-and began dropping paratroopers. The Americans formed up after landing, and their ranking officer-who identified himself as the Assistant Division Commander of the 82nd Airborne Division, came to him. Apart from a company of paratroop infantry, some of the Americans were airborne pathfinders, sent to mark drop zones, while others were U.S. Air Force Combat Controllers, sent to find out runway conditions, and get ready to support incoming and outgoing aircraft. Within minutes, the single operable runway was declared open, and C-130s and C-141s began coming in a steady stream. And just like his own An-12s and Il-76s, they didn't bother shutting down: troops and vehicles came out of the aircraft, formed up into units, and then moved out of the airport into Brownsville.

Alexandrov was pleased to see that some of the Americans' initial arrivals were medical personnel. One of their medical officers had come over to him and asked where the Soviets had kept the wounded earmarked for evacuation, and where the nearest field hospital was. Happy to be of service, the Colonel showed the American Captain where his people could best be of help. And the American had replied, “Colonel, it's over now. Those wounded may be POWs now, but they're still people who need decent medical care and food. We'll do what we can to help them.”

While that was going on, the American paratroopers were busy disarming soldiers, collecting heavy weapons, and assembling prisoners so that they could be easily guarded, then sent north. And one thing surprised the Colonel: though the Americans were in full combat gear, they were wearing their airborne berets as they went about their business. Clearly, they wanted to send a message that the 82nd had arrived, and there had better be no trouble from anyone.

Now, he was sitting under guard, in the shadow of a hangar, with other Soviet officers-a mix of air force, Army, and Voyska PVO. The Americans had told him that it would be a while before everyone could go north, but they had provided the prisoners with MREs and bottled water, and since many of the Soviets hadn't had much to eat the past few days, the food and water was gratefully accepted. He'd actually enjoyed his MRE, which had said “Ham and Cheese omelet” and had even liked the fruit punch and coffee that came with it. Then he noticed an American officer coming towards him. A nearby guard saluted, then the officer spoke, “I'm looking for Colonel Alexandrov.”

Alexandrov stood up, “You have found him.”

“Good, please come with me.” the American said. Confused, Alexandrov followed the American officer to a Humvee, where several American officers-male and female, were standing, looking over a map-and that map was of the airport. The American saluted another officer-who was clearly in command of the group. “Sir, I have Colonel Alexandrov.”

“Sir, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Joel Wainwright, XVIII Airborne Corps engineers. We need to know where any and all unexploded ordnance is. It's just as much a danger to your men still here as it is to us.”

Alexandrov nodded. Though some might call it collaboration with the enemy, others would say that the safety of his men came first. “I can show you, Colonel. But I have to warn you: I don't know where all of it is, only what was reported.”

Colonel Wainwright nodded. “Fair enough, Colonel. Why don't you show us?” As Alexandrov began to do so, Wainwright added, “Chances are, we're not going to find all of it, either. Some of it's going to get someone killed, fifteen, maybe twenty years from now.”


0900 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo, Texas.

General Malinsky stood outside his office, watching as UH-60 and CH-47 helicopters flew overhead, heading south. Obviously, this was the 101st Airborne Division making its presence felt, and he wondered why that division had not been committed-unless the division was being held in reserve for this particular eventuality. Well, maybe he'd ask an American officer when the Americans arrived. And he didn't have long to wait, for a group of helicopters flew in and landed on what had been the high school's sports fields. Heavily armed paratroopers came out and secured the landing area, then a senior officer came forward. Malinsky and Isakov went to meet him. “General Malinsky, commanding the Gulf Front,” he said with a slight bow.

“Lieutenant Colonel Pete Fanning, 2-506 Airborne Infantry, 2nd Brigade, 101st Airborne,” the American replied, saluting.

Malinsky nodded, returning the salute, “Colonel, you will find everything here in order.”

“That's good, General. Please wait,” Fanning said as he summoned his RTO. Another Blackhawk, which had been orbiting nearby, came in and landed. Another officer, along with several staff officers, came out. Colonel Fanning walked over to him, obviously reporting to him. Then the officer came over, wearing three stars on his fatigue cap. “General Malinsky?” the American said, “Lieutenant General Gary Luck, XVIII Airborne Corps.”

“General,” Malinsky said, nodding. “Please, this way to the operations room. Everything you need is there.”

“All right, let's go.” Luck said.

Malinsky and Isakov led the Americans into the operations room, where the staff had still been at work, making sure things went smoothly. Out of habit, the staff came to attention. Malinsky nodded, as did General Luck. “General, we need to know if you have any minefields laid-if you were trying to block any kind of helicopter assault. And we need to know about your ammunition dumps: we've got them located, but which ones have any kind of chemical munitions.” Luck said.

Isakov spoke up, “I have that information, General,” and he went over to a desk and picked up two maps. One had the Front's ammunition storage points marked, while another had several minefields. “The first map has the ammunition storage, though all of them have chemical munitions of one sort or another. And the second shows the minefields-at least those that the various armies had reported before things started to come apart.”

Luck picked up the maps and handed them to his intelligence officer. “Pass the information on minefields to the 101st and to 18th Aviation Brigade. Send the material on the ammo dumps to the 101st and to II MAF: there's a couple in their AOR.”

“Right away, General,” the intelligence officer said, going back to the landing zone to get the material flown out.

“General,” Malinsky said, “I thank you for what you've been able to do already for the wounded. Though I fear that your efforts, along with ours, will be too late for many.”

Luck nodded. He'd had that information from his own intelligence sources come in a few days earlier: those who were not in shape to be returned to duty were on the airlift, while those who could be patched up and sent back to the front got priority. Those whose wounds were much more serious, were left undertreated, or in some cases, untreated and allowed to die. “Won't be the first time: but the last time something like this happened was probably in Germany in '45.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Malinsky said.

“General...” Luck said, “I'm curious: where's your political officer and his people?”

“Before the cease-fire took effect, many of those fled. Others shot themselves,” Malinsky said.

“Given as to what many-though not all of them-did, it's not a surprise.” Luck said. “And we got word that you were evacuating your intelligence people.”

“That's correct,” Malinsky said.

“Well....we can't get them all, because a lot of them do have innocent blood on their hands, General.”

“I understand, General Luck. It is...unfortunate that the war turned those who should have simply done their duty, into beasts.” Malinsky said. “Still....General, before I and my staff go north, I would like to offer a toast. Isakov,” Malinsky nodded to the chief of staff, who produced a bottle of vodka and several glasses.

“A toast, General?” Luck asked, incredulous.

“Yes. A toast to peace. At least in this corner of the war. And I imagine that men like you and me have seen and done enough in the last four years.”

“You're right about that. Vietnam, now this.....I've seen enough. I'll tell you one thing, General. As soon as they work out an Armistice, I'm going to retire,” Luck said.

“Then shall we drink to an early retirement?” Malinsky asked.

“Yes. Let's,” Luck said.


0920 Hours: Camp 24, near Laguna Vista, Texas.


Captain Dimitriev watched with the two American senior officers as the helicopters flew overhead, and the prisoners waved to the troops in the helicopters, who waved back. He had made sure that the guards remained in their barracks, with their weapons stacked outside, and the guard towers were unmanned. And the Soviet and ALA flags had been hauled down as well. Not to mention the supplies that had been air-dropped earlier had been distributed: food, medicine, and bottled water. And Dimitriev had one other little bit of cleaning house to tend to after Tsernik's suicide: he'd gone looking for the political officer, only to find that the man had gone. When he'd told this to the senior officers, Captain Pearson had simply scowled, saying, “So the worm took off for Mexico? Good luck getting there,” while Major Caldwell had said nothing.

Then a flight of UH-60s orbited the camp, as if looking for a place to land. After finding a suitable landing site, the Blackhawks landed, and out came heavily armed soldiers, who surrounded the guard barracks and waited in front of the main gate. Dimitriev glanced at the two American officers, and said as he nodded towards the gate, “Shall we?”

The trio went to the main gate, and found American troops there in full battle gear, though wearing their caps instead of helmets. And the Captain who was waiting at the main gate was obviously female. But the M-16 rifle she bore in her hand-and the way she wielded it-indicated that this woman was a combat veteran. “I am Captain Dimitriev, the acting camp commander,” Dimitirev said. “And I have the two senior American POW officers with me.”

The female officer nodded, and gestured to a sergeant next to her. He took out a large set of bolt cutters and cut the chain on the gate, which swung open. “Captain Regan Nyberg, 3-187, 101st Airborne. Order your men to come out of their barracks, hands on their heads, and no funny business,” she said, with an angry tone of voice.

Dimitriev nodded, and walked over to the barracks, covered by the paratroopers. He yelled in Russian, and as Nyberg had ordered, the guards came out of the barracks, hands on their heads. Then Dimitriev handed his pistol to the captain. “Your prisoner, Captain.”

“Go over with your men,” Nyberg said. “First Sergeant, tag all of 'em as POW camp guards, and keep them separate from other EPWs. Let battalion know the guards were still here, and request instructions.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” the first sergeant replied, and the guards were marched off. As they were marched off, a steady stream of now former POWs came out of the camp, hugging the paratroopers who were coming in.

The two senior officers identified themselves, and Nyberg saluted them, and then ordered her troops into the compound. The two gave her a tour, showing her the commandant's office (with the deceased Major Tsernik now attracting flies), the interrogation rooms in the HQ building, with dried bloodstains, the posts in the compound where prisoners were tied and beaten, the isolation area, with sweat boxes, ramshackle POW barracks, the inadequate bathing and sanitary facilities, and the building in the North Compound where female POWs were taken to “entertain” guards and visiting VIPs. Throughout the tour, Nyberg stayed calm, and both Caldwell and Pearson looked at her. “Captain,” Caldwell said, “You don't seem surprised.”

“I'm not. Sad to say, this isn't my first time. I liberated a couple of POW camps last year, west of Houston. They were just like this.” she said.

“Nobody should have to see this more than once,” Pearson said. She'd been in two other camps before being sent to 24.

Captain Nyberg nodded. Then she looked around. “Where's the supply area?”

“Behind the guards' barracks. Why?” Caldwell asked.

“OK, do they have any gas?”

“Yeah, for their generator. Why do you ask?”

“I think I know what she's got in mind,” Pearson said.

“Here's what we'll do: I'll have my first sergeant get the gas and he'll get it spread around these buildings. Before you leave-and I'll either get trucks or see if a helicopter lift can be organized-we'll put this place to the torch.” Nyberg said.

The two senior officers looked at each other, then at her. Both grinned from ear to ear. “I take it that means yes?” Nyberg asked.

They nodded, and then she said. “Good. Let's get it over and done.”


0940 Hours: U.S. 281, Brownsville City Limits:

It had been a long time coming, but now, Kozak's Team was at the Brownsville city limits. The point element, a tank and a Bradley, had stopped at the sign, and to no one' s surprise, the crews got out and took pictures of each other. After a blast on the radio from Kozak, the chagrined soldiers got back into their vehicles and continued south. The reporters, though, did stop. And everyone noticed the CNN crew filming the team's vehicles as they crossed into the city, the first American troops, or so they hoped, in the city in four years.

As her Bradley entered the city, Kozak got on the radio to the battalion commander, reporting entry into the city. And his response pleased her. “Get to the University of South Texas-Brownsville and secure it. That's Soviet Headquarters, Division says. Get there as quick as you can.”

Pleased at the thought of taking the surrender of the Soviet commander and his staff, Kozak acknowledged the order, and told the Team to push on. As the Team, with the rest of the division following along and behind, moved deeper into outskirts of Brownsville, a stream of civilians came out, waving and cheering, while some broke out long-hidden American flags and were waving them at the tanks and Bradleys as they rumbled past. Many of them showed the signs of people who'd been living on an inadequate for a long time, and soldiers threw MREs and water to the people they'd fought so hard to liberate. As they pushed on, one thing did occur to Kozak: none of her troops were original members of the 49th, and no one was familiar with the area. When her Bradley came to an intersection, she told her driver to stop. A crowd of civilians came up, clapping and cheering, and Kozak waved and smiled. After she got up and off the Bradley, she felt like her grandfather had in Paris, 1944. And soon, she was surrounded by cheering civilians, not noticing Jan Fields' crew filming the scene. Then she asked, “Anyone here know the way to UT South Texas?”

Several people indicated they did, and one offered his services as a guide: before the war, he'd been a graduate student in biology, and not only knew the way there, but also knew the campus backwards and forwards. “All right, hop on,” she said, climbing back onto the Bradley. The young man, to the cheers from the crowd, climbed onto Kozak's Bradley and simply rode on top. While that was going on, her Third Platoon leader came up on the net. “Six, we got something here.”

“What is it, Three-one?”

“Six, it's an ALA or PSD office; can't tell which. But somebody beat us to 'em. The place is a mess, but the files are all out here, neatly arranged, and in front....”

“What's in front?” Kozak asked.

“Bodies. All wearing ALA or PSD uniforms. Some of 'em are burned or shot up pretty bad, but half of 'em....all shot in the back of the head.” Third Platoon's leader said.

Somebody's just saved JAG a ton of work, was her first thought. Then she asked her guide. “Know anything about that?”

“No, nobody could go out because of the curfew, but we heard a lot of shooting.” the civilian said.

An interesting question: who'd done away with the local ALA or PSD? And that kind of precision ruled out guerrillas. Kozak got on the radio and informed the battalion commander, who immediately ordered Alpha Company to send a platoon to secure the site. Kozak was to continue her advance. As the Team rolled on, she asked the guide, “How far to the campus?”

“Two miles, give or take,” he replied.

This is going to be the longest two miles of my life, she thought. But it'll be worth it, to see the faces of not only the Soviet brass, but the airborne mafia when they see we beat 'em to the Soviet HQ.

The endgame approaches:

1000 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev looked out the window of his office, and and the sky was full of American aircraft and helicopters. A steady stream of aircraft flew in and out of the Airport, while helicopters came in and landed at various locations, unloading troops and supplies, then heading off. Apache and Cobra gunships flitted overhead, providing cover, while American fighters and attack aircraft circled overhead. It was clear the Americans were not taking any chances.

He also took a look at the city, and from this vantage point, he could see some American columns pushing in, with crows of civilians lining the streets. To the Marshal, it reminded him of films of cities liberated from the Hitlerites during the Great Patriotic War, and he realized all to well that to the Americans, this was their equivalent. Shrugging his shoulders, he went back to the Operations Room, where most of the staff was there, waiting, along with Chibisov and Sergetov. Alekseyev motioned to the two to follow him, and the trio went down to the foyer, and out the front door. “This reminds me of something, Comrades, from reading about the campaign in the west, in 1944.” Alekseyev said.

“What is that, Comrade Marshal?” Sergetov asked.

“Paris, 1944. I am in the position similar to that of General Dietrich von Choltitz, who was the commandant of the city when the French and Americans arrived. All we can do is wait for the Americans to arrive and formally take possession of the city,” Alekseyev said.

Both Chibisov and Sergetov nodded, as an OH-58D Kiowa Warrior and a pair of AH-64A Apaches flew overhead, scouting along the river. So far, there had hardly been any shooting from across the river, which Alekseyev was glad to hear, and hopefully, cooler heads on that side of the river will prevail. Given how determined the Mexicans were in the final days, he frankly didn't expect that to happen, and that when he arrived at whatever senior officer POW camp the Americans sent him to, he'd find out that the Americans had invaded Mexico. And given what the Mexicans had done since 1984, he honestly didn't blame the Americans one bit for wanting to settle those scores in a very serious and direct manner. His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of Humvees coming up to the perimeter. Fine vehicles, those Humvees, he thought, and captured examples had served the Soviets well, and some examples had even been sent to the USSR to help with the design of Soviet light transport vehicles. The occupants of the Humvees got out and began to set up a satellite antenna, and a tripod with what looked like a camera. Curious, Alekseyev sent Sergetov over to see who these Americans were. Clearly, they didn't appear to be military. Sergetov went over, spoke to the Americans, and then came back, with a confused look on his face. “Well, Comrade Colonel?”

“Comrade Marshal, you're not going to believe this..” Sergetov said.

“What?” Alekseyev responded.

“They're not military, but are reporters. One group is a TV news crew for one of the American networks-CBS, he said, while others are from either news services or newspapers.” Sergetov said.

“How did they get here ahead of the U.S. Army?” Chibisov asked.

“The correspondent for the CBS crew, Bob McKewon, said they asked local civilians which way to get here, and they simply drove onto side streets and not the 77-83 freeway, or any other main road. Those are crowded with military traffic as well as crowds of civilians.” said Sergetov. “He said it's the worst traffic jam he's ever seen.”

And General McCaffery's words about the military and the news media came back to Alekseyev. “Well, Comrades, they're here, and there's not much we can do about it,” he observed, noticing the camera being trained in their direction. Then a shout came from the east side of the perimeter. “They're here!”

A column of Humvees, a platoon of LAV-25s, and a platoon of what looked to be Cadillac-Gage Stingrays began to appear at the East Gate. The Americans slowly advanced, turrets swinging back and forth, clearly showing that they were not taking any chances. As they did so, another shout came from the West Gate. M-60A4-105 tanks and Bradley IFVs were approaching. These, too, were moving their turrets, not taking any chances. Both columns met in front of the Soviet Headquarters, and the respective commanders got out. The two talked for a few minutes, shook hands for the TV cameras, then both came to Alekseyev, saluting, a male captain in an airborne beret and a female mechanized infantry captain, still wearing her combat vehicle helmet.

“Captain Mark Hanson, 2-325 Airborne Infantry, 2nd Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division,”

“Captain Nancy Kozak, 3-144 Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 49th Armored Division,”

Alekseyev returned the salutes, as did Chibisov and Sergetov. “I am Marshal Alekseyev. We have been waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” Hanson replied. “I have orders to secure the area for General Powell's arrival. He will be here shortly, once the area is declared secured. Though we're in different corps, Captain Kozak apparently has similar orders.”

“That I do,” Kozak said. She turned to Hanson. “Why don't your men take the east side, and we'll take the west? Marshal, are there any minefields or booby traps we need to know about?”

“Yes, we have some antipersonnel mines out, as an anti-guerrilla measure.” Alekseyev turned to Sergetov. “Go and bring those maps here, Colonel.”

“Right away, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said, and he went back in to get the maps.

Alekseyev noticed the news crews coming in closer and setting up their cameras. Before long, the network crews were on the air, live. He grimaced, but tried not to show it. Then Sergetov came with the maps. “Here are the maps, Comrade Marshal, Captains,”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Hanson said. “I've got an engineer platoon with me, they can get started. Fortunately, there's no mines that may be an immediate danger, but when civilians start to return...”

“Just like in Stalingrad,” Chibisov said. The two American officers looked at him. “It took months of work before many areas of the city were declared safe for people to return. I believe you've got similar issues in San Antonio and Houston, among others.”

“Unfortunately, that's true, General,” Kozak said.

Hanson and Kozak then studied the map further. “Like we said, I'll take the west side, you take the east side. Let's get these guys disarmed and ready to go north.” Kozak said, seeing Hanson nod. “How long until General Powell arrives?”

“When I tell battalion the area's secured,” Hanson said, “Which won't be too long.”


1015 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev watched as a C-130 transport flew over the island, dropping leaflets to the civilians still living there. Just a day before, anyone possessing such a leaflet could expect to be shot, but now, the Americans were getting ready to arrive on the island. He noticed that civilians were coming out of their storm shelters and homes, and many were shaking hands with each other, glad to have made it through the invasion and occupation, and now, he also noticed, some were coming out with long-hidden American flags-possession of which could have gotten the owner sent to a labor camp at the very least-if not summarily shot. Now, the Americans were coming back, and the local population was in a mood to celebrate.

He watched as several CH-46 helicopters came over and began to orbit, obviously searching for places to land. So, he would be surrendering to the U.S. Marines, it appeared. His chief of staff, and Captain Lieutenant Kamarov came to him. “Well, Comrades, it's just about time.”

“Would you rather have fought a useless battle, Major?” Kamarov asked. “I'm just glad that most of my crew has made it, and as far as I'm concerned, that's all I care about right now.”

“Understandable,” Lazarev said, watching as the first helicopters began to touch down, near the Queen Isabella Causeway. They soon lifted off, having deposited their Marines, and soon, more helicopters began to come in. A few minutes later, U.S. Marines began coming up Park Road 100, South Padre Island's main street, and civilians were coming out to welcome their liberators. The Marine point element came up to the 175th's headquarters, and Lazarev and the other two officers went to meet the Marines. “Major Lazarev, 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, Red Banner Northern Fleet,” he said, saluting the Marine Lieutenant who was leading his platoon.

“Major. Lieutenant Robert Greer, 2/23 Marines, 4th Marine Division,” the Marine said, returning the salute. “How many do you have here?”

“I have about 3,000 Naval Infantry, about five hundred sailors from various commands, and several hundred others-air defense, coastal defense, and rear services.” Lazarev said.

The Marine nodded, waving up his RTO. “How many civilians are here?”

“About 2,000, Lieutenant. Some were....relocated, but others were allowed to remain.” Lazarev said.

The Marine officer then spoke into his radio. And a few minutes later, a senior Marine officer came forward. By the eagle insignia, he was a Colonel. Lazarev saluted, and the Marine returned it, saying, “Colonel Sean Bradford, 23rd Marines.”

“Major Lazarev. We have all of our weapons assembled in one location, and have kept the heavy weapons separate.” Lazarev said.

“That's good, Major. Now, do you have any minefields? The beach, especially?” Bradford wanted to know.

“Mines were one thing my brigade was short of. But I can give you a map of my defenses: all of the minefields, such as they were, are marked.” said Lazarev.

“Show me,” the Marine Colonel said, and Lazarev and the other officers brought the Marine Colonel and several other Marine officers into the headquarters. And Lazarev's chief of staff pointed out the mine locations on the map-mostly around the buildings where the Naval Infantry had dug into. One of Bradford's officers took the map and headed out to inform the Marines now moving to take their Soviet opposite numbers into custody. “Major, you're probably wondering if you sat here, twiddling your thumbs, while the real action took place down at Boca Chica.”

“Colonel, the thought had occurred to me.” Lazarev said.

“Well...I guess I can tell you now. We thought a great deal about coming ashore here, and had a plan to do it. But the recon pictures showed your defenses, and so....Boca Chica it was. There was only a single battalion on the beach, and that was a penal unit.” Bradford said.

“A penal unit?” Lazarev was astonished.

“That's right. Now, if they'd been KGB, or maybe your airborne, it would've been a real brawl. Instead, most of them simply raised their hands, while the rest took to their heels,” replied the Marine Colonel.

“I can assure you, Colonel, that no such behavior would have happened here,” Lazarev said. “My orders were clear: defend this island at all costs.”

“And that's one reason we didn't land here. The other one is the demolitions: the Causeway and the Port Isabel oil refinery.” Bradford said.

Lazarev nodded. “I know the causeway was set with demolitions, but I know nothing about the oil refinery.”

“I doubt you did. Anyway,” Bradford said, “Be glad you and your men are alive.”

Major Lazerev simply nodded, and the party went back outside, as Soviet Naval Infantrymen, sailors, and others came out of their positions to be searched, and formed up to be taken off the island. He watched as a Marine officer came up to Colonel Bradford. “Sir, the causeway's secured. But getting all the demo charges off, it's going to be an all-day job.”

Bradford turned to Lazarev, then back to the officer. “All right, get some MREs and water for these men, they'll be here until the causeway's declared safe.” The officer nodded and went off to relay the order.

“Major, sorry about that. But no one's using that causeway until it's declared safe to do so. Don't worry: you and your men will be fed, and anyone who needs medical attention will get it.” Bradford said.


1050 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:


“Captain to CCP!” the boat's PA system barked.

Captain Padorin got up from his chair in the wardroom. He'd been going over his patrol report so far, and wondered if the kills he'd made would balance out the fact that they had been in vain. That's for Caribbean Squadron to decide, he rationalized, but we did everything possible, and it wasn't enough. If Zirinsky was still with them, he might have caused trouble, but that was no longer any concern to Padorin. His only regret was that Zirinsky had not delayed his mutiny solicitation until after the pocket's liquidation: then it would be clear that the man had tried to mutiny in favor of a lost cause. But the Zampolit was not missed aboard the boat, and it was obvious that K-236 was a happy boat at the moment.

Padorin went into the CCP, where Shelpin was standing watch. “What do we have, Shelpin?”

“We have an ELF message for us, Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. “As per the order book, I have ordered the boat to antenna depth, and slowed to five knots.”

“Very good. I have the deck and the con,” the Captain replied. “Present depth?”

“Sixty meters, Comrade Captain,” the helm replied.

“Very well, Helm.” Padorin said.

The boat was soon at antenna depth,and after the ESM mast was raised and showed all clear, the radio antenna was raised. The message came in, and again, it was repeated. “What now?” Padorin asked. “That's the second time in a row they've repeated messages.”

The Starpom came into the CCP-he'd been off watch in his cabin. “Another message?” he asked.

“Right. Now we wait until decoding. Lower antenna, and up periscope.” Padorin ordered.

The periscope came up, and Padorin did a full sweep. “No contacts, down scope,” and the periscope went back down. Then the communications officer came in. “Yes?” Padorin asked.

“Comrade Captain, message from Caribbean Squadron,” the man responded.

Padorin took the message form, and this time, a smile came to his face. “Our search and rescue mission is canceled, Comrades.”

Everyone in the CCP, the Starpom and Security Officer especially, let out a sigh of relief. “What are our new orders?” asked the Starpom.

“Return to previous station in Yucatan Channel, and await further orders,” Padorin said. He turned to the helm officer. “Come left to one-four-zero.”

“Coming left to one-four-zero, Comrade Captain.” the officer replied.

“Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters, and make turns for ten knots.”

“Two hundred and fifty meters, make turns for ten knots, Aye, Comrade Captain.” the man said.

Once the boat was on its new course and at that depth, Padorin turned to Shelpin. “You have the deck and the con. I'll be in my quarters.”


1100 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville


Marshal Alekseyev and his staff watched as the Americans went about the business of securing the perimeter, checking for mines, and closing up on the Mexican border. He was very impressed with how through and serious the Americans took their tasks, recalling the difference between that and prewar propaganda, which depicted American soldiers as pampered, spoiled, pushovers who were likely to surrender or run away. Now, that may have happened at times in the early days, but whoever wrote those words back then was dead wrong, by and large. Not to mention the fact that there were so many women serving-and in combat units. A female company commander? He'd encountered two in the last twenty-four hours, and he had noticed female soldiers in that infantry company positioned where he'd gone through American lines to meet with Powell. And there were more here: female tankers and mechanized infantry on the west side, and female paratroopers on the east side, and they were just as serious as their male counterparts. For his part, Chibisov commented on how the paratroopers appeared: in full combat gear, but wearing their maroon berets instead of their helmets. It was plain that the Americans wanted not just the Soviets, but any potential troublemakers, as well as the civilian population, to see that the 82nd had arrived, and that the airborne meant business. There had been some scattered shooting, but things went smoothly for the most part, much to everyone's relief. Then the airborne company commander came up.

“Marshal, This area is secured. I've notified General Powell, and his helicopter will be here in a few minutes.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Were the minefield maps useful?”

“Yes, sir. The engineer platoon's pleased, and their company commander is as well. Fortunately, they're pretty easy to clear: either the MON series of Claymore copies, or some POM-Z stake mines. Finding and clearing any antitank mines, though...that's going to be tougher, he said.” Hansen responded.

Then four Humvees, two from the east-the 82nd's area, and two from the west-the 49th Armored's area, arrived. Alekseyev noticed the female mechanized company commander going to the ones from her division, and Captain Hansen going to those from the 82nd. He noticed that the lead Humvee in each had a placard with two stars on it: those had to be divisional commanders. And sure enough, two general officers, one in an airborne beret, and the other in a field cap came together, shook hands, and came up to Alekseyev and his staff.

“Marshal, Major General Robert Gregory, 82nd Airborne Division,” the airborne general said, saluting.

“Major General Wesley Clark, 49th Armored Division.” said the armor officer.

“Gentlemen,” Alekseyev said, returning their salutes. “Two divisions here?”

“Well, Marshal, both of our units were in kind of a race to be the first here, and for all intents and purposes, the first to the International Bridges. Just as your army in 1945 had a race to Berlin and the Reichstag, I believe.” Clark said. “Then there's the traditional rivalry between the airborne and everyone else in the Army,” he said, glancing at General Gregory, who nodded.

“I see.. and General Powell?” Alekseyev asked.

“He's on his way by helicopter,” Gregory said. “He ought to be here anytime, Marshal.” Then came the sound of helicopters. “That should be him,” he said, pointing to four UH-60s coming in close. The four helicopters made a circle, then flared and landed. After the helicopters shut down and the rotors stopped spinning, the occupants came out. General Powell and his staff came out of the first two helicopters, a number of MPs came out of the third, and a group of reporters came out of the fourth. The two American generals saw the reporters and shook their heads. “There's enough of them here already,” Gregory muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Clark replied. “But at least I've got Jan Fields over there,” he said, pointing to the CNN crew with Kozak's company.

“And the General brought Christiane Armanpour and her bunch with him,” Gregrory said. “Oh, well. Let's get on with it.”

Alekseyev watched as the two generals went to greet Powell, and some words were exchanged. Then both generals assembled their respective divisions' honor guards, while the reporters were shown where they could set up. Only then did General Powell come to meet Alekseyev. “Marshal,”

“General Powell,” Alekseyev said. “So it is time.”

“Yes, it is. Again, I'll say it for the record. Your forces put up the best fight they could. Even though the outcome was inevitable, your men fought hard.” Powell said.

“Thank you, General. If your Navy and Air Forces hadn't been as successful in cutting our supply lines, we'd likely still be in our positions that we had at the beginning of the month.” Alekseyev said.

“Probably so, Marshal. So far, things have gone smoothly. Some rough spots-like some guerrillas coming out and trying to take revenge, but those have been taken care of. And I'm curious: who did away with the ALA and PSD here? Some of my commanders have said that those offices-along with some KGB and DGI, were eliminated with precision.” Powell said.

“Let's just say, General, that some of my airmobile troops handled that bit of...housecleaning, for want of a better term,” Alekseyev said.

Powell took the hint. Obviously Alekseyev was referring to Spetsnatz, but still couldn't openly say it. “Well, whoever it was did a very good job.” Seeing Alekesyev nod, Powell said, “All right, let's get on with it.” He turned to the two generals and issued orders.

Two soldiers from the 82nd came forward and lowered the Soviet flag. None of the Americans saluted, though of course, the Soviets did. The flag was folded and presented to General Powell, who then gave it to General Clark, as a present to the 49th Armored Division. Then two soldiers from the 82nd, and two from the 49th, came forward. The pair from the 82nd had the American Flag, while the pair from the 49th had the flag of the State of Texas-recognizing the fact that the 49th had been a Texas National Guard Division before the war. A bugler sounded, and as he did so, the Stars and Stripes were raised, with everyone saluting. After that, the state flag was run up the other flagpole. Then Alekseyev walked over to Powell, removed his service pistol from his holster, unloaded it, cleared the chamber, and presented it to the General, and then saluted. Powell returned it, and only then did he shake Alekseyev's hand.

After he did so, and accepted Alekseyev's invitation to tour the headquarters, Powell went to address the media, and the soldiers from both divisions present. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it has been a long road from that dark day in September, 1985, when we all awoke to the news that not only had we been subjected to nuclear attack, but that the unbelievable had happened: Soviet and Soviet-bloc forces were on American soil. Despite the shock and panic of those early days, the wheels were set in motion so that we would not only resist, but would repel the invading forces. After the Battle of Wichita, the outcome was never in doubt, and two years ago, we started on the long road south, the road to victory. So many good men and women have given so much, and some have given everything they had: not just those in uniform, but those who fought a different kind of war, behind the lines, in the tradition of Frances Marion or Roger Mosby, a guerrilla war the likes of which has not been seen before on American soil. Despite the trials and tribulations, successes and setbacks, the goal has remained the same: the defeat of Soviet and Soviet-bloc forces in America. Now, four years after the outbreak of war, and two years after embarking on the long and bloody road south, that goal-at least in the lower 48, has been achieved. There are no more Soviet or Soviet-bloc forces fighting anywhere on the soil of the Continental United States. While much remains to be done, both here and in the Northern Theater, where we fight alongside our Canadian and British allies, but soon, all of the territories remaining under enemy occupation will be free. Again, it has been a long and bloody road, but this is the payoff. Thank you, and as General Douglas MacArthur said on the deck of the Missouri after a similar ceremony forty-four years ago, 'these proceedings are closed.'”

The epilogue will follow tomorrow.

Here it is:


Epilogue:


7 October, 1989, 1400 Hours Moscow Time, Headquarters, 1st Shock Army, outside Moscow, RSFSR:


Marshal Akhromayev went down into the bunker on the base complex. The bunker had been built in the 1970s to enable military units to function in the event of a nuclear attack on the Moscow area, and the facility had seen service during the early days of the war, when the Americans had conducted two limited nuclear strikes in the Moscow area, and in 1986, when the Americans took nuclear revenge for a failed attempt to destroy the American President's bunker on the Pennsylvania-Maryland border. Now, the bunker's facilities were serving a much different purpose, as those in the Army, Party, and the KGB who were determined to end the war and in so doing, save the USSR, were meeting for the first time.

One thing still bothered the Marshal: so far, there had been no announcement on State Radio or Television about the surrender in Texas. The usual military communique simply stated that fighting continued, and that Soviet forces were “resisting gallantly.” What nonsense! General Vitaly Berkenev, the GRU director (who was attending the meeting) had reported that news of the surrender had traveled fast: the Voice of America, the BBC, Radio Liberty, and Radio Free Europe were spreading the news, along with stations in Poland, Turkey, Iran, South Korea, and Japan, and their broadcasts could easily be picked up. Not to mention the fact that in the Baltic Republics, some were able to pick up Finnish or Swedish TV, and those stations had the surrender as their lead stories. He'd spoken about this with Chairman Kosov, who verified Berkenev's reports. And still, that Chekist bastard who's General Secretary won't tell the people! There will come a time, Comrade Chebrikov, mark my words, Akhromayev thought.

Now, as the Marshal entered the bunker's conference room, he saw the Chief of the General Staff, General Pavel Grachev, and the Commander of the Moscow MD, General Mikhail Moisyev, engaged in a serious conversation. General Berkenev, for his part, was talking with General Ivan Morozov, the Commander of the Beylorussian MD, and two of the couriers who'd escaped from the pocket, General Lukin and Major Sorokin, along with General Vitaly Glavchenko, who commanded the Leningrad Military District. Chairman Kosov, for his part, was talking with Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin, two of the candidate Politburo members, and two of the others-Ministers Sergetov and Bromkovsky, were talking with Aleksandr Bessmertnykh, the deputy Foreign Minister whose thankless job of attending UN meetings had proven to be quite a futile effort: no one believed or trusted the USSR, except for its allies, any more. Even the client states in Africa, along with the Syrians, Iraqis, and South Yemenis, were keeping the USSR at arm's length these days.

Then, Chairman Kosov noticed the Marshal. “Comrades, Marshal Ahkromayev is here. Perhaps we can begin?”

Heads nodded and the conspirators, for want of a better word, took their seats. Grachev had chosen a perfect location, and no one would suspect this location, of all places, for such a meeting. The Marshal nodded to two officers at the door, and the entrance to the room was sealed and guarded. “Comrades, I am glad you all could attend. I would like to thank all of you, and not only General Grachev for arranging things here, but General Lukin and Major Sorokin, our two couriers who managed to escape the pocket,” the Marshal said, nodding to those two officers, who acknowledged the Marshal. “I believe all of you have been briefed, either individually or in small groups, by these two, and I trust their information was of considerable value?” Heads nodded around the table, and the Marshal continued. “First of all, our objectives here are twofold. First: we seek to save the state. It is not only Chebrikov, but virtually the entire Politburo, who has driven this country to disaster. So, whoever replaces Chebrikov (the Marshal avoided the term “comrade”) must be willing to not only bring the country back from the brink of civil war-and some areas of Central Asia and the Caucasus are approaching that brink as we speak. Second, he must also bring an end to the war. This war has gone on long enough. It is time that we came to a peace with America and her allies. We have paid a high price in blood and treasure for a lost war, and there is no point in continuing the fight any longer.”

“I agree, Comrade Marshal,” Kosov said. “In order to do so, we must remove the current General Secretary and the Politburo-except, of course, for Comrade Bromkovsky. And we must do so quietly, if at all possible. Just as it was done in 1964.”

“Agreed,” both Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin said at once. Then Yeltsin-the Party Boss of Moscow-spoke up, “I have seen for myself the effects of this war on our people: the endless shortages, the young men who answer their draft call-and many of whom have never returned, or those who have returned, do so maimed or crippled for life, and the widows and parents of those killed or missing. You all know the parade of widows and mothers that takes place every Friday, from Moscow Party to Red Square?” When several of those present nodded-including Chairman Kosov-he continued. “All of whom are angry bitter, and feel a sense of betrayal. All these people have left of their loved ones is photographs, memories, and a telegram from the Defense Ministry, informing them of the death of their husband or son-in some cases, sons. And this is not just in Moscow: it's spread to Leningrad, Minsk, Kiev, Kazan, Tiblisi, and several other cities, no?”

“Yes, it has,” Kosov said. “And none have been arrested: because if we do that, who knows what's going to happen next? There have already been strikes and protests-largely in Central Asia, but some in the Ukraine and the Caucasus, but they could spread easily-and out of control.”

Heads nodded around the table. The Ahkromayev said, “Comrades, to end the war, and save the Rodina, we must take decisive action. However, I have no ambitions to become General Secretary. I am a soldier.” He looked at Chairman Kosov; “And I assume Chairman Kosov also has no such ambitions, given that we've had two General Secretaries come out of the KGB, both of whom had roles to play in starting this misadventure?”

Kosov nodded. “That is correct, Marshal. Now, whoever becomes General Secretary is in this room. He is not a soldier or KGB. Before we decide on who, let us hear from those who have escaped from the pocket, General Berkenev for the overall military situation, along with Comrade Bessmertnykh, who can fill us in on the international aspects, then we can come to an agreement on how to proceed.”

Sergetov stood up. “I never thought I'd hear this from the KGB, but I am in agreement with him and the Marshal. Let us have an open and free discussion, and then come to a consensus on how best to carry this out.”

“I agree also,” Gorbachev said. “This war has gone on long enough, and threatens to bring down the Rodina around our ears. To save Russia, we must act.” The discussion that followed was spirited-and honest.

Two hours later, everyone was in agreement: a quiet coup, if at all possible, or failing that, one carried out with a minimum of force. Any of the Politburo members who resisted would be killed, but hopefully all would be taken into custody. The nuclear codes would be safe, with both Ahkromayev and Kosov quietly gaining control of the “football” beforehand. Then a troika of Gorbachev, Sergetov, and Yeltsin would be formed, to gain control of the Party and State apparatus, while the military and KGB supported their move. And if the VV (Interior Ministry) troops tried to intervene, they would have to be dealt with-hopefully with a minimum amount of force needed. Once the troika was in control, their first act would be to arrange a cease-fire with the Americans and their allies, prior to peace talks beginning in Geneva or Stockholm. And some unilateral actions would be taken to show the new government's sincerity, such as releasing all prisoners of war, accounting for those the Allies listed as Missing in Action, and commencing withdrawal from remaining occupied territories.

Just before the meeting adjourned, with an agreement to meet again at the same headquarters, one of General Berkenev's aides came into the meeting room, and passed a note to the General. “Comrades, if I may, but there is a new development. State Radio and Television will be making an announcement momentarily,” He nodded to the aide, who turned on a TV in the meeting room. The familiar scene of Red Square came onto the screen, then came the announcer. “We interrupt our regular programming on television and radio to make an important announcement: 'The High Command of the Armed Forces announces that the Soviet and Socialist Forces in Texas, under the leadership of Marshal Alekseyev, have been overcome by superior enemy forces, due to unfavorable tactical situations, and severe conditions affecting our forces. A decree from Comrade General Secretary Chebrikov declares three days of national mourning, with all public entertainment closed, and flags flown at half-staff in honor of the brave soldiers who have fallen.'” Then the camera shifted to an orchestra, and somber music began to play.

Several of the conspirators shook their heads, and Akhromayev spat. “So it took the bastard two days to decide what to tell the people? We must act, Comrades. Two weeks, three at the most. Before the Northern Theater collapses-and it will do so before winter sets in. And we can save what's left of our nation's self-respect and honor in so doing.”



1200 Hours Central Time, 7 October, K-236, the Gulf of Mexico.


“Comrade Captain, a word?”

Captain Padorin looked up from the plot table and turned to see the boat's medical officer. “Certainly, Doctor.”

“In private, please.”

Both officers left the CCP and went into the wardroom, locking the door behind them. “Yes, Doctor?” Padorin asked.

“Comrade Captain, I have four cases of food poisoning in sick bay right now, and two more suspected.” the doctor reported.

“Are you sure?” Padorin asked. Such cases were rare, but not unheard of, aboard a submarine.

“I'm quite sure. Those complaining of the symptoms ate the same food: canned fruit from Cuba.” the doctor said.

“And right now, most of our food stores are canned.” Padorin said. Wonderful, he thought, seeing the doctor nod. “And your suggestion?”

“Comrade Captain, if a good portion of our food supply is contaminated-”

“Let me guess: the patrol should be terminated.” Padorin finished for his medical officer.

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Captain.” the doctor replied. “Who knows what may be in some of the food stocks?”

And Padorin knew it. “Very well, Doctor. You acted correctly in bringing this to my attention. Let me know how the sick men are doing, when you can.”

“Thank you, Comrade Captain.” And the doctor left to return to his patients. Shaking his head, Padorin went back into the CCP, where the Starpom had the watch. “The Captain has the deck and the con. Bring us to antenna depth.”

The Starpom nodded and relayed the necessary orders. Soon, the boat was at antenna depth. “At antenna depth, Comrade Captain.”

Padorin nodded. “Raise the ESM mast.”

The ESM mast was raised, and “sniffed” the air for radar and radio signals. “Nothing, Comrade Captain. Screen clear.” the operator said.

“Sonar?”

“Sonar clear, Comrade Captain.” the sonar officer reported.

“Very well.” Padorin turned to the communications officer. “Send this to Caribbean Squadron: 'Several crewmen suffering from food poisoning. Portion of food supply contaminated. Patrol being terminated and K-236 returning to base.' Add my name and get that off at once.”

“Immediately, Comrade Captain.” the communications man replied. In a few minutes, the message was coded and ready. “Comrade Captain?”

“Raise the antenna.” And the radio antenna shot up to poke just above the water. The communications officer sent the message. “Any reply?”

“No, Comrade Captain.” the man responded.

“Very well. Lower the mast, and up periscope.” Padorin ordered. The Starpom went and looked through the scope after it was raised. “No contacts, down scope.”

“Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters. New course: zero-nine-five, and make turns for fifteen knots.”

“Two hundred and fifty meters, course zero-nine-five, and make turns for fifteen knots, aye, Comrade Captain.” said the Starpom.

When K-236 was at her assigned depth, Padorin turned to the Starpom. “Maintain course and speed. Navigator: as soon as possible, plot a course for Cienfeugos, once we're clear of the channel.”

The navigator nodded. “Aye, Comrade Captain.”


1400 Hours Local Time: Camp 32, near Holguin, Cuba.


A tropical depression was going over the eastern third of Cuba, and for the American POWs held at camps in this part of Cuba, it meant no work details, either in camp or outside. And that meant that the prisoners had a rest day or two. At Camp 32, which had been built in 1986, the inmate population was a mixed bag: a number of U.S. Navy and Marine personnel from Guantanamo Bay, sailors from a submarine tender that had been at the base when it had been attacked, prisoners captured on the mainland in Texas or Louisiana, and shipped by freighter to the island, and aircrew members shot down in strikes flown against Cuban targets. And depending on where one was captured, and what one had been doing when captured, the regime could vary: those captured at Guantanamo, and also those captured and brought to Cuba, were often used as forced labor, but lived in bays similar to what POWs in Hanoi had called “Camp Unity” at the Hanoi Hilton: bays that held up to 50 prisoners. Downed aircrew, and both officers and enlisted who were considered “bad attitude” cases, were held in cells-the more troublesome were, of course, in solitary confinement, but most prisoners in that part of the camp were in cells that had two to four prisoners per cell. And the camp actually had two wings built with both sections: one area for men, the other for women.

In the women's section, specifically the cellblock areas, most, but not all, were aircrews. In one cell, Air Force 1st Lieutenant Kelly Ann Ray sat on her bunk, glad to be not outside in the rain. She shared the cell with Marine 1st Lieutenant Blanchard Ryan, who had been an A-6 Bombardier-Navigator, and two Navy officers from Guantanamo, Lieutenant (j.g.) Kellie Greer, who had been a deck officer on the submarine tender Prairie, and Ensign Stacy Davis, who also been on the Prairie. Lieutenant Ray had been shot down in an F-4D in May, 1986, while on a strike near Mariel, while Ryan had been shot down in August, 1987, in a strike on the port of Banes. All had suffered brutal interrogations, time in solitary confinement, and had been on their share of work details, and they all showed it. They were filthy, wearing dirty prison pajamas, and were either barefoot or wore thin sandals. None had been allowed to write home, or to receive mail-none of the POWs in Cuba had, and neither had there been visits from the Red Cross. And they had been subjected to lectures (harangues would have been a more apt description) from American leftists who made no secret of their sympathy to the Soviet and Cuban cause, and the penalty for dozing off, or showing any disinterest, could mean time in the hole, or a very nasty “quiz session” with the interrogators. Other than new prisoners, there was no reliable news of the war, and Cuban propaganda was still emphasizing that, despite setbacks, “Final Victory and a Socialist America,” were still within reach of “the Socialist Forces in America.”

Lieutenant Ryan was looking out the barred cell window as the rain continued to pour down. “Too bad this won't last long. The guards hate being out in the rain just as bad as we do.”

“Yeah,” Greer said. “There's one other good thing.”

“What's that?” asked Ray.

“Those cisterns they made us dig? At least they'll get some water.” Greer said. She and Davis had been there the longest, ever since the camp opened.

“To be hoped for,” Davis chimed in. “Too bad they won't let us outside for a few minutes.”

Her three cellmates looked at Davis as if she'd suddenly grown an extra head. “What?” Ryan asked.

“Showers: all we have to do is strip down and stand in the rain. We'd be decently clean for the first time in who knows how long?” Davis quipped, and after a minute, her cellmates broke out laughing. A natural shower beat what the guards allowed: only ten minutes, just enough time to get wet, lather up, then rinse, all under a tepid shower head in a bath stall that was filthy to say the least.

“Quiet! No unnecessary talking!” a voice came from the hallway. The guards were clearly upset about something, as even the few decent guards had suddenly developed a mean streak. And it had showed last night, when the occupants of the cell across from their own had laughed at something someone said, and the guards fell upon them with rubber hoses, beating all four prisoners, then putting them in rear handcuffs and leg irons overnight, and they were still in those today. Ray remembered all too well when they had angered the guards one time-what they'd done to piss them off, she still wasn't sure, but they, too, had been stripped, beaten, and then locked into cuffs and irons-for two weeks, not allowed to bathe, and only being released twice a day-morning and evening-to eat and use their waste bucket.

Outside, the camp PA System was going on as usual, with propaganda broadcasts from Radio Havana and Radio Moscow, intermixed in with anti-war appeals from prisoners who'd been tortured-the slurred speech, mispronounced words, halting phrases, all gave that away. No one blamed them for having to make the statements, for all of the officer prisoners-some more than once-had been forced to make such statements. Sometimes, there would be diatribes from those leftists who supported the Soviet and Cuban cause, or seemingly endless martial music as well. For the aircrews, it was just like SERE training, where POWs from Hanoi lectured about the North Vietnamese doing the same thing in their POW prisons.

Suddenly, things changed on the PA. Solemn music began to play. And all over the camp, prisoners were wondering what had happened. In Ray's cell, the four occupants were whispering to themselves.

“Maybe Fidel's dead?” Ryan asked.

“Maybe....” Ray said. “Or maybe that SOB Chebrikov kicked.”


Greer and Davis looked at each other. “Who knows?” Davis said, and Greer just nodded.

Then an announcer began to speak. “The Supreme Headquarters of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba announces: The battle for the Brownsville Pocket has ended. True to their oaths, the Soviet and Cuban forces in Brownsville, under the leadership of Marshal Alekseyev, have fought heroically and with determination, before being overwhelmed by superior numbers, and a general unfavorable situation confronting them. In no way does this setback weaken our cause, and in a joint statement, Comrade General Secretary Viktor Chebrikov and Comrade President Fidel Castro reemphasize their determination to fight on, and achieve final victory.

“President Fidel Castro, in the Palace of the Revolution, has issued a decree declaring five days' national mourning, with all public entertainment, such as movie theaters, restaurants, and amusement places, closed, in honor of the memory of the heroes, especially the brave soldiers of the Cuban Armed Forces, who have given their lives in the struggle. Long Live the Revolution! Long Live Cuba!” After the statement, the somber music began to play again.

In the cells and bays, prisoners smiled at each other, shook hands, and even embraced. No one, though went further-not wanting to anger the guards any more than they were already. And who knew how they'd react? In Ray's cell, the four occupants looked at each other and grinned. Maybe, just maybe, there was light at the end of the damned tunnel, and soon, they'd be going home. At the very least, treatment would improve, and there'd be an end to the work details. Maybe.


1500 Hours: Headquarters, Soviet Caribbean Squadron, Cienfeugos, Cuba.


Rear Admiral Valery Denisov looked at the message form, with K-236's message, and he shook his head. Food poisoning? That hadn't happened in a while, but anything was possible these days. He got up from his desk and went to his situation map. Apart from K-236, he had exactly two nuclear submarines at sea, and a third in port here in Cienfeugos, provisioning and taking on weapons, prior to another patrol. And he had exactly four diesel boats, but two of them were suspected of having run afoul of American ASW forces, and hadn't been heard from in several days. His surface ship strength was down to exactly three effective combatants, coastal forces excepted. And if the Mexicans came to a separate peace with the Americans, as rumors first spread, then his intelligence officer had informed him that those rumors were very likely to become fact, then Cuba-and his forces-would be next on the Americans' revenge list.

His Chief of Staff, Captain First Rank Oleg Savin, came in to give the Admiral his afternoon situation update, and he had a message from Moscow. “For you, Comrade Admiral.”

Denisov took the message form and scanned it. “That, I can do without. A promotion to Vice Admiral looks good in Red Star, but it doesn't give me much to stop the U.S. Navy when they come in to put Marines on the beaches.”

“Just like in Brownsville, they say. Some of those who've escaped say that there was a rash of promotions before the end.” Savin commented.

“Again, something I can do without, Oleg Petrovich. Now, what do you have for me this afternoon? I'm aware of K-236's situation, so what else is there?” Denisov asked.

Savin went to the map. “K-236 is roughly here, in the Yucatan Channel, and he should be here sometime tomorrow. In the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Haiti, is K-69, a 671 (Victor I) class boat, and south of Puerto Rico is K-60, a 627 (November) type boat. K-69 has had no contact so far, but K-60 has had repeated encounters with American ASW forces, and barely escaped when they found him and the K-131 (Echo II), and the latter was sunk.

“As for diesel boats,” Savin continued, “K-156 (Juliett) was last reported in the Old Bahama Channel, but one of our ELINT aircraft reports intense American and British ASW activity in -156's general location.”

“British?” Denisov asked. That was something new.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. A call sign was intercepted, and it matches one used by an RAF Nimrod squadron. The Bahamas are a member of the Commonwealth, and Nassau International Airport could easily house both British and American ASW aircraft.” Savin reported.

“And someone claimed a kill?”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Admiral.” the Chief of Staff said.

The Admiral grunted and motioned for Savin to continue.

“In the Mona Passage-between the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico, B-28 (Foxtrot) is on station, while B-319 (Tango) was last reported in the Florida Straits. However, he, too, apparently fell victim to American ASW forces out of Key West,” reported the Chief of Staff.

“And here in port?” Denisov asked.

“K-508 (Charlie II) is replenishing his food stores and reloading weapons, and should be ready to sail in two days, and B-397 (Foxtrot) has just arrived; he'll need to be refueled and replenish food stores before going back out.”

“Surface forces?” asked the Admiral.

“We've only one effective modern unit: the destroyer Stoyky (Sovermenny-class), along with the destroyer Dzerky (Kanin-class) and the frigate Gromky (Krivak-class). Several other ships, including the cruiser Vitse-Admiral Drozd (Kresta I) are tied up in various ports here in Cuba, with..”

“I know, unrepairable battle damage. And Moscow wanted us to send a final convoy to Texas, with only those three ships to escort the merchant vessels? Someone there is living in a dream world,” Denisov said. “All right: Naval Aviation?”

“We've two regiments, though both are down to roughly two squadron equivalents due to losses. The 37th Naval Strike Regiment with Su-24Ms, and the 697th Fighter Regiment with MiG-29s. We also have individually assigned Tu-95s, both missile carriers and RT reconnaissance aircraft, and a couple of Il-20s. A very depleted squadron of Mi-14s handles shore-based ASW, while several Ka-25s and -27s from sunken or damaged ships supplement them.”

“In short, Savin, when the Americans come, we'll be overwhelmed,” said Denisov. It was not a question.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.” replied Savin. “Both carrier-based aircraft, and aircraft flying from bases in Florida, would suffice. The Cuban air defenses will be completely overwhelmed, and as soon as possible, the Marines come ashore,”he said, seeing the Admrial nod.

“When?”

“If the Mexicans quit the war, as is very likely, in theory, it could be a couple of weeks. If I was CINCLANT, however, I'd wait until the end of Hurricane season: that's 30 November. Anytime after that, but the aerial preparations can start as soon as the assets have redeployed and are in place.” Savin reported.

“Thank you, Savin. Send this to Moscow: acknowledge my promotion, and request information on when the Americans can be expected to invade Cuba. Perhaps the Naval branch of the GRU has some idea....The generals at Group of Soviet Forces Cuba certainly don't.”

“Right away, Comrade Admiral.”

The finale of this particular story, but there are more to follow:

1600 Hours Eastern War Time: U.S. Military Academy Annex, Garrison Lake, New York.


Several buses and a staff car, under Military Police escort rolled up to the gate of the Annex, which had been acquired by the U.S. Army after the war began. Though originally intended to train officer candidates coming from universities and Colleges in New York and Connecticut, the Army had wound up putting the facility to use for a much different purpose, for despite its failure in Operation ADVENT CROWN, several Soviet Generals had been captured during that ill-fated offensive, and the Army needed a place to hold high-ranking Soviet, and later, Cuban, Nicaraguan, and East German officers, in a location that where they could be held with accommodations equal to their rank. And so the Army had built numerous cottages for the high-ranking prisoners, with barracks for enlisted prisoners to serve as orderlies, along with appropriate dining, recreation, and other facilities. The camp also housed high-value prisoners of company and field grade-those who had relatives in the Soviet system-including several sons of Central Committee members or sons of high-ranking officers still serving in the USSR. Despite the amenities, it was still a POW camp first and foremost, with fencing, watch towers, and armed guards.

The staff car pulled up to the camp headquarters. The driver of the car got out,opened the door for its two occupants, and saluted. Marshal Alekseyev and Colonel Sergetov returned the salute as they exited the car, and the camp commander came to meet them. Both noticed that the American officer, a brigadier general, walked with a serious limp, using a cane with his left hand, and had several scars on his face and neck from burns. Clearly, this was an officer whose injuries prevented a return to front-line service, just like a number of camp commanders on his side. The American officer saluted. “Marshal, I am Brigadier General Martin Fleming, the camp commander.”

“General,” Alsekseyev said, returning the salute.

“Marshal, this is a bit awkward, as we've never had so many senior officers fall into our hands at once, so please understand if the other generals had to ride in the buses. It's not exactly Geneva, but it's the best we could manage on short notice.”

“I understand, General,” replied the Marshal.

“Good, Marshal. Please follow me. Your baggage will be taken to your quarters. It's not exactly a resort, but we've had no complaints from the Red Cross-or from any of the others held here.” Fleming said.

Alekseyev nodded as he and Sergetov followed the commander into the headquarters, and to his first-floor office. The two Soviets noticed the usual activity one found in any military office, only this office had a number of people who were clearly too old for front-line duty. Sergetov whispered to Alekseyev, “Comrade Marshal, I'd swear that a couple of the NCOs at those desks could have fought in the Second World War.”

“I see you noticed, Colonel.” Alekseyev replied as Fleming's secretary opened the door for the trio.

General Fleming limped over to his desk. “Marshal, Colonel, please, have a seat,” he said, and the two Russians sat down in the chairs in front of the desk. “I trust the trip from Texas was satisfactory?”

“Apart from a noisy C-130 cargo plane and a box lunch, yes, it was,” Alekseyev said.

“Again, Marshal, we're not used to hauling high-ranking officers in such quantities,” Fleming said. “Now, this is still a POW camp, but things here are relaxed. Everyone's locked in their cottage or barracks at 2100, and let out again at 0700. The mess hall is open for meals at 0800, 1200, and 1800. Other than that, there's no set routine. No roll calls, nothing of that sort. Those held here are simply allowed to sit out the war as comfortably as possible, and whatever activities take place are often those begun by the prisoners themselves.”

“I see, General,” Alekseyev said. “Such as?”

“There is a library, gymnasium, recreation hall, all for your use. There's also a walking trail, and just as long as you don't cross the warning stakes, you're fine,” Fleming said, “For the younger officers, there's opportunities for sports, and some also take correspondence courses-which have been arranged with a couple of civilian colleges in this part of New York-courses such as English literature, law, history, and so forth. Anything to keep the mind busy, even if it's a gilded cage....”

Both Russians nodded.

“And Colonel Sergetov, you're probably wondering why you're here?” Fleming asked. Seeing him nod, Fleming went on. “You're not the first son of a high official-whether in the Party or the military-to fall into American hands. There's quite a few generals' or Admirals' sons here, along with sons of several Central Committee members, or regional Party officials as well.”

That many? Sergetov thought to himself. “I'm surprised.”

“Don't be, Colonel. Though most of those we have want to sit out the war here, some have not. They're in a place where conditions are more strict, but still in line with International Law. You'll share a bungalow with an officer of equal rank, and each general officer has one to himself, and also,” Fleming said, nodding to the Marshal, “is allowed an enlisted prisoner to serve as an orderly. Since you are clearly the senior ranking officer here, Marshal Alekseyev, you may have two, if that is your decision.”

“If the other generals are allowed one, then I shall have one as well. No exceptions for me, General. You do understand?”

“Completely, Marshal. If you have any complaints, speak to one of the officers, and I will be informed.” Fleming said, reaching for his speaker phone. “Major Lewis, please come in.”

The office door opened and a blond female Major came in. She saluted General Fleming, and the two Soviets. “This is Major Lewis. She'll escort you to your quarters. Her Russian is impeccable: she was a Professor of Russian Literature at Syracuse University, and as a young girl, was in Moscow with her father, who was a Foreign Service Officer at the Embassy, back in the early 1960s.”

Alekseyev and Sergetov nodded. “Thank you, General.”

“Any final questions?” Fleming asked.

“Yes, if you don't mind my asking,” Alekseyev said. “I take it you were wounded? Our side, sad to say, had a number of prison commanders who were wounded at the front and were no longer fit for front-line service-and sometimes, took that out on the prisoners in their charge.”

“Yes, I was, Marshal. I was Assistant Division Commander of the rebuilt 2nd Armored Division. Wichita: I was in an M-113, going from one unit to another, when an Mi-24 found us. A salvo of rockets, and the APC caught fire, then exploded. Two crewmen dragged me to safety, only they were wearing Nomex fire-retardant tankers' suits and gloves. I was merely in BDUs, and received burns over thirty percent of my body, and shrapnel in my left knee. Ever since, I can't get into or out of an armored vehicle quickly enough, and so the Army sent me here.”

“I see...well, as one combat soldier to another: you did your duty, just as we did ours,” Alekesyev said, putting out his hand.

Fleming shook hands with the Marshal, and said, “Again, Marshal, if you have any issues, please, don't hesitate to ask to see me. Though that's been few and far between in the past.”

“Of course, General,” Alekseyev said, saluting.


1540 Hours Central War Time: 324th Soviet Field Hospital, Brownsville, Texas.


Lieutenant Colonel Dherkov was amazed: despite the Americans being busy with their own casualties, not to mention tending to the needs of the civilian population, they had enough resources-and people-to tend to the Soviet wounded. That contrasted very much with his side since 1985, where Soviet and Soviet-allied wounded had been given priority, and the civilians-not to mention prisoners-got short shrift. Now, a company from the 101st Airborne Division guarded the hospital, and American medical personnel, and some from America's allies, were treating Soviet wounded.

Conditions had improved, but were still poor by American standards. The first American medical personnel-a battalion surgeon and his medics-to arrive had been genuinely appalled at the conditions-the filthy latrines, squalid wards, dirty linens, and the shortages of just about everything. It was so bad that the Americans had brought in one of their own field hospitals-what they called a MSH, or Mobile Surgical Hospital, and set up shop across the road from the Soviet facility. Those Soviet wounded who could be moved were transferred over to the MSH, and then evacuated when able, just as if they had been Americans. Those who couldn't be moved were taken in to some of the school buildings that either hadn't been used, or were still relatively clean, and given the best care that the Americans could provide. And it wasn't just Americans: some doctors from the Irish Brigade, which had not been in at the finish, but had been ready to go if needed, had come down to help, along with some South Korean and Taiwanese medical staff.

Then an American officer came over to Colonel Dherkov. “Colonel, would you please come with me?” the American said. Puzzled, Dherkov followed the American captain to a Humvee, where another American officer, this one a Brigadier General, was standing, “General? I have Colonel Dherkov.”

“Colonel, I'm Brigadier General Richard Collett, XVIII Airborne Corps' chief surgeon.” the general said, putting out his hand.

Dherkov nodded and shook hands with the general. “General, I must say, I am pleased at how your people are taking care of the wounded. A far cry from our own practice with enemy wounded, I greatly regret to say.”

Collett nodded. He knew that the Soviet practice with American wounded had been to leave them to their own devices. Few seriously wounded Americans had made it to POW camps, and fewer still survived captivity. “The difference between our two systems, Colonel,” said the General. “Now, this used to be an elementary school, right?”

“That is so, General,” Dherkov said. “I imagine the schools will want their property back as soon as possible.”

“Not this one: this place is such a hazard to local health. I doubt any school district is going to want to reopen a place like this,” Collett said, turning to his aide. “Tell the civil affairs people that this particular school is not a candidate to reopen. When they rebuild, use the property across the street; there's plenty of room for a new campus.”

“Yes, sir.” the aide replied.

“Colonel, there's how many unburied bodies here?” Collett asked.

“About two hundred. Plus those in the....terminal ward-another three hundred or so.” Dherkov replied.

“All right.” Collett said. He turned to another officer. “Get Colonel Tucker, the 101st's officer in charge of EPW handling. I need five hundred EPWs here, ASAP.”

“For what purpose, General?” the staffer replied.

“Grave digging. Tell the prisoners they'll get double-no, make that triple rations if they'll dig graves for their countrymen-full biohazard protection, the works.. And get the wounded out of here as soon as we can.”

“Yes, sir.” the major replied.

“Once we've cleared out the wounded, and taken care of the dead, Colonel, you'll probably go to an EPW camp to work in the camp infirmary, along with the other medical staff. But this place...” Collett said. “After it's cleared, burn it to the ground. Raze it completely.”

Dherkov nodded, while Collett's aide said, “Yes, Sir.”

Collett looked at Dherkov, “Colonel, there's one other thing: why did your people expend a lot of effort-and scarce supplies, on one officer? I've seen a chart your people had on a tank officer: burned over sixty percent of his body. The only way he'll live out the week is if he gets to a burn center-and the nearest one taking patients is in either Phoenix, Tuscon, or New Orleans.”

“I know the officer you're referring to, General.” Dherkov said. “We had no choice: he is the son of a Central Committee Member. The KGB told us to do whatever it took to get him in condition to fly out, but we never did have the chance to get him out of here.”

“Let me guess: they said 'if he dies, you die'?” Collett asked.

Dherkov shook his head. “Not quite that, but, General, shall we say.....serious consequences could result if he died in our care.”

Of all the.....Collett thought. Now I've heard everything. It's bad enough the KGB did that to civilian doctors, but their own people? He shook his head. “He's at the MSH, and he'll get what care they can give him. I'm afraid he likely won't make it to a burn center, but they'll try anyway.”

“Thank you, General.” said Dherkov. “May I ask about the female staff who were evacuated from here? I have no idea if they got to Mexico or fell into your hands.”

Collett nodded. “I personally don't know, Colonel. But I will find out. Rest assured, if they did get captured, they're safe, and on their way to a prison camp. They'll be treated well.”


1100 Hours Local Time, 8 October 1989, Soviet Naval Base, Cienfeugos, Cuba:


Admiral Denisov watched as K-236 sailed into the harbor. Though the arrival was subdued, he saw that the boat was flying four victory pennants, signaling ships sunk, from her radio mast. Since the boat had ill crewmen aboard, ambulances were waiting to whisk the sick men to the base hospital, while Denisov and his staff were waiting to talk to the Captain and his senior officers. Soon, the boat tied up at the pier, and the gangway was put up. And quickly, the forward hatch opened, and sailors began gingerly lifting stretchers up, as eight crewmen were sick enough to warrant hospitalization ashore. Also leaving the boat was a single Air Force officer, who Denisov assumed had been shot down near the boat's patrol area, and picked up. Lucky man, Denisov thought, because as far as he knew, that was the only known survivor picked up by a Soviet vessel.

After the ambulances had left, Denisov went up the gangway, saluted the colors, and asked, “Permission to come aboard?”

Captain Padorin returned the salute, “Permission granted, Comrade Admiral.”

Padorin received the Admiral, and took him and his operations officer below, into the wardroom. After he locked the door, only then did Padorin feel he could speak honestly. “Permission to speak freely, Comrade Admiral?”

“By all means, Padorin,” Denisov said. “It's your boat.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral. First of all, I'd like to know whose idea was it to have us that close to the coast?”

“I have no idea, Padorin,” Denisov said. He'd been just as exasperated about that as Padorin had been. “All I know is that the orders came from Moscow.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral. Despite the successes we had on the patrol, making that rendezvous
was highly unlikely, at best. The ASW activity we encountered was the worst I've ever seen.” Padorin said.

“So I gather. And you encountered the battleships. That's something you'll tell your grandchildren about.” Denisov said.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. There's one other thing.....”

Denisov noted the shift in Padorin's tone of voice, and the way he trailed off. “What is it, Captain?”

“Comrade Admiral,” Padorin said, coming to attention. “I have to report that Comrade Zampolit Zirinsky attempted to solicit a mutiny, after our encounter with the battleships.”

Denisov and his operations officer exchanged glances. A political officer attempting a mutiny? Nothing of the sort had happened since the mutiny on Storozhovoy in 1975....”You're sure, Comrade Captain?” the operations officer asked.

“Absolutely, Comrade Admiral. My Starpom, Security Officer, and all of my department heads are willing to so testify, if necessary.” Padorin said.

“And where is Comrade Zirinsky now?” Denisov asked.

“He was court-martialed at sea, convicted, and set out a torpedo tube, Comrade Admiral,” Padorin reported. “However, the log entry says that the Political Officer suffered a fatal accident while in the engineering spaces, and was buried at sea.”

The Admiral and the operations officer exchanged glances. “I see...” Denisov said. “Well, Captain, you did act correctly in this matter, though I would have preferred that Zirinsky answer the charges in a more formal setting. But, as I said, you did act correctly,” said the Admiral. He went on to add, “Unfortunately, we don't have any spare Zampolits available, so you'll be responsible for the political education and stability of your crew.”

“I understand, Comrade Admiral,” Padorin replied.

Denisov nodded. “Good. Now, your weapons stores will be replenished, though the Klub missiles are in short supply: we've only eight left. The torpedo supply is adequate, and I assume that's all you require?”

“That is so, Comrade Admiral. More missiles would be...good to have, while we're out of Type-65s,” Padorin said.

“You can have four missiles, and the Type-65s you need. To make up for the missiles, you'll get four TEST-96 torpedoes. That'll have to do, I'm afraid.” Denisov told the captain.

“Understood, Comrade Admiral. How long do I have to complete the turn-around?” Padorin asked.

“You can have four days. I'm sure your sick men will have recovered by then, and you can give your crew some time ashore,” Denisov said. “Be ready to sail anytime after the 12th.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral.”


After they left the boat, and began walking towards their staff car, Denisov turned to his operations officer. “Andrei, the boats still in port?”

“Yes,Comrade Admiral?”

“Hold them. No sailings until the 12th. I need to talk with General Morozov in Santa Clara. There's rumors of an armistice going around, and we need to determine contingencies in the event something happens.”

The operations officer was surprised. “Comrade Admiral?”

“What if there's an Armistice and Castro refuses to sign? He's been raging for days on Cuban State TV that no matter what, he won't agree to an Armistice under any circumstances. If that's the case, and the Americans do come, we're caught between the Cubans and the Americans,” Denisov said. “That's not a pleasant thought.”

“Understood, Comrade Admiral.”


0800 Hours Local Time, Headquarters, Group of Soviet Forces Cuba, Santa Clara, Cuba.


Colonel General Sergei Morozov was not a happy man, though he tried not to show it in the main conference room at his headquarters. He was the commanding general of the Group of Soviet Forces Cuba, and he knew full well that his situation had the potential to become another Brownsville. Morozov normally ran the Group as an oversized advisory and training command, assisting the Cubans with forming new units, and helping them to achieve the Soviet training norms the Cubans had adopted. Now, though, since 1987, he'd been devoting more and more attention to the possibility of an American invasion of Cuba, more so since the Americans' offensives in 1988 and 1989. Some on the General Staff had felt that the Americans would not finish off the Soviet forces in Texas without clearing their flank first, and that meant invasion of Cuba, even if it was a limited one, to ensure a secure Straits of Florida. Instead, the U.S. Navy had simply bullied its way through, and when the Soviet and Cuban navies and air forces had tried to stop them, the damage inflicted had been minimal, while the cost in lost ships, submarines, and aircraft to the Soviets and Cubans had been frightful. And now, with the fall of Brownsville, a U.S. invasion was now certainly within the realm of possibility, though it was expected that it would not occur until after the end of the hurricane season, which was 30 November.

It also struck Morozov as ironic that, with the cream of the Cuban Army either having been destroyed in America, or stuck in Mexico, unable to get home due to the Americans' control of the sea, he now possessed under his command the most effective heavy combat force on the island. Though there were some Cuban units that were well-trained and well-equipped, due to the fact that they had not deployed to America, such as the 101st Armored Division, they were deployed in the Havana area, as well as near key cities such as Mariel, Matanzas, Banes, and so forth. Most of the remaining Cuban regular forces were mainly training and support commands, while infantry were largely reservists and militia.

His own forces, though, were a mixed bag. Morozov looked at Lieutenant General Vladimir Khrenov, who commanded the Eleventh Guards Army. The Army Headquarters, as well as its army-level artillery, air defense, engineers, and other support units, had been intended for Texas, but due to the shipping shortage-and the depredations of the U.S. Navy-they had only gotten as far as Cuba. And he didn't envy Khrenov one bit. Two of his divisions had come with him from their home station in the Kallningrad region: the 1st Tank Division and the 1st Guards Motor-Rifle Division. Both were well equipped with T-72 tanks, BMP-2 infantry vehicles, and their men were well trained by Soviet standards. Another division, the 41st Guards Tank Division from Uman in the Ukraine, was also well equipped, with T-72s and BMP-2s, and Khrenov also had a well-equipped independent motor-rifle regiment, the 501st, with the only T-80s on the island, as well as his own air assault battalion, the 139th. Also available to him was the prewar Brigade Cuba, though it was currently engaged in its advisory and training role. However, three other divisions were not so well off as the rest of the Army.

One division, the 16th Guards Motor-Rifle Division, was from Vilnius, and was woefully underequipped, with only a single MR battalion with BMP-1s, while the rest were in BTR-60Ps with open tops, their tanks were T-55s, and all of the artillery was towed. Not to mention that most of the division's rank and file were Lithuanian. The 83rd Guards MRD from Rovno in the Ukraine was also in bad shape, with its tanks being forty-year old IS-3Ms, towed artillery, and old BTR-152 APCs. After he'd inspected the division, Khrenov had asked General Morozov why a division in this poor material condition had been chosen for this deployment, and Morozov had no answer. The last division, the 49th MRD from Saatl in Azerbaijan, was in the same shape material wise as the 83rd, but had a worse problem: most of the division's manpower was from Azerbaijan, and was considered to be potentially unreliable. If it came down to it, a serious fight might result in the division disintegrating. Once more, Morozov cursed whoever in the General Staff had sent this division over, not that it would do him that much good.

Now, Morozov was meeting with his senior commanders. General Khrenov was there, as commander of the 11th Guards Army, of course, while Admiral Denisov represented the Navy. The Air Force was represented by Major General Ilya Mikhailov, with Major General Boris Osipov from the Voyska PVO mission there as well. There were two other participants: Major General Grigor Goncharov, who was the Soviet Military Attache from the Soviet Embassy, and via conference call, there was Marshal Ahkormayev, the Defense Minister himself. Though Morozov initially resented the intrusion of the Marshal, the Defense Minister indicated to him that the fate of the Soviet forces in Cuba was of paramount importance to him, saying “We cannot afford a second Brownsville.” The Marshal had also indicated that he merely wished to listen in, but would, if asked, speak as well. Morozov felt that the Marshal had something in mind, but couldn't pin it down. But at least someone in Moscow would be paying attention-something he had heard had definitely not happened in Texas.

“Comrades, are we ready?” Morozov asked, “And Comrade Marshal, can you hear me?”

Heads nodded around the table, while Ahkromayev said, “Perfectly, General. You may begin.”

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said. “Comrades, our position here in Cuba is....tenuous at best. With the surrender of Alekseyev's forces in Texas, the Americans have options that they are now free to pursue. Option one: invasion of Cuba; Option two: invasion of Mexico, or Option three: a combination of naval blockade and an air campaign to force both to sign a separate peace-and on American terms. Now, Comrades, what can we do in the event of Option one?”

General Khrenov spoke first. “Given how much preinvasion air and naval bombardment is likely to be coming, there's not that much we can do. Though our forces are employing the usual maskrikova techniques, once we begin our movements to counter the invasion itself, we'll be exposed. Not to mention having two divisions whose manpower is....questionable, at best.”

Morozov nodded. “Thank you, General. Air Force?”

“Right now, both my aircraft and the Cubans are able to mount defensive combat air patrols, and scramble to defend Cuban airspace proper,” Mikhailov said. “When the Americans get serious about preinvasion preparations, we'll contest the sky as best we can, but the odds are not very good. We'll be out of aircraft by the third or fourth day. And what we have left for offensive operations? Not that much: a few Su-24s, some Su-25s, and MiG-27s. That's it. And they're needed to mount attacks on any invasion shipping-assuming they're not caught on the ground.”

“Ossipov? Air Defense, if you would,” Morozov asked.

“Both the Army-level air defense units and those missile batteries that my troops man are the best remaining on the island. We've had to move some of them about-to cover gaps in the existing Cuban network. A determined campaign to eliminate the air defenses, however......” The Voyska PVO man shook his head.

“I see...” Morovov noted. “And last, but not least, Admiral Denisov?”

“I have three nuclear boats and two diesel boats left. And exactly three surface ships: one modern missile destroyer, one old gun-armed destroyer, and a single modern frigate,” Denisov reported. “Not including coastal forces. And none of the surface ships would last very long-all we'd do is have a death-and-glory ride out of harbor to face the U.S. Navy, and good ships and men would be lost for no reason.”

“Comrade General, that's our forces,” Goncherov, the military attache, said. “The Cubans are a decidedly a mixed bag: several good divisions and brigades that didn't deploy to America, a few reserve divisions-largely equipped with 1960s leftovers-or worse: T-34s and IS-2 or IS-3 tanks, and the balance are militia.”

“How long, Morozov, could your forces-and the Cubans-hold out?” Ahkromayev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, do you want it good or bad?” Morozov replied.

“How long, General?”

“Best case would be about three weeks. A worst case scenario would be ten days for all organized resistance to end. Not just ours, but the Cubans, too.” Morozov answered, and heads around the table nodded in agreement.

“All right,” Ahkromayev said. “Now, there's some efforts underway to bring about an Armistice. Mainly through back-channel dialogue. If the Cubans agree, it's not a problem: we simply gather your men and their equipment, load them on the ships and aircraft, and return home,”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Goncharov said. “That would be the best case. If, however, Fidel keeps his word, and refuses to sign any armistice agreement unless the Americans agree to his demands?”

Morozov nodded. He'd been thinking about that himself. “That's going to be a problem, Comrades. I believe that in 1962, when Castro was refusing to initially go along with the agreement that withdrew the missiles, he was told that our forces in Cuba would stand aside.”

“Are you suggesting, General Morozov, that a similar note be sent to both Castro brothers?” Ahkromayev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, it may be necessary to do just that. Even if the Cuban generals want an end to the war, Fidel may not. He wants the Americans to come to Cuba, I think, and he gets what he's wanted all along: a final confrontation with the Americans.” said Morozov.

“I agree with General Morozov,” Goncharov said. “He's wanted that for a long time, and now....”

“Very well,” Ahkromayev said. “Morozov, make preparations for several contingencies: invasion, an air-naval campaign without invasion, an armistice agreed by all, and a Soviet-American-Allied one only. Make sure that any equipment you have to leave behind is not...sensitive or classified. One thing you'll probably have to do, if the Americans don't do it for you, is to ensure that the Lourdes intelligence facility is inoperative. I know the Americans have bombed it several times, but we've repaired it, and they come back again. Make sure the facilities are wrecked, and all secret equipment and documents are destroyed.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said. “I've already had some discrete preparations made in that regard.”

“Good. Now, Comrades,” Ahkromayev said. “If the Americans attack prior to an Armistice, you will give the best account of yourselves possible,” and Morozov noted the heads nodding in agreement. The Defense Minister went on, though. “If, however, there is an Armistice, it's highly likely there will be terms that are going to be very bitter for us. However, given the general situation, we are in no position to argue. If, however, there is a Soviet-American Armistice only, make sure the Cubans don't get their hands on the ships, the attack aircraft, and the more...sensitive Army equipment. Is that understood?”

“It is, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said.

“Good. I'll get out of your hair, and let you get on with your jobs. And rest assured, I am working to see to it that you and your men do return home to the Rodina. One way or another.” And with that, Ahkromayev signed off.

Morozov and his generals talked for most of the morning. Finally, several contingency plans were agreed to, and sealed orders prepared for them. One thing they did agree on also: whatever did happen, they would leave Cuba and return home with their heads held high. They had come to do their duty, and would continue to do it until ordered home, or other circumstances dictated.

In Ahkromayev's office, the Defense Minister was talking with General Grachev, the Chief of the General Staff, and General Brekenev, the GRU Director. “Comrades, that was...interesting. Now, Grachev, how long do you expect Cuba to hold out-with or without our forces?”

“With our forces? Two to three weeks, Comrade Marshal. Without? The size of the island does facilitate a guerrilla war, and it has in the past, as we do know. But given the shortages of equipment and trained troops? Two to four weeks to terminate organized resistance.”

Akhromayev nodded at that. The Cuban Military Attache had told him the same thing-with the required bombast cut out. “When, Berkenev?”

“The Americans can redeploy air and naval assets relatively quickly, and they do have the forces available to maintain the blockade of Mexico at the same time. Moving ground forces, and assembling the amphibious shipping will take longer, though,” Berkenev said. “However, they can begin the preparatory air campaign sooner rather than later.”

“How soon for the actual invasion?” Akhromayev asked.

“No sooner than 30 November. That's the end of Hurricane season.”

Akhromayev nodded, and settled back in his chair. “Comrades, this only reinforces my belief that this war must end as soon as possible. I have no desire to see any more good Russian boys die in far-off lands for no real purpose. We've lost: there's no way that can be hidden much longer.”

Both generals nodded. “And those in Mexico?” Grachev asked.

“Hopefully, when we do conclude an Armistice, arrangements can be made for them to return home. Though their equipment....the Mexicans are welcome to it to use in their civil war.” Ahkromayev decided. “Now, status of military preparations?”

“General Moisyev reports that the 1st Shock Army is ready to use its contingency plans to move into Moscow, should those be necessary. And the 16th Spetsnatz Brigade is ready as well...their targets have been identified, and preparations on that score are underway.” Grachev said.

“And the military prison on Gogol Boulevard is ready to handle those taken into custody,” Berkenev reported. “Though given the age of the targets, the cellars will likely remain unused.”

“Never assume anything, Comrades,” Ahkromayev reminded the two generals. “That's partially what got us into this mess in the first place. Though I do hope that things can be handled without resorting to those who work in the cellars.”

Both generals nodded.

“Very well, Comrades. Continue with your preparations, and a target date will be coming very soon.” Ahkromayev said.

Any comments, questions, etc. before I put the next one up?

There'll be some new work up in a day or two. Just letting folks know.

Guys, the thread's not dead...am almost finished with a story that will finish a particular arc in the story of the 335th TFS. Patience, please.

Before I post the next story, here's "My" F-4. My thanks to John "Maverick" Lacey, who used to post on the old what'-if modelers page, and now on Facebook, for the art:

Wow, just looking at that brings back a few Cold War memories. Hell, my first aircraft model kit was an F-4 Phantom.

And here's the next one: two days after the story Taking Command.....


Settling In


Sheppard AFB, TX: 0530 Hours Central War Time, 28 October, 1987:


Captain Matt Wiser, the CO of the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, came into his new office. He had been CO for barely a day, after the death of Lt. Col. Dean Rivers, the longtime CO of the 335th, and was still getting used to the job. One thing, though, that he didn't intend to change was the squadron's attitude to things getting in the way of results. If they had to fold, spindle, bend, mutilate, go over, around, on top, or underneath AF regulations in order to produce results? So be it. Colonel Rivers had felt that way, and that attitude had been confirmed by Maj. Gen Robert Tanner, the Commanding General of the Tenth Air Force, which ran the air war in the Southwest. “If it gets in the way of winning the war, winning the war comes first,” were his feelings on the matter. Though an overzealous officer, Major Frank Carson, had tried to blindly enforce every rule and reg in the book, much to the disgust of three previous CO s, and he loathed Captain Wiser for being promoted to Exec, then CO, over his head, despite what the previous CO, the late Lt. Col. Dean Rivers, had said, and General Tanner had confirmed the promotion to CO. Not to mention that Carson had a very negative attitude towards any officer who didn't have an Academy class ring, viewing all as brand-new Doolies, and treating enlisted airmen and NCOs as pieces of equipment. And Captain Wiser had a personal reason for his loathing of the Major, for Carson had tried to get him and his WSO, 1st. Lt. Lisa Eichhorn, written up on a fraternization violation for having an off-base relationship. Colonel Rivers had asked the pair if it was interfering with their jobs in the cockpit, and they had replied no, but if it started to, he would be the first to know. Then Colonel Rivers gave Carson a very loud tongue-lashing, reminding him that many peacetime regs didn't last when the shooting started, and not long after, a formal directive from Tenth Air Force followed, instructing base and unit commanders to ignore such incidents, as the country was fighting for its national survival, and that if such conduct was not interfering with one's duties, or was otherwise not impacting the unit (such as a senior officer using his rank to get subordinates into bed), it was to be ignored. Carson fumed, and persisted in trying to get things run as if it were still peacetime, and everyone despised him for it. So much that when the Executive Officer's slot opened up due to the death of the XO, Captain Wiser had been put into the slot instead of Carson, which meant that if anything happened to Colonel Rivers, he would get the squadron instead of the Major.

Now, Captain Wiser was starting his second full day in command of the 335th, after the death of Colonel Rivers. General Tanner had called him, and assured him that he had the General's full confidence, and that the General would be stopping by on a visit that day to see how things were going, not just in the 335th, but in Marine Air Group 11, which the 335th was attached to, but was under Tenth AF control. He looked around the desk, his desk now, he reminded himself, and saw that overnight paperwork was brief-another thing Colonel Rivers liked, and nothing yet that required his signature. Soon, the chow tent would be open, and then it would be time for their first sorties of the day. Then there was a knock on the door. “Come on in and show yourself.”

Capt. Mark Ellis came in, bearing a clipboard tucked under his arm, and two cups of coffee in his hands. “Guru, or do I call you Boss from here on out?” Guru was Capt. Wiser's call sign.

“Either one will do, Mark,” Guru replied. “What do you have for me?”

“Not much,” Ellis said. “Just the usual.” He handed the CO the clipboard. “And some coffee.”

Guru nodded, and took the cup. Then he reviewed the papers. “Aircraft status sheet, Morning Report for MAG-11,” he muttered, and signed where necessary. “Anything else?”

“Supply requisitions,” Ellis pointed out. “Still not getting the extra hydraulic fluid we need.”

“Tell Ross to have that put at the top of the scroungers' list. And find out what else we really need, and give them their hunting orders,” Guru said. “What else?”

“Two enlisted airmen asking for permission to get married.”

“Local girls?” The CO asked. The locals had been on the short end of things, especially food and medicine, during the occupation, and marrying a servicemember automatically entitled the spouse to the benefits entitled to service dependents.

“Nope,” Ellis said. “One's going back to Beaver, Pennsylvania, to marry his high school sweetheart. The other-he's off to Biloxi, Mississippi. Same thing. When the R&R rotation comes and they're on it.”

“Hope they know what they're marrying into,” Guru said. He was a bachelor, but knew one thing about the AF, it was tough on marriages, even in peacetime. With a war on, though...it was probably murder.
He signed the forms.

“I wouldn't know: I'm still a bachelor,” Ellis said. “One more thing: Airman Don Handley applied to Pararescue School at Hill. He wants an endorsement of his application.”

Guru looked at Ellis. “He knows what he's getting into? That's got a seventy percent attrition rate, I hear. If not worse. And it's a two-year course.”

“Eighteen months, now, with the war,” Ellis told his CO.

“If he washes out, he's back here?”

“They recycle those people, but chances are, yeah,” Ellis said.

“Okay, just so he knows,” Guru nodded as he signed the endorsement. “Where'd you get the coffee?”

“Overnight made a fresh pot. Theirs is a little stronger than usual.”

Guru shrugged. “Can you blame them?” He took a drink from the cup Ellis offered him. “Anything else?”

“No word on when General Tanner's due here. Sometime today is all we know.”

Guru nodded, then drained the cup. “As long as he shows. All he told me in that phone conversation was he'd be here, and 'with responsibility comes rank.'”

“He going to promote you?” Ellis asked. “That'd make Rivers smile. And give Frank a coronary.”

“To be wished for,” Guru said. “I think the General can issue field promotions, but that's something they never talked about in OTS.”

“Or ROTC,” Ellis nodded. 'Ohio State.”

“You're from there, right?”

“Yeah, Commercial Point, Ohio,” Ellis said. “Got a few classmates either KIA or MIA.”

“We all do, Mark,” Guru pointed out.

“One's in Cuba: Kelly Ray. You wouldn't know, being on the E&E, but she was one of the first female Phantom drivers. Shot down only a month after reporting to Homestead.”

“We've all lost someone,” Guru said. “Whether it's family or close friends.”

“Yeah...with her, if she's alive, and they did see her and her GIB on the ground alive, it's a Caribbean version of the Hanoi Hilton.”

“Not good..” Guru said. Then there was a knock on the door. “Show yourself and come on in.”

The office door opened, and 1st Lt. Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn came in. She was Captain Wiser's WSO. “Don't want my pilot and CO going to sleep on me in the cockpit.”

“Is everyone trying to bribe me with coffee this morning?” Guru asked deadpan.

“Just want you fully alert,” Goalie smiled. “Don't want to lose two squadron commanders back-to-back. And putting both of us behind barbed wire, eating Kasha and Borscht.”

“Or going with the Texas branch of the Resistance,” Guru finished. “The folks who go into combat shouting 'Remember the Alamo!'”

“Can't have that,” Ellis said.”Once was enough for you, I bet.”

“It was.” Guru said, referring to his five months with the Resistance in Colorado, a year and a half earlier. Eighteen months or eighteen lifetimes....He took the cup Goalie offered him, and nodded to Mark. “Ten minutes to the chow tent opening. Get another cup for yourself.”

Curious, Ellis left the office and came back with a refill. “Now what?”

Guru raised his cup, and the other two did so as well. “Colonel, if you're looking down on us, we're going to make you proud.”

“Hear, hear,” Goalie said.

They drained their cups, then Guru said, “Come on, let's get over to the chow tent. We got a busy day ahead. Four or five hops, at least.”

“This Dallas business ain't letting up,” Ellis observed.

“Yeah, and we may be at it the whole winter,” Guru said. “Come on. Time to eat, then the sky awaits.”

After breakfast, the CO's flight gathered in a briefing room. Before the war, Sheppard had been an Air Training Command base, and among those trained here were students from a number of NATO countries. After the base's recapture, MAG-11's squadrons had moved in from Amarillo International Airport, and they had taken over the facilities-after EOD Teams had checked them over for booby traps. One way to tell who had occupied a base prior to U.S. Forces returning was whether or not there were booby traps. The Soviets hardly planted any, while Cubans did so liberally. When Guru opened the door, with Goalie right behind him, the other members of his flight were waiting. “Good mornin' all.”

“Morning, Boss,” Capt. Kara “Starbuck” Thrace, replied. “How's it feel to be CO?”

“Ask me in a few days, when it all settles in,” Guru said. “Got a busy day ahead.” On his way in, he'd been handed a briefing packet by 1st Lt. Darren Licon, the squadron's Intelligence Officer, and the FRAGO from Capt. Don Van Loan, the Ops Officer. “Okay, here's the deal. I-30 is generally the battle line northeast of Dallas, though last night Rangers took the I-30 bridges over Lake Ray Hubbard.”

“CAS for them?” 1st Lt. Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard, his second element lead, asked.

“Nope,” Guru replied. “They got relieved, and our business is a little south of there.” He pointed to a TPC chart. “Right here, south of Forney, is an I-20 bypass that was under construction prewar. I have relatives there, and stopped there on the way to Seymour-Johnson from Fairchild....” Guru's voice trailed off at that, wondering if those relatives were still alive. “Anyway, Ivan used forced labor to build the bridges over the East Fork of the Trinity River, and they've been using the bypass along with the old I-20 as a supply route. The bridges got taken out, and they've been using pontoon bridges as replacements. We need to make those go away.”

1st Lt. Nathan “Hoser” West, Sweaty's wingman, nodded. “How?”

'Getting to that,” Guru replied. “First element, that's me and Starbuck,” and Guru saw that he had the close attention of not only Goalie, but Starbuck, and 1st Lt. Judd “Brainac” Brewster, Kara's WSO. “We get a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes. We make the bridges go boom.”

“And us?” Sweaty asked.

“You and Hoser get a dozen CBU-58/Bs. You know, the ones with the incendiary submunitions. Hit any vehicles along the east side of the river. Anything headed west is priority.”

“Got you.”

“Threats?” 1st Lt. Byran “Preacher” Simmonds, who was Sweaty's WSO, wanted to know.

“Right at the bridges, there's triple-A. Two batteries of 57-mm, one on each side of the river. Two more to the north on the existing I-20 bridge. That's a full regiment, mind you. And that ain't all: this is Army rear area, so watch for SA-4.”

“We getting Weasels?” Kara asked. “If not, this is a good way to get some of us killed.”

“Way ahead of you,” Guru said. “We're getting two Weasels. Coors One-five and One-six will join us at the tanker track northwest of Fort Worth. Two HARMs and two Standard-ARMs each airplane. I'll send them on ahead to do their stuff. We've also got our jammer pods: ALQ-119s for the element leads, ALQ-101s for the wingmen. Air-to-air is four AIM-9Ps and two AIM-7Es, plus full load of 20 mike-mike.”

“Good to hear,” Hoser replied.

“It is. Now, have a look,” Guru said as he showed the flight path on a TPC chart. “ We go in low, west of Fort Worth, no more than 450 feet AGL, but climb as necessary to avoid power lines or other obstacles. Hit the Brazos River, then turn east. Past I-35W, I-35E, I-45, then we turn northeast. Hit U.S. 175, then turn north and pop up. The highway is the IP. Get to 900 feet AGL for your bomb runs, hit the target, then get your asses back down low. We go due north, past I-20 and then over Lake Ray Hubbard. Watch for the Army, though.”

“Those guys are likely keyed up after yesterday,” 1st Lt. Kathy “KT” Thornton, Hoser's GIB, said.

“Yeah, so stay low,' Guru told his flight. Stay low over Lavon Lake, and once we're clear of the lake, do we pull up to altitude. Turn on your IFF then, and if you need fuel, tanker track SHELL is over Durant, Oklahoma, just north of the Red River. If not, we turn west and come on home.”

“And get ready to do it again,” Sweaty nodded.

“That we do. Now, the air threat is MiGs and Sukhois of various types: They're flying MiG-23s out of Terrell Municipal, and we may get a call to do something about that, and Seagoville-Crandall Municipal, which we hit the other day, may be active again. Other MiG fields are at Corsicana, Hillsboro, Athens, and as far east as Tyler, and as far south as Waco.”

“Divert fields?” Kara asked.

“Good question: if you have battle damage or run low on fuel, there's two options. First is Perrin AFB west of Sherman. It was closed in the early '70s and became a civilian field. Ivan moved in after the invasion and flew Su-24s there. Now we're back, and the Hogs and Jolly Greens are there. Your second option is D/FW International, but don't go there unless you absolutely have to: One part of the field is turned over to Army Aviation, and the other half is MAC's. Everything from C-7s on up to C-5s and 747s are going in and out. They'll take you if needed, though.” Guru said.

“Bailout areas?”

“No good bailout areas, but the more rural the area, the better. The best is anyplace north of I-30, as that's friendly territory.”

Heads nodded.

“Okay, anything else?” Guru asked.

“Yeah,” Sweaty asked. “When's General Tanner coming?”

“Don't know. All I know is sometime today,” Guru said.

Kara shook her head. “And why haven't you kicked that asshole Carson out? I thought you'd do that first thing.”

“Believe me, I was tempted,” Guru replied. “I didn't for two reasons: first, he's qualified, and we still need warm bodies in cockpits. Second, if I transferred him out first thing, he'd have a good reason to go to JAG and claim that me sending him packing was retaliation. And I sure don't want to do that.”

“Lovely, Boss,” Kara said. “So we're stuck with this asshole.”

“Not for long,” Guru nodded. “He's on the clock, whether or not he knows it. If he hasn't shaped up by New Year's? He's out. Now that I'm CO, I can see his OER.” That meant Officer Efficiency Report. “There's five or six good reasons in there to send him to Goose Bay, And if he hasn't shaped up by New Years?”

“Yeah?” Goalie asked. She and Guru both had good reason to want Carson out of the squadron.

“He packs his woolen underwear. But if he royally screws up before then?”

“Then he's gone?”

The CO smiled. “In a heartbeat.”

“But business before pleasure,” Sweaty said.

“That's it. Anything else?” Heads shook now. “All right: gear up and meet at 512.”

The crews then left the briefing room and went to gear up. They met at the revetment where F-4 number 512 was parked, and that was the CO's airplane. As they did, the first faint light of dawn was breaking. Staff Sergeant Mike Crowley, the crew chief, was waiting, “Captain,” he said, saluting. “Everything's all set. You can preflight when ready.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said as he gathered the crews around for his final instructions. “Okay: three things. First: unless we're talking to AWACS, Weasels, or anyone else? We go by call sign or mission code.” He saw his flight nod. “Second, watch for obstacles like power lines, radio or TV towers and the like. Third? No repeat passes in the target area. One pass and that's it. If you have hung ordnance, try and get rid of it in one of the lakes. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Hoser asked. “How many today?”

“The usual: four or five. Anything else?” Heads shook no. Guru nodded. “Okay, let's hit it.”

The crews nodded and headed to their aircraft. Guru and Goalie did their walk-arounds, and after Guru signed for the aircraft, the two mounted 512. After the cockpit checks, Sergeant Crowley gave the “start engines' sign, and first one, then both, J-79 engines were up and running. Then Guru called the tower. “Sheppard Tower, Firebird One-one with four, requesting permission to taxi and takeoff.”

“Firebird One-one, Tower. Clear to taxi to Runway three-three left. Hold prior to the runway.”

“Roger tower. Firebird One-one rolling.” Guru taxied out of the revetment, and as he turned to taxi to the runway, Sergeant Crowley snapped a salute and he returned it. The four F-4s taxied to the runway and held there so that the armorers could remove the weapon safety pins. Once they were clear, Firebird Flight was cleared to taxi onto the runway.

“All set back there?” Guru asked his GIB.

“Ready back here,” Goalie replied. “Let's go.”

“Let's,” Guru said. He called the tower. “Tower, Firebird Flight ready for takeoff.”

The tower didn't acknowledge over the radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff. Guru and Goalie closed and locked their canopies. Then he throttled up to full power, released the brakes, and 512 rolled down the runway and into the air, with the other three F-4s following.

And the mission:


Over North-Central Texas, 0720 Hours:


Firebird Flight was headed east, south of the D/FW Metroplex, They had met up with their two F-4G Weasels at the tanker track, and had penetrated enemy territory. Now, they were headed east, towards the IP. “I-35W?” Guru called as twin ribbons of interstate highway passed beneath his F-4.

“Copy,” Goalie called. “Two minutes to 35E.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. He called the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Firebird One-one. Say bogey dope?”

“Firebird, Crystal Palace. Negative bogeys,” the reply came.

“Copy,” replied Guru. The crews were flying with their visors down as they were heading into the rising sun. While the GIBs handled the navigation, the pilots were concentrating on flying the aircraft, as threats could come from anywhere, and their heads were constantly swiveling between the cockpit view and their controls. Which the RTU had drummed into their heads.

The time went by fast, and they were just south of Waxahachie when I-35E came into view. “Mark, 35E,” Goalie said.

“Copy,” Guru replied. “Next nav point?”

“I-45, north of Ennis. One minute forty-five seconds,” Goalie said.

Guru nodded, then checked his Three O'clock. Kara's F-4 was tucked in formation, as she should be. And the Weasels were just ahead and slightly above the strike birds. It didn't take long until I-45 appeared. “I-45 in sight.”

“Roger that,” Goalie said. Turn now, zero-four-five.”

“Copy, zero-,four-five,” Guru said, putting 512 into a left turn to head north towards U.S. 175 east of Seagoville.

“One minute thirty to IP,” Goalie said.

“Copy, set the ordnance up. Everything goes at once.”

“Roger that,” Goalie said. “Switches set.”

Then U.S. 175 appeared. That was the IP Time to go to work. “Firebirds, Lead. Switches on, music on, and pull.” That meant arm ordnance, turn on the ECM pods, and pull to attack altitude. “Weasels, go to work.”

“Copy, Firebird Lead,” Coors One-Five called. The two F-4Gs pulled up to 2000 feet AGL, daring the radars down below to come on. And they did. “SA-4 up. MAGNUM!” And a HARM missile left the rails. “Firecan up, MAGNUM!” That meant a 57-mm AAA radar. And this time, a Standard-ARM was shot off.

“Weasels going in,” Guru said as he pulled back on the stick. He leveled off at 900 feet AGL and saw the target just as one of the AAA radars ate a missile, and the site went off the air. Then the site on the west bank came up, and a HARM went after it. “Target in sight. Lead in hot.”

As Guru rolled in, the F-4Gs were doing thair job. Coors One-Five shot his two remaining missiles at the 57-mm batteries near the I-20 bridge, while One-Six killed a search radar. Then an SA-4 launched, and One-Six sent another HARM after that radar, killing it.

Down below, on the old Wiser farm, two of Guru's cousins, Ned and Linda, were outside. They had moved into the old family home after the matriarch of the family had passed on, and so far, they had been relatively untouched by the war. Ned' had been raising some livestock, such as pigs, chickens, and even a few cattle, and so far, he and his wife were able to eat relatively well, along with a number of other nearby families. Linda, though, had worked as a bank teller in Forney, and when the Russians came, they had interrogated everyone who worked at the bank. She had to convince the KGB and PSD that she was just a teller, who handled customers' deposits and withdrawals, cashed checks, and so on. They had let her and most of the other employees go, but as they left, they were made to watch as the bank manager, the assistant manager, and the head of the loan department were all taken out and shot. Linda had made a vow right then to never forget, and though there were those in the area who were involved in resistance activity, she was more a passive resister, putting up posters, that sort of thing. Now, they were out doing their morning chores as the attack came in. They watched as two fighters seemed to be circling, and occasionally fired a missile at some target. Both of them had seen the two antiaircraft batteries open up, and then stop shooting as they took missile hits. Then they saw the Russians pointing to the south. More planes coming in.

“Steady, steady,' Guru said as he lined up the westbound bridge in the pipper. He knew he was only a mile from the old farm, where his Grandfather's mother had lived. Try not to think about that now.....”and...HACK!” He pressed the pickle button, and a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes came off the racks. He pulled level, and headed north.

Guru's bombs smashed into the bridges, ripping apart both the eastbound and westbound pontoon bridges, and smashing up what was left of the structure the Soviets had built as well. Goalie managed to get a brief rear view as the bombs exploded. “SHACK!”

“Good hits?”

“Good hits,” she confirmed. “No secondaries, though.”

“Not every time,” he called as he put 512 back down low, and buzzed the I-20 bridge, forcing the KGB troops guarding the bridge to scatter for cover. “Lead off target.”

“Two's in!” Kara called. She put her bird in, and lined up on the smoke left when Guru's bombs had exploded. So what if her bombs did nothing but make the scrap metal fly farther? Good riddance. “And HACK!” Her bombs came off the racks, and a dozen more Mark-82s landed among what was left of the pontoon bridges, ripping apart what Guru hadn't been able to destroy. “Two's off.” Kara then followed Guru north.

“Three's in,” Sweaty called. She came in just east of the bridge, and found a truck convoy lined up along the I-20 right of way. Not your morning, Ivan. “HACK!” She called as a dozen CBU-58/Bs came off the airplane, and the CBUs tore into the convoy, ripping apart a number of trucks and a couple of BTR-60P APCs. As Sweaty pulled away, she didn't notice the tracer fire coming up from a couple of BTRs, nor did she (or Preacher for that matter) see an SA-7 come up after their aircraft. She took the big Phantom back down low, and called, “Three's off target.”

“Four in hot!” Hoser called. He had seen the fire coming up at his element leader, and mentally changed his mission from “strike” to “Poststrike flak suppression.” He lined up the APCs and several intact trucks in his pipper, then hit the pickle button. Again, a dozen CBUs came off the aircraft, and ripped into the convoy. These BTR-60s were open-topped, and unfortunately for their crews, completely vulnerable to the CBU bomblets, and were easily set on fire. Hoser's strike killed several APCs and trucks, and as he pulled away to the north, he called. “Four off target.”

“Copy that,” Guru called. “Form on me and let's egress.”

As Firebird flight headed north, the two Weasel Phantoms finished their work, killing another search radar and also a solitary ZSU-23-4 that had come up from somewhere. Both Coors One-Five and One-Six went back low, and followed the Firebirds north.

Back near the bridge, Ned and Linda picked themselves up. They heard shouting from the Russians on the road, and from the bridge area. They knew from past experience that the Russians sometimes made nearby locals clean up after an air raid, so they simply went about their chores. This time, though, the Russians didn't bother anyone living near the strike area.

In his F-4, Guru smiled as he flew over Lake Ray Hubbard. Kara had tucked into his Four O’clock, and Sweaty and Hoser were right behind them. They overflew the I-30 bridges, and thankfully, the Army pukes down below held their fire. They flew on, clearing Lake Ray Hubbard and then over Lavon Lake, and only when they had cleared that lake did Guru call for the flight to get back to altitude.

“Firebird Lead, Coors One-Five. We need to hit the tankers. Nice doing business with you, fella.” The Weasel element leader called.

“Likewise,” Guru replied “Maybe we can do this again sometime.”

The two F-4Gs peeled off and headed for the Red River and the tanker track, while the F-4Es headed west towards Sheppard. After contacting the tower, they got into the traffic pattern, and waited for several outbound flghts-AF, Marine, and Navy, to take off before they were able to come in to land. After landing and taxiing back to their revetments, the crew chiefs were waiting.

Guru shut down, and popped his canopy, and Goalie did the same. Sergeant Crowley came up with the crew ladder. “How'd it go, sir?”

“Made some bridges go away, Sergeant,” Guru said as he got down.

'Great, sir,” Crowley said. “We'll have her turned around in a half-hour.” He indicated the ordnance guys waiting with a mix of napalm tanks and Mark-82s.

“Shake'n Bake,” Goalie observed.

“That means CAS,” Guru said. He turned to Crowley. “Pull the strike camera film and send it off. 512's working like a champ, Sergeant. No issues, and no battle damage.”

“Thanks, sir,” Crowley beamed. “Oh, sir, do you want her painted up as the CO's bird?”

“No, Sergeant. Colonel Rivers didn't with his bird, and I'll do the same,” Guru said. “Don't want anyone to see who was flying the bird if she goes down.”

“Understood, sir,” Crowley said.

“All right, Sergeant, get her turned around,” Guru ordered. He turned to Goalie. “Let's get debriefed.”

Goalie nodded as they walked to the edge of the revetment, and found the rest of the flight coming over. “How'd it go for you guys?”

“Weasels did their job,” Kara said. “No flak or SAMs.”

“Same here,” Goalie said. “Made some trucks and APCs go away.”

“You sure about no flak?” Hoser asked. “Some came up after Sweaty, but she didn't see it.”

“Come on,” Guru said. “Save it for the debrief, because we're going back out in an hour or so.”

They nodded, and headed back to the squadron's offices. When they went into their building, which had belonged to a prewar training squadron, they found people acting nervous. Then Capt. Don Van Loan, the new Operations Officer, came over. “Don, what's up?” The CO asked.

“Some lieutenant came in after you left, been around asking a bunch of questions, not just about us, but the rest of the units on this base,” Van Loan replied. “He's not from JAG or OSI, though.”

“Let me guess,” Goalie said. “Inspector General's Office.”

“That's a fair bet,” Guru said. “Okay, if he comes back before we go back out, have him see me. If he's got anything specific, I'll listen to him. Before I tell him to take his complaints to General Tanner. Who will tear him a new asshole.”

Van Loan nodded. “Speaking of which, Base Ops called. His C-130's inbound. ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, we need to debrief,” Guru said. “If he comes here before we have to brief and launch, let me know when he arrives.”

“Will do. Mark's due back shortly, by the way.”

“Okay,” Guru said. He turned to his flight. “Let's debrief. Won't be long until we go back out.” He led them to the old classroom that his flight used, and found 1st Lt. Darren Licon, the Intelligence Officer for the 335th, waiting. “Darren.”

He stood up. “Boss, how'd it go?”

“Made those pontoon bridges go away,” Guru said.

Licon pulled out a TPC map, and asked them to indicate their flight paths. “Okay, what'd you get?”

“Put my bombs onto the westbound bridges,” Guru replied.

“Hits?”

“Got a few,” Goalie said. “Couldn't see much, though. He was getting us north as fast as he could.”

“Captain Thrace? You were right behind him. How'd he do?”

Kara smiled. “Bombs on target,” she said. “I put mine where the eastbound bridge would've been, but there was so much smoke I couldn't really see. No secondaries, though.”

“I'll go along with that,” Brainac said. “No secondaries means no traffic on the bridges.”

“Okay, Sweaty?” Licon asked.

“Hit a truck convoy east of the local road,” Sweaty said. “APCs and trucks.”

“Any resistance?”

“The flak guns were firing,” she replied. “But not radar-guided.”

“Weasels shut down those guys,” Kara added. “They had antiradar missiles in the air first thing.”

“Sweaty had some tracers come up after her,” Hoser said. “From the rest of the convoy.”

“What kind?” Licon wanted to know.

“Either machine-gun or 23-mm,” Hoser said. “Even an SA-7, but it didn't guide. I put my CBUs on those guys.”

“Get any secondaries?”

“Sweaty's bombs got some, And we did, too,” KT said.

“Any MiGs?”

Heads shook no. “Not a one,” Guru said.

“Okay,” Licon said to sum up. “I'll check the strike camera footage, and pass that up to Tenth Air Force Nice job, and from your description, that crossing's out of business for a few days. Thanks, guys.”

As Licon got up to leave, Guru nodded. “Darren, how are you holding up?”

“When I go to the CO's office? Half the time I think I'll see Colonel Rivers. Instead, it's you.”

“Well, when I open that door, I think I'll see him, and it's empty. Then I remember that's mine now. Takes some getting used to.”

“I guess so,” Licon said. He'd joined the 335th after Rivers took over the squadron, and hadn't been around when two previous squadron CO s had been KIA.

“Oh, Darren?” Guru asked the Intel as he got ready to leave. “You have a right to know. Rivers recommended you for Captain. He forwarded the paperwork..”

“Captain?” Licon asked, and his voice showed the surprise. “You're serious?”

“Yep,” Guru said. “Don't know when it'll go through, but you're not the only one.” He turned to Goalie. “Goalie, Sweaty, and a few others.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Licon said, while Goalie and Sweaty were beaming.

“Don't thank me, thank Colonel Rivers. And Darren?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“If you want to talk, in fact, spread the word. That includes all of you,” Guru told his flight. “If anyone needs to talk, get things off their chest? If I'm not flying, my office door is open. Colonel Rivers did the same, and I'm following his example.”

“Will do, and thanks,” Licon replied.

“Anytime.”

After Licon left, Sweaty asked, “So what's next?”

“You saw the ordnance,” Kara replied. “Shake'n Bake. That means CAS for somebody.”

“Yeah,” Guru said. Then there was a knock on the door. “Come on in and show yourself.”

It was Capt. Don Van Loan, the Ops Officer. “Boss, we got a problem. Not just this squadron, but this entire base.”

“What do you mean?” Guru asked. “You can talk.”

“Somebody from the Inspector General's Office. Poking around, asking a bunch of questions. Wondering why not just the 335th, but MAG-11 and everyone else on this base is pretty loose militarily.”

Guru shook his head. “Where is this guy?”

“In your office.”

Guru scowled. “Okay, let me know when General Tanner arrives.” He went to his office and opened the door. He found a First Lieutenant in dress uniform sitting in a chair. The man came to attention. “Lieutenant, and you are?”

“Richard Ellison, sir,” the man replied. “I'm from the Inspector General's office. I was sent here to check out a complaint from an officer on this base. Not just the 335th, sir. But how every unit on this base is run.”

“Let me guess,” Guru said as he came in and leaned against the desk. “You're responding to a complaint from Major Frank Carson.”

“Sir, I....”

“Lieutenant, I've got two bars. You've got one. Tell me,” Guru said. “Now.”

“Yes, sir. From his standpoint, things are pretty loose around here from a military standpoint,” Lieutenant Ellison said. “I've seen officers calling each other by first name or call sign, for starters.”

Guru rolled his eyes. Clearly, this guy didn't get out much. “Did it ever occur to you that every unit in MAG-11 is a combat squadron, whether it's AF, Marines, or Navy? We're flying four, five, six times a day, if you haven't noticed. Fly, land, refuel and rearm, take care of whatever squadron business you have, then go back out. We don't have time for snappy salutes and other protocol. In case you haven't noticed, there's a war on.”

“Sir, I realize that. Another thing is how poorly dressed ground personnel are. Instead of undress whites, everyone's in BDUs and is packing weapons. And the mechanics are in the dirtiest uniforms I've ever seen.”

Guru got into the man's face. “Okay, you ever hear of Spetznatz?” He pointed at the AKMS rifle on his wall. “See that rifle? I carried it out with me after five months with the Resistance. It's loaded, always. If I hear the call “Sappers in the Wire,” that means Spetsnatz is here. And I'd rather face them with a weapon than without.” He glared at the junior officer. “As for the mechanics? It never occurred to you that they work with hydraulic fluid, oil, grease, and a lot of other crud? You should've been at Williams or Cannon back in Summer, or Amarillo. Hot and sometimes humid on the flight line. If they got things done wearing only gym shorts, or shorts and sports bras for the women? I wouldn't mind at all. If it keeps them comfortable while they're doing their jobs, I could care less how they're dressed.”

“Sir, there's such a thing as Air Force standards,” Ellison pointed out. “They're there for a reason.”

“And a lot of that goes out the window when the shooting starts,” Guru said. “Did that ever occur to you? It happens in every unit. What else?”

Ellison nodded. “Three more things, sir. First, there's a lot of scrounging. Some would call it rampant-”

Guru got into his face. “When supply's flat on its ass, and won't give us the things we need to keep these birds flying, I could care less how my supply people acquire those items. As long as there's no felony arrests, no one gets hurt or caught, it makes no difference to me.”

The lieutenant looked at the CO. Clearly, the respect for proper procedures and the necessary protocols had gone away. And this wasn't the first unit he'd seen where this was happening. “Then you have a tech sergeant in the CSPs using an unauthorized weapon.”

Guru rolled his eyes again. “I guess you don't get out much. Did it ever occur to you that a CSP would want a sniper's rifle with a little more range than a standard 7.62 NATO round? Tech Sergeant Danielle Tucker's dad didn't want his little girl to have to worry about Spetsnatz snipers. He sent her one of his own rifles, a Winchester 700 in .300 Winchester Magnum. I never argue with results: she's got twelve confirmed kills and seven unconfirmed with that weapon. If we have to go through other channels that the Air Force has set up-or did you even bother looking-to get the ammo she needs? So be it. What's the last thing?”

“Sir, there is an officer ranked above you, and yet you are in command of this squadron. Why is that?” Ellison asked.

“Because my predecessor made a judgment that the officer you're referring to wasn't fit to command anything higher than an element. We award positions in this unit based on experience, not rank. And I might as well tell you right now: I'm not as rank as he is.” Then there was a knock on the door. “What?”

Don Van Loan opened the door. “Guru, General Tanner's here.”

“He just landed?”

“No, he's here. Right outside.” Van Loan said. Then a voice shouted “Ten-shun!”

“As you were, people,” another voice said. “We're on a base at war, and we can do without the jumping up and down nonsense.”

“Hear that?” Guru said to the Lieutenant. “That should tell you a lot.”

Then Major General Robert Tanner came into the offices. Not in dress uniform, but in BDUs. To Captain Wiser, he looked like an older version of Harrison Ford, the actor. He shook hands with several of the officers and NCOs, then came to Guru's office. “Captain,”

“General,” Guru said, saluting. “Welcome to the 335th.”

“Glad to be here,” Tanner said, shaking Guru's hand. “I only wish the circumstances were less,well, unpleasant.”

Guru nodded. He knew that Colonel Rivers had been an aide to Tanner when the latter was a one-star. “Yes, sir. The memorial service for Colonel Rivers is tomorrow morning at 1000. Sir, there's no time for dress uniform as we'll be flying all day.”

Tanner nodded as well. “No sense getting dressed up for that when you'll have to get back into flying gear.” He looked at Guru. “I made plans to be here all day, and if necessary, tomorrow, in case there was a service.”

“Sir, I know he'd appreciate that,” Guru said. “He told us that he was your aide some time back.”

“He was,” Tanner said. “And he wasn't just an aide, he got to be a good friend. And who's this?” He regarded Lieutenant Ellison.

“Sir, this fellow's from the IG's office. Seems a certain Major that we've all gotten to know, loath, and despise made a complaint to the IG, and he got sent to check into those.”

“Is that true, Lieutenant?” Tanner asked. And by the tone of his voice, he wasn't too thrilled with what Guru had said.

“Yes, sir!” Ellison replied. “And I have found quite a bit to verify those complaints. If the General would like to hear what I have to say-”

Exasperated already, Tanner turned back to Guru. “Captain, have you explained how we do things in Tenth Air Force?”

“I started to, sir, but wasn't able to finish before your arrival,” Guru said.

Tanner nodded, then shot a withering glance at the Lieutenant, then turned back to Guru.. “I'll take care of that, Captain. And I'll make sure you won't have to worry about frivolous complaints to the Inspector General. All you need to worry about is getting on with the war. Is there someplace private I can discuss this?”

Guru smiled. “My office is available, sir,”

“Good. Close the door on your way out. After I'm finished with this chap, I'd like to talk to you and your squadron leadership team. I've got some good news.”

“Yes, sir,” Guru replied.

“And Captain? Do you have a mission coming up?”

“Yes, sir. Mission brief in thirty minutes,” Guru said.

“I'd like to sit in, if you don't mind,” Tanner said.

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good. I'll see you in a few.” Tanner said.

“Yes, sir.” As Guru turned to leave, he whispered in Ellison's ear. “Your ass is grass, and he's going to mow it.” Then he left the office, closing the door behind him. After he did, Guru and those outside could hear shouting from inside.

“Well?” Kara asked.

“If Frank or anyone else thinks they're getting the squadron today, they're sadly mistaken,” Guru said.

Mark Ellis snapped his fingers. “Oh, well. Back to the old advancement-by-assassination plan, then.”

“Guess so,” Kara grinned. “Now what's up?”

“Tanner's going to want to talk to us shortly, then sit in on the mission brief. He'll be here all day. Not just with us, mind, but the whole base. And he'll RON. He wants to be here for Rivers' memorial service.”

“That's at when? 1000 tomorrow?” Goalie asked.

“Yep,” Guru said. “You did arrange things, Don?” He asked his Ops Officer.

“I did,” Van Loan nodded. “Everyone should be back by 1000, and we've got an hour before the next set of sorties launches just after 1100.”

“Good,” Guru said. “Come as you are, and chances are, we'll have people fresh out of the cockpit showing up.”

Sweaty nodded. “That we will.”

“Come on, let's get something out of the break room, the General will see us in a few, and we've got a mission brief,” Guru told his flight. They went to the break room, and found Master Sergeant Michael Ross, the 335th's senior NCO, coming out. “Sergeant. What do the Jarheads have to offer us?”

'Sir, the usual: Chicken, Ham, Turkey, Roast Beef, Tuna, and something brown that just sits there,” Ross said. “And one of the brown sandwiches just moved.”

“Well, at least it's not a BLT where the tomato looks back at you,” Kara quipped.

“It is that, Ma'am,” Ross said.

“Okay, thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said. “Oh, and Sergeant?”

“Sir?”

“Please let us know when the General wants to see us, if you would.”

“Yes, sir.”

The next set:


335th TFS Operations Building, Sheppard AFB, TX: 1045 Hours:

Captain Matt Wiser and the rest of his flight were in a former classroom, which their flight had taken over for a briefing room, and they were waiting until General Tanner was ready for them. And conversation was going to what the General might have in mind. “He said he had good news for everybody,” Guru said. “A stand-down and sending people off on the R&R rotation would be just fine.”

“And where would you and Goalie go,” Kara asked. “Las Vegas, where you can lose some money and your inhibitions?”

Guru looked at his WSO, 1st. Lt. Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn, and saw her expression go coy. “Maybe. Or San Diego. Get some sun and surf.”

“Fine with me,” Goalie said. “Or Yosemite in winter? Wouldn't mind a nice Winter Wonderland.”

“Not enough in the Valley,” Guru said. “Plenty of snow in the high country, but not much down in the Valley.” A early-season storm had gone through California and the West a week earlier, and had kept their squadron grounded when it came through Texas.

“How about you, Kara?” Goalie asked “Vegas and hit the blackjack tables?”

“And take on some guys from Nellis,” Sweaty asked. “And I'm not talking at the casinos.”

Hearing that, Kara poked Sweaty in the arm. Everyone in the squadron knew that if there was such a thing, Kara would be a board-certified nymphomaniac. “Maybe.”

“And given how good you are at cards, they might ban you from the casinos,” Hoser West said.

“Can't have that,” KT Thornton, Hoser's GIB, quipped.

Then there was a knock on the door. “Yeah?” Guru asked.

It was Master Sergeant Ross. “Sir, the General's finished tearing up that puppy from the IG.'

Guru and the others got up. “Thanks, Sergeant,” the CO said. He led them back into the office, and saw his office door open.

“If I were you,” they heard the General's voice say. “I'd pack my bag and get on the next space-available C-130 out of here.”

Then the officer from the IG's office came out. “Yes, sir,” and he left the building, and General Tanner came out of the office.

“Good riddance,” Kara muttered.

“General,” Guru nodded politely. “Colonel Rivers told us once that you weren't comfortable with some of your powers.”

“You're right about that, Captain, but by God, there are times when it's mighty useful. And this was one of them,” Tanner said. “And don't worry about the IG's office. I'll call General Butler personally, and nip this in the bud. “ General Conrad Butler was the Inspector General of the whole Air Force.

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said.

“Okay, got a couple of other things to take care of. First, the 335th is up for a Navy award, since you're under MAG-11. They're getting the Navy Unit Commendation, and since you're attached to them, you are all eligible to wear the ribbon when the commendation is awarded.”

“Well, sir, that's unusual,” Guru commented, and heads were nodding.

“It is, but then again, so is this whole damn war,” Tanner replied. He turned to his ADC. “Major, you have that other material?”

Major Scott Reynolds smiled. “Yes, sir,” He took out a Manila folder and a small case from his bag.

“All right: Captain, if you'll come to attention?” Tanner said.

Guru gulped, but came to attention. The last time he'd been this tight? His OTS graduation.

“Read it, Major,” Tanner said.

Major Reynolds read a paper from the folder. “Attention to orders. The Secretary of the Air Force takes pleasure in the promotion of Captain Matt Wiser, United States Air Force Reserve, to the rank of Major, United States Air Force Reserve, with all the privileges and responsibilities of that rank. Said promotion to take effect as of 27 October, 1987. By direction of the Secretary of the Air Force.”

Guru's jaw dropped. Major?

Tanner smiled “Congratulations, Major,” he said. “Lieutenant Eichhorn?”

Goalie's jaw dropped herself. “Sir?”

“You're his GIB, I understand. Will you assist me with the honors?”

“Yes, sir.” She went over to Major Reynolds and took a small case from him. She handed it to the General. Inside was a pair of gold oak leaves. The General took one, and she took the other. After removing the captain's insignia, they pinned on the oak leaves.

“Congratulations, Major,” Tanner said.

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said, saluting.

Tanner smiled and returned the salute. “You deserve it.” Then he stood aside as Goalie came to face her pilot and CO. She came to attention and saluted Guru.

“Congratulations, Guru,” she said.

“Thanks,” Guru replied. Then he saluted his GIB.

Goalie smiled, then went back to the rest of the flight.

Then Master Sergeant Ross's voice rang out. “Room, Ten-shun!” And everyone stood to attention. “Salute!” And everyone in the room, officer and enlisted, saluted their CO.

Guru returned it, then nodded. “Carry on, people. Still got this war on, so get back into game mode. But thanks, guys. I know Colonel Rivers is looking down on us and smiling. Let's make him proud while we kick those Commie bastards back across the Rio Grande and back to Mexico City.”

“Hear, hear,” Mark Ellis said.

“Couple of other things: First, the promotion party'll have to wait until we get a stand-down, and chances are, there's going to be multiple promotions celebrated at the same time.”

There were smiles in the office as word had gone around that Colonel Rivers had recommended quite a few people for promotion before his death.

“Second? I'll buy a round at the club tonight to celebrate.”

There was quite a bit of applause when people heard that.

“Major? If you don't mind, I'll buy the first round,” General Tanner said. “Not just to celebrate the promotion, but to drink a toast in honor of Colonel Rivers. Who will be greatly missed.”

Guru shrugged “Well, sir, that is the General's prerogative.”

“Thank you, Major. You heard your CO. Let's get back in the game.” Tanner said, and people got on with their duties.

Guru went back to his flight, and there were handshakes and hugs. And quite a few other pilots and WSOs came to offer their own congratulations. Then the General came over. “Major, I see the 'Wild Thing' is in your flight?”

Hearing that, Kara came to attention. “Sir!”

“So this is the wild and crazy Captain Thrace.” Tanner turned to Guru. “Don't worry, Major. Word about her antics in the 335th has traveled. Along with some crazy things at Kadena or in Hawaii while she was on the TransPac ferry run.”

“Sir?” Guru asked.

“Something about a rented bungalow on the North Shore of Oahu, a dozen other officers of both genders, and a beach party gone wild is the story I heard.”

“Oh, boy,” Guru muttered. Did he want to know the details? Part of him was silently shouting “Hell, no!” But another part of him wanted to know.

“General, I can explain-” Kara said.

“Captain, as long as there were no felony arrests, and the place was returned to its owners somewhat intact? Who am I to criticize?”

“Sir,” Kara nodded.

“General, as far as her antics in the 335th are concerned,” Guru said. “Some of those, I can assure the General, are wildly exaggerated.”

“Not by much,” Goalie muttered to Sweaty, who nodded.

“And some, Major, have a good deal of truth?” The General wanted to know.

“Some, sir,” Guru replied.

“And some have a considerable deal of truth attached,” Tanner said. It wasn't a question.

Guru sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Again, who am I to criticize? Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may not be separated from the rest of the aircraft, is something that's gone pretty far in the Air Force these days.”

Heads nodded, while Guru said, “Yes, sir.” He knew it himself, and so did Goalie. Intimately.

“Good. Now, I believe you have a mission brief in a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir,” Guru said. “Would you like to sit in?” He already knew, but the rest of the flight didn't.

“Thank you, Major. I'll try and stay in the background,” Tanner said.

“Yes,sir. If you'll excuse me, I need to get the FRAGO and the intel briefing sheet.”

The General nodded. “Do whatever you need to do, Major. I'll stay out of your way.”

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said. He saw Preacher talking with the other GIBs in the flight. “Preacher?”

Sweaty's GIB came over. “Major?”

“He's Lieutenant Blanchard's GIB, sir,” Guru explained. “Would you escort the General and his aide to the briefing room? I'll be there in a few.”

“Yes, sir,” Preacher said.

Tanner regarded him. “How'd you get that call sign, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, I was studying for the priesthood when the war began. I left the Seminary and went to the nearest Air Force recruiting office and joined up. I qualified for OTS, then Nav school, and they sent me to the F-4 RTU.”

“And when your classmates found out your background, they gave you the call sign,” Tanner finished.

“Yes, sir,” Preacher said. “If you and your aide will follow me?”

While Preacher escorted the General and his aide to the briefing room, Guru nodded to Kara. “Get everyone else there. I'll be there in a minute.”

She nodded back. “Gotcha.”

Guru then went to the Ops desk, and Don Van Loan was there. He was getting ready to go out himself.
“Don,”

“Boss,” Van Loan replied. “Congratulations, man.”

“Thanks. Going to take some getting used to, though,” Guru said. “What have you got for me?”

“On call CAS. Northeast sector, along I-30. And that's all there is,” Van Loan replied. He handed Guru the FRAGO.

“Lovely,” the CO replied. “Intel sheet?”

“Licon had this to give to the CAS packages,” Van Loan said. He gave the CO the sheet. “Basically, everything from regimental level on up.”

“Darren's full of good news this time,” Guru said. “And a secondary in case we don't get any CAS calls?”

“Not in the FRAGO, but I can give you one. Here, at the intersection of Route 276 and F.M. 548, east of Rockwall. Southeast corner has a truck park.”

Guru nodded. It would have to do. “Thanks, Don. Good luck, and be careful out there.”

“You too, Boss.” Van Loan said.

Guru nodded, then he headed to the briefing room. He took a deep breath, then opened the door. He found everyone milling around, then Kara said, “CO on the deck!”

“As you were,” Guru said. “Like the General said, we can do without the jumping up and down business.” He nodded at the General as everyone else gathered around.

“What have we got?” Sweaty asked.

“On-call CAS,” Guru said. “Northeast sector, along I-30 from Rockwall to Royce City,”

“That's it?” Kara wanted to know.

The CO nodded. “You guys know as much as I do, and no, I don't like it. But that's how it is with CAS.”

“Threat level?” Goalie asked.

Guru scowled as he read it “Expect air-defense assets to be from regimental level on up,” he said. “That means SA-9 or -13 and Shilkas all the way up to SA-6 or -8. No SA-11s or -15s reported, but just because they're not in the threat board doesn't mean they're not there.”

“Typical intel,” Preacher said. “We're betting your life.”

“Two years into this war, we should know by now,” quipped Kara.”Weasels on this one?”

“Not available,” Guru said. He looked at the General, who was nodding. “And no, I don't like that either. Now, divert fields are the same as this morning: either Perrin AFB or D/FW International. The tanker track is the same: Track SHELL is over Durant, Oklahoma, north of the Red River”

“Bailout areas?” Goalie asked.

“North of I-30 is your best bet, because that's friendly territory. South of I-30? The more rural, the better. And anyplace away from the roads.”

“Ordnance loads?” Hoser asked.

“Shake'n Bake,” Guru replied. “Six Mark-82 Snakeyes on the centerline, and four BLU-27 Napalm bombs on the wings. Four AIM-9Ps and two AIM-7Es, full load 20-mm, two wing tanks and the usual ECM pods.”

“Good to hear,” Kara said. “And if we don't get a CAS call?”

“Good question,” Guru said. “Van Loan ID'd a secondary target for us. There's a truck park at the intersection of Route 276 and F.M. 548, east of Rockwall. There's a truck park in the southeast corner. With the load we'll have, we can barbeque some trucks. And there's no change to the weather.”

Heads nodded. “How about MiGs?” Sweaty asked. “Same as this morning?”

“You got it. Terrell Municipal, or as far away as Athens, Tyler, or Waco. Maybe we'll do something about Terrell Muni or Seagoville-Crandall as well. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” KT asked. “What's after this one?”

“We'll find out when we get back,” Guru said. “That it? General? Anything to add?”

Tanner stood up. “Good brief, Major. Good luck, everyone. And Major?”

“Sir?”

“Bring everyone back, and one other thing: Do it to them before they do it to you.”

“Fair enough, Major. Good luck, and I'll see you when you get back.” Then Major Reynolds opened the door, and the General left the room, and he followed.

“Glad that's over,” Hoser said.

“Still got the mission,” Sweaty reminded her wingman.

“That we do,” Guru said. “Okay, gear up, and I'll see you at 512.”

They headed for their respective locker rooms and got their flight gear. Guru was the last to leave, and he went to 512's revetment, where the crews were waiting, along with Staff Sergeant Crowley, his Crew Chief. “Major!” Crowley said, saluting.

“Sergeant,” Guru said. “Word travels fast.”

“Sergeant Ross's been passing it around. Congratulations, sir.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said. He gathered his flight around. “Okay, listen up. All I've got is this: Same drill as this morning: if we're talking to AWACS, Tankers, FACs, or Hillsboro-that's the EC-130 AB-triple-C command plane? We go by mission code. If it's amongst ourselves? Call signs. Got it?”

“Got it,” Kara said, and everyone else nodded.

“Good. Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right: let's hit it.”

They broke up and the crews headed to their aircraft. Guru and Goalie did their walk-around, then mounted their bird. Sergeant Crowley helped get them strapped in, and as he did so, Guru said, “Sergeant, does Major Carson's ground crew know?”

“About you being promoted, sir?” Crowley asked. Seeing Guru nod, he said. “I think so, sir.”

“Good. Do me a favor. Tell them not to tell the Major about it. I want to see the look on his face when he comes into the squadron office and sees for himself. They can tell his GIB, or his wingmates, but not him. Got it?'

“Yes, sir!” Crowley said. “And good luck, sir.”

“Thanks,” Guru said as he and Goalie started the cockpit preflight. Crowley took the crew ladder away as they went through their checks. Then it was time for engine start. Sergeant Crowley gave the signal, and Guru started one, then the other, J-79 engine. Both were running normally, then it was time to taxi. “Tower, Firebird One-one with four, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Firebird One-one, Tower. Clear to taxi to runway Three-three left. Hold prior to the runway.”

“Roger, tower.” Guru replied. “Firebird One-one rolling.” He taxied out of the revetment, and Sergeant Crowley snapped a salute as he turned to taxi to the runway. Guru returned it, then led the flight to the runway, where the armorers removed the weapon safety pins. Then he was cleared to taxi onto the runway, and Kara followed him in left echelon. “Ready back there?” Guru called Goalie.

“Ready,” Goalie said. “Let's go and get it done.”

“Copy that,” Guru said. “Tower, Firebird Flight ready for takeoff.”

The tower acknowledged with a green light. Seeing that, Guru released the brakes, applied full power, and 512, with Kara's 520 in echelon, rolled down the runway and into the air, with Sweaty and Hoser right behind them.

As they lifted off, General Tanner was watching. “Good luck.”

“Wish you were with them, General?” Major Reynolds asked. He was counting the days until his ADC tour was up, and he got back into a cockpit,in his case, an F-16.

“I do, Major, and so do you,” Tanner said. “You'll get back in the saddle soon enough. But for me? Combat's a young man's-or woman's-game these days.”

“Ain't it the truth, sir.”

Over North-Central Texas: 1200 Hours:


Firebird Flight was orbiting over Lavan Lake, southeast of McKinney. Guru had checked in with both the AWACS and Hillsboro, the EC-130 airborne command plane, and there had been no business for them, though the A-10s and A-4s were pretty busy. It had been a twenty-minute flight to the orbit point, and there were several other flights, either Marine F-4s and Hornets, or Navy A-7s, orbiting as well. “Hillsboro, Firebird One-one. Anything for us? Can't wait all day.”

“Stand by, Firebird,” the controller said.

“They said that when we got here,” Guru muttered.

“You'd think somebody would want some barbequed Russians or Cubans,” Goalie said.

“Lead, two,” Kara called. “Anything?”

“Negative, two,” Guru said.

In her cockpit, Kara shook her head. “Hurry up and wait, even up here.”

“Two, just enjoy the view,” Guru said. Looking down from 24,000 feet, one could forget there was a war on. It was a sunny day, with a few puffy clouds down below, and some thin cirrus as well. Only when one looked towards Dallas did smoke from the fighting appear. As the flight banked away from the direction of the front lines, McKinney Airport appeared. Though not a divert field, it was busy, as it was a designated Medevac field. C-130s and Army Dustoff helos were in and out, and the MASH set up near the airport was busy, so the grapevine said. Then a call came.

“Firebird One-one, Hillsboro.”

“Hillsboro, Firebird One-one, go.”

“Firebird, Hillsboro. Contact Nail Four-two for tasking.”

About time, Guru thought. “Copy, Hillsboro, Nail Four-two for tasking.” He then called the FAC. The airborne FACs always used the old Vietnam Nail call sign. “Nail Four-two, Firebird One-one.”


“Firebird, Nail,” the FAC replied. “Say aircraft and type of ordnance.”

“Firbirds have for Foxtrot-Four Echoes with Shake'n Bake loadout.” Guru said.

“Roger, Firebird Lead. Target is enemy artillery at the Route 205-F.M. 549 intersection. Towed one-five-two at least.”

“Copy that,” Guru said. “Say surface-to-air threat?”

“Firebird, expect divisional level air defense. Can mark the target.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. “We're coming in.”

“About time,” Goalie said.

“Yeah,” Guru replied. “Flight, lead. We've got a target. Follow me in. One pass only unless Nail requests a second go.”

“Two copies,” Kara said.

“Three,” Sweaty called.

“Four,” said Hoser.

“Nail, Firebird Lead.. How do you want it?”

“Your call, Firebird,” Nail said.

“Roger, Nail. One pass only.”

“Copy. Marking target,” Nail said. And Guru and the others watched as an A-7K rolled in, and fired two rockets. Both rockets exploded on impact, sending up clouds of WP smoke. “Target marked. Gun line is east of the smoke.”

As Guru began to roll in, he saw some 23-mm come up after the A-7, just as a strobe appeared on his EW repeater, and a GUN warning light came on. That meant a ZSU-23-4 Shilka was down there, and probably more than one. “Flight, Lead. Music on, and follow me in.Music on, and Snakeyes on this one.”

“Two,” Kara.

“Three,” Sweaty.

“Four.” Hoser.

“Roger that. One pass, and follow me. Lead's in hot!” Guru called.

“Your switches are set,” Goalie said. “Snakeyes only.”

“Gotcha,” Guru replied as he rolled in. Lead on target,” Guru called as he rolled in on the target.


Down below, the gunners of the Third Battalion, 53rd Guards Artillery Regiment, 25th Guards Motor-Rifle Division were serving their guns. They were divisional artillery, and they had the big 152-mm howitzers. Though due to combat losses, instead of the Self-propelled 2S3 152-mm guns, they had the old towed D-20 howitzers. Still, this division, which had been in America since 1986, was one of the better divisions in the 1st Guards Army from Chernigov in the Ukraine, but it was still a long way from their home station at Lubny, near Poltava.

The battalion commander was, however, in a fit. The blasted Americans had seized the bridges over Lake Ray Hubbard (whoever that was, he wondered), and had been reinforced, taking Rockwall earlier that morning and starting to probe south of Interstate 30. His battalion's fire missions had been trying to make the Americans who'd seized the bridges a little miserable, while also trying to interdict the highway traffic into Rockwall from the north. And he hadn't had time to displace, as the divisional artillery commander had explained, the 200th MRD to their right flank was taking up some of the space that his guns might have used. Shaking his head, he went back to the battalion's command bunker when his Zampolit pointed to the Northwest. First he saw the smoke, then he raised his binoculars. “AIRCRAFT!”

Guru came down the chute, and lined up some of the guns in his pipper. “HACK!” He shouted, and his six Mark-82s came off the centerline MER. He leveled out and began to pull away, and as he did, six explosions followed in his wake. “Whoo-hoo!”

“SHACK!” Goalie cried. “Good hits!”

“Secondaries?”

“We've got 'em,” she said.

“Copy that. Lead off target.”


Kara saw her CO roll in, then she followed him down. “Two's in hot.” She saw the WP smoke drifting, the explosions of the CO's bombs, and the secondaries that followed. And several guns still intact. Kara lined them up in her pipper, then hit the pickle button. “HACK!”

The Soviet battalion commander was shouting orders to his men to take cover. The more experienced men quickly ran to their shelters, while many of the battalion's support troops, who were mostly Uzbek or Turkmen, weren't doing much. Then he saw a second F-4 come in, and release its bombs. He shouted again at the men to take cover, but never saw the five-hundred pound bomb that went off a dozen feet from him.....

“SHACK!” Brainac called to Kara. “Good hits!”

“Secondaries?”

“Lots,” he said. “You must've hit the ammo trucks.”

Nodding, Kara pulled away. 'Two's off target.”

“Three's in!” Sweaty called. She could see some command vehicles parked in a circle. Sweaty lined them up, and then hit the pickle button. “HACK!” And her bombs landed among the battalion's command vehicles, tossing several of them like toys. “Three off target,”

“Copy three,” Guru said. Then he saw tracers coming up. “BREAK RIGHT!”

Sweaty didn't even respond. She broke instantly, and as she did, the tracers were visible. Then she leveled out and headed north.

As Sweaty got out of the area, Hoser rolled in. He saw the tracers, and decided, just like he had in the morning, to do something about that. He lined up on where the tracers had come from, and rolled in. “Four's in.” He went down the chute, and then he released his bombs. As he pulled out, KT called “Good hit!”

He rolled away and banked to get a better look. There was smoke rising from the area, and a secondary explosion. “Scratch one flak battery.”

Unknown to Hoser, his bombs had hit two ZSU-23-4s. They had been deployed to protect the guns, and they had shot down an A-7 and damaged another that morning. The section commander had fired at Sweaty's plane as it turned away, but hadn't had a good solution due to the jamming. Then Hoser's F-4 had come in, and due to the ZSU's radar being jammed, he had no warning. Then the bombs exploded around the vehicles.....


“Four's off target,” Hoser called.

“Copy, Four,” Guru said. “Nail, how'd we do?”

“Firebird,” Nail replied. “Good bombs on target, fella. Taking out whoever was shooting that flak was a bonus. Thanks a lot and have a nice day.”

“Thanks, Nail. Anyone you know need some barbeque?” That was code for napalm.

“Negative, Firebird. If you've got a secondary for that, be my guest.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Firebirds, on me. We're headed for the secondary.”

Firebird Flight reformed, and they headed for their secondary target, the truck park. However, before they got there, Kara spotted something. “Lead, Starbuck. Got something at Eleven O'clock low.”
“I've got it,” Sweaty confirmed. “Gawd, it's a SAM site. And they're not set up!”

“Got it,” Hoser said. “It's an SA-6 site.”

Guru smiled underneath his oxygen mask. “Let's get him.” He banked his F-4 around and he saw the target for himself. “One pass only, and get out. Meet up over Lavon Lake.” He called Goalie. “Switches set?”

“All set here,” Goalie said.

“Roger that,” Guru said. He rolled in onto the SAM site, and a grim satisfaction was taking hold. He'd been shot down by an SA-6 that January day in '86, which led to his time with the Resistance. Now....”Lead's in.” And now it's barbeque time, Ivan....


Below, a Soviet Army Captain was not having a good day. His unit, the Second Battery, 1175th Anti-Aircraft Missile Regiment from the 25th GMRD, had to relocate twice, and it wasn't even noon. Those blasted Americans were finding out his battery's location, and either targeting them with anti-radar missiles or long-range artillery fire. Now, he'd found a location that was perfect, though some buildings were nearby, along with a number of houses. Though civilians were nearby, that made no difference to him. Now, his men could get the battery set up and ready to fire, and give this sector of the division needed SAM cover, for American aircraft had been active all morning. He had just left his battery command vehicle, a BRDM-2U, and was shouting orders when he turned to the east. The smoke trails and the dots told him from experience that F-4 Phantoms were coming in. “AIR ALARM!” Then he jumped into a ditch as the lead aircraft came in.

“HACK!” Guru shouted, and four BLU-27 napalm bombs came off the inboard TERs. He had selected the Straight Flush radar track as his aimpoint, and as he banked away to the north, he saw the four napalm bombs explode around the radar track, engulfing it in flame. “Lead's off.”

“Two's in!” Kara said. She picked out two of the SA-6 missile tracks, and centered her pipper on one of them. “HACK!” She called, and the four canisters fell away.

The battery commander stood up in the ditch. Both his command vehicle and the 1S91 radar vehicle were engulfed in flames, and for a moment he didn't know what had happened. Then his training took over. Napalm. Then one of his sergeants pulled him down back into the trench as a second F-4 came in and released its bombs.

“Two's off target,” Kara said as she pulled away. Her BLU-27s fell onto two of the SAM tracks, and they were drenched in flame as the napalm went off. Take that, Ivan. “Two off target.”

“Three's in!” Sweaty called. She picked out the other two SAM tracks and rolled in. Lining them up in her pipper, Sweaty made the “HACK” call, and pulled away. Four more BLU-27s fell down on the SAM site, and two more SAM tracks were drenched in flames. “Three's off.”

“Four's in,” called Hoser. He couldn't pick out much, as missile tracks were on fire, and then missiles began cooking off in the heat of the napalm. Another missile shot off a few feet off the ground, headed for something to the west. Whatever it hit wasn't his problem. Then he spotted the missile reload trucks and the battery's support vehicles. He banked slightly, then released. As he pulled away, Hoser called. “Four off target.” His BLU-27s landed on the missile reload trucks, and they, too, were engulfed in flames. One of the bombs missed the trucks and its fiery cargo immolated a nearby ditch.

Hoser's last BLU-27 had landed next to the ditch where the Soviet battery commander had taken cover. His last sensation was the heat as he and the soldiers who'd taken cover with him became human torches.....

“Firebirds, form on me and let's get the hell out of here,” Guru called. He was heading for Lavon Lake as fast as he could.

“Two's behind you,” Kara said.

“Three's comin,” Sweaty called.

“Four copies,” said Hoser.

A couple minutes later, Firebird Flight reformed over the lake, and they reformed. Now that they were over friendly territory, they could turn their IFF on and their ECM pods off. The flight reformed and headed back to Sheppard, as they didn't need to get a drink from the tankers. When they got to Sheppard's traffic pattern, they had to wait as two F-4 flights from the 335th, and two more from the Marines, were outbound. Then they were cleared to land.

Guru landed, then taxied back to the dispersal area used by the 335th. After taxiing into his revetment, he popped the canopy and shut down. Sergeant Crowley was waiting with the crew ladder. As Crowley got the ladder into position, Guru said to Goalie, “Two today, and probably two more.”

“At least we get to eat,” Goalie said. “As long as it's not a roadkill sandwich from the Jarheads' mess tent.”

“I'll take some fried chicken,” Guru said. “Hell, I'll even have a slider cheeseburger.” The Marines, like the Navy, were notorious for serving greasy hamburgers.

“How'd it go, sir?” Sergeant Crowley after he put the ladder in place.

“Blasted some artillery pieces, and barbequed a SAM site.” Guru said. “Pull the strike camera and get it to the intel guys.”

“Yes, sir!” Crowley said. “You'll be ready in forty-five minutes.”

“Good, Sergeant,” Guru said. “No problems or issues, and 512's working like a champ. And we didn't take any fire.”

“That's good, sir,” Crowley said. “Hate to have any more holes in my airplane.”

“You and us both,” Goalie said.

Guru nodded as he saw the ordnance people coming over. This time, it was all Mark-82 Snakeyes. “All right, Sergeant. Get her ready to go.”

“Will do, sir,” Crowley said.

Guru and Goalie went to the taxiway, and found the rest of the flight waiting. There were high-fives all around as they went back to the squadron offices. On the way, they ran into Maj. Dave Golen, their IDF “Observer.” “Dave,” Guru said.

“Guru!” Dave replied. “I wasn't able to give my congratulations on your promotion. Well done, my friend.”

“Thanks, Dave,” Guru said, shaking Golen's hand. “Still getting used to it myself.”

“Yes...Colonel Rivers will be missed.”

Guru nodded. “Who's going with you?”

“Sandi Jenkins,” Golen said. 1st Lt. Sandi Jenkins had been Colonel Rivers' wingmate, and had been flying with him when he was shot down.

“Okay,” Guru said. “Van Loan set it up?”

“He did.”

“Good,” Guru said. “For now, she's your wingmate. And she's your younger sister from another mother. You bring her back. She's got the fire in her, and it's why I pulled her from the flight schedule yesterday. Remind her when you get to your birds that this isn't the time or place for grudges.”

“Understood,” Golen said. He'd seen it before, in the Yom Kippur War.

“One more thing: tell Sandi that if she wants to see me and talk, my office door is open. Always.”

“Will do.”

“Okay, Dave. Good luck, and remember: do it to them before they do it to you.”

“Got you,”

“All right, have a good one,” Guru said.

“Yes,” Golen said, shaking Guru's hand, then he headed to his aircraft.

“What was that about?” Kara asked. “What's with Sandi?”

“She was with Rivers when he was shot down, and she's got the fire in her,” Guru said. “Rivers treated her like she was his own daughter, and she's got something burning inside her. And no, I don't know what it is. He left me a packet with a bunch of stuff in it, in case he was shot down. Haven't had time to look at it.”

“Does it involve Carson?” Sweaty asked. “When they're in the Club, and if they exchange eye contact, her stares....if they were knives, Frank would be dying the death of a thousand cuts.”

“I noticed,” Guru said. “I'll have to look at her file, Frank's, and that packet Rivers left me. Haven't had time yet. If I have time this afternoon or evening, I will.”

“What could it be?” Goalie asked.

“No idea,” Guru admitted. “Come on, let's debrief and eat.”

They went into the squadron office, and noticed a new metal sign on the CO's office door. It read. “Maj. Matt Wiser. CO, 335th TFS. Guru nodded approval, then they went to the classroom his flight used. The SIO, 1st Lt. Darren Licon, was waiting. “Major, how'd it go?” Licon asked.

“Pretty good, Darren,” Guru said. “Made some artillery pieces go away.”

“And barbequed a SAM site,” Sweaty added.

“Where was the artillery?” Licon asked, pointing to some reconnaissance photos.

“Right about here,” Guru said, pointing to the Route 205/F.M. 549 intersection. “Big ones. 152-mm or larger.”

“Your strike camera footage may tell. Or the BDA from the RF-4s,” Licon said. “What'd you use?”

“Mark-82s all around,” replied the CO.

All three who hit the guns showed their flight paths,while Hoser showed where the AAA had come up after Sweaty, and he put his Mark-82s on the gun site. “Didn't get a radar hit, though.”

“They may not have had it,” Licon said. “Or they weren't using it. After that, what was your secondary?”

“Went towards a truck park at the Route 276/F.M. 548 intersection. But about a mile from there, we found an SA-6 site just setting up,” said Guru.'

“And you turned it into a barbeque pit,” Licon said.

“We did,” Kara nodded.

Licon nodded himself as he checked the recon photos. “Not on the imagery, so they must've arrived sometime this morning. I'll check your strike camera footage. Anything else I should know?”

“No MiGs,” Sweaty said, and everyone else nodded.

“Thanks, Major, Everyone,” Licon said. “I'll pass this up the line to MAG-11's intel shop, and then Tenth Air Force. Good luck on your next one.”

“Thanks, Darren,” Guru said. “Holding up OK?”

“Doing fine, Boss,” Licon said. “If I need to talk...”

“Let me know. My office door is always open,” Guru reminded him.”

“Thanks, Major,” Licon said, then he went to debrief the next flight.

“Now we eat,” Kara said. It wasn't a question.

“We eat,” Guru said. They went to the break room, where the Marine Mess people had brought lunch. The aircrews were usually too busy to head over to the chow tent, so Colonel Allen Brady, the CO of MAG-11, had the meals brought to the air and ground crews.

“What'll it be, sir,?” A Marine corporal asked. “Cheeseburgers and fries, Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches, or fried chicken with Cole slaw?”

“At least it's not your roadkill sandwiches,” Goalie said.

The crews had a laugh as they selected their lunches, then went back to the classroom to eat. While they ate, discussion went from the day's sorties to the topic of what would happen when Major Carson found out Guru had been promoted. “He'll have a coronary,” Kara said. “Couldn't happen to a nicer asshole.”

“Maybe,” Guru said. “That'd make Doc Waters happy: he hasn't had much to do other than flight physicals or the occasional sports injury.” Doc Waters was the Flight Surgeon for the 335th.

“He'll probably go through the ceiling,” Hoser said. “I've never seen anyone so arrogant.”

“I'll go with that,” Preacher agreed. “Coming from the Academy, and a rich Boston family breeds that, I imagine.”

“And throw in a big sense of entitlement,” Goalie said. “I have classmates who'd be just like him, given the chance.

“You're Academy, right?” KT asked.

“Yep. Class of '82.” Goalie said. “Third class with women. And there were some guys who couldn't take being in a class with women.”

“I'll bet,” Kara said. “Though the Academy's now at Beale, right? I bet they don't have that kind of attitude now.”

“No arguing that,” Goalie replied.

Heads nodded, then people looked at the CO. He was lost in thought. “What's up?” KT asked. “Or can you tell us?”

“It's Sandi and Frank,” Guru said. “Something just isn't right between those two, and it's not just Frank's attitude towards non-Academy grads. The way she looks at him in the club....”

“They've got a history,” Sweaty nodded. “The question is what?”

“All I know is that she was in the squadron when the war began, and she was one of the first to go into the Airman to Pilot program,” Guru said.

“The one where they let enlisted with two or more years of college to go to a thirty-day knife and fork, get their commissions, then flight or nav training?” Preacher asked. “They were starting that when I went to OTS.”

“The same. But when she came back to the unit, Rivers had a private talk with her, and even I don't know what they said. She became his wingmate, and he treated her like she was his own daughter. She was flying wing on him when he went down, and she was pretty much out of it when she got out of her plane,” Guru said. “I had to pull her from the flight schedule yesterday, and she was fine this morning. But she's Dave Golen's wingmate from now on.”

“So what's the deal with her and Frank?” Kara asked.

“That, I don't know,” Guru admitted. “Something's not right, and I can't put my finger on it. I'll look at her file, Frank's, and that packet Rivers left for me. This afternoon, I'll find some time and do it.” He looked at his flight mates. “Enough of that.” He opened the mission briefing packet. “Well....looks like we get to do something about Terrell Municipal after all.”

“We're busting up an airfield?” Goalie asked.

“We are,” Guru said. “They're basing MiG-23s and Su-25s there. All Soviet.”

Kara smiled. “Boss, looks like we may have some MiG action.”

“Yep, and Sweaty and Preacher are one kill away from becoming aces,” Guru said. “And Goalie's one kill away from making backseat ace.” He looked at his GIB, who had an evil-looking grin on her face.

“Ordnance?” Sweaty asked.

“Twelve Mark-82s each airplane,” Guru said. “Just like this morning, only we'll be about twelve miles to the east. Same approach route, though we make our northern turn over Kaufman, then go north. Make a Southeast to Northwest run, and angle your run so that your bombs cover both east and west ramp areas, as well as the runway. The same air-to-air load, and the usual ECM pods and both wing tanks.”

“Gotcha,” Hoser said. “And defenses?”

“We'll have two Weasels. Coors One-three and One-four will meet us over Mineral Wells. Because there's an SA-2 site, and since this is on I-20 and U.S. 80, there may be other air-defense assets around. Besides the SA-2, there's radar-guided 57-mm AAA. One battery to the west, another to the northeast. Possible optical 23-mm and heavy machine guns as well. Not to mention MANPADS like SA-7 or SA-14.

'Where's the SA-2 site?” Kara asked.

“Northwest of town.” Guru said. “The Weasels go in ahead of us and do their thing. When we're clear of the target, form up and head north. Don't climb to altitude until you're clear of I-30. Same drill on bailout areas: the more rural the better, and anyplace away from the roads. Best area is anywhere north of I-30. No new update on the weather.”

“Same drill on the radio?” Brainac wanted to know.

“You got it,” Guru nodded. “If it's between us, we go by call sign. If it's to AWACS, Weasels, or anyone else? Mission code. Anything else?”

“How many more after this one?” KT asked.

“One for sure,” Guru said. Maybe two.” He nodded. “That it?' Heads nodded. “Gear up and I'll see you at 512.”

They nodded, then the crews went to their locker rooms to gear up. When they came out, there was a familiar,though loathed, face there, staring at the door to the CO's office. It was Major Carson.

“Well, well,” Kara said. “He finally knows.”

“Hi, Frank,” Guru said. “Too bad you weren't here this morning.”

“Is this a joke?' Carson snarled.

“No joke. Tanner pinned on the oak leaves this morning,” Guru said. “While you were out. Oh, and he knows about the snot from the IG's office. Tore him a new hole, and he'd probably do the same to you, if you gave him the excuse.”

Carson just glared at Guru, then he shook his head. “This isn't right.”

“Want to tell a two-star General he made a mistake?” Guru said as he headed on out. “Too bad I'll be out, because I'd love to see him tear you a new hole.”

“What about seniority? You may have rank, but I have seniority over you.”

Guru got into his face. “When you can't command anything more than a flight, seniority means nothing. Nor does that Boston blue blood of yours.” He turned to his flight. “Let's go, guys. We got a MiG field to rip up.”

“I'm taking this to a higher authority,” Carson fumed.

“You going to write your Mom and Dad again?” Kara quipped.

Carson glared at all of them, then left the building in a fit of the sulks.

“That is not a happy camper,” Preacher said.

“His problem,” Guru said. “I'll tell him he's on the clock, either tonight or tomorrow.”

“Good,” Goalie said. “The sooner he gets away from here, the better.”

“Remember what I said this morning?” Guru reminded everyone. “But yeah, he gives me the slightest excuse, he's out of here. Let's go.”

The flight went to 512's revetment, where Sergeant Crowley was waiting, and 512 was bombed up and ready. “Sir, she's ready to go.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said. “All right: a reminder. Call signs between us, mission code to everybody else. Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right: let's mount up and hit it.”

The crews split up and headed for their aircraft. Guru and Goalie did their walk-around, then Guru signed for the aircraft. They mounted up and began their preflight checks. Once the preflight was done, it was time for engine start. After running up the engines, it was time for taxi. Guru called the tower and got permission to taxi, and the lead the flight to the runway. After holding so that the armorers could remove the weapon safeties, Guru got permission to taxi onto the runway. Kara taxied into the slot next to him, and they ran their engines up to full military power.

“Tower, Firebird One-one requesting clearance for takeoff.”

As usual, the tower acknowledged by flashing a green light. Guru released the brakes, and 512 rolled down the runway and into the air. Kara did the same with 520, and she was right behind the CO. Sweaty and Hoser followed, and Firebird Flight headed south to their rendezvous with the Weasels.

As was mine, I was so freaking proud of it!

Thanks!
 

Outstanding! Every time I read these posts I hear the Red Dawn closing music credits in my head! Well done!

Thanks very much! There's a cameo by a real-life Russian AF officer in this next segment, and can anyone guess what the guy did in our timeline?



South of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex: 1330 Hours:


Firebird Flight was at low-level once again, and headed east. They were south of Fort Worth, and had just crossed I-35W. The meetup with the Weasels had gone off, and Major Wiser had found that the lead Weasel, Coors One-three had two HARMs and two Shrikes, while Coors One-four had two HARMs and two Standard-ARMs. The Weasels were just ahead and above, while the F-4Es were tucked in tight, in two elements as they headed east.

“Two minutes to 35E,” Goalie called from 512's back seat.

“Copy,” Guru said. He was keeping his head on a swivel, watching the sky, watching his instruments, “Man, would you kill to have the displays in this bird that the F-15E's supposed to have?”

“I would,” Goalie replied. She, like the other GIBs, was handling the navigation. “Make my job a lot easier. One minute.”

“One minute,” Guru called. They were at 450 feet AGL, and doing 500 Knots. So far, there was no sign of SAM or MiG activity, but he knew from experience that could change in a heartbeat. Then another interstate appeared. It was I-35E. “Thirty-five E dead ahead.

“Roger. Your next turn point is I-45. One minute.”

“I-45 in one,” Guru acknowledged.

It didn't take long until the twin ribbons of I-45 appeared, and right then and there, Guru was wishing armed reconnaissance was their mission, for there was a supply convoy headed north. “And turning.”

“U.S. 175 in one minute forty-five,” Goalie said. “Right past Kaufman.”

“Copy.” Guru said. So far, no SAMs or MiGs. But soon, it'd be time to go to work. He looked around, and saw Kara's bird tucked in nice and tight, at his Four O'clock.

“Kaufman dead ahead,” Goalie called. That was the IP. Twelve miles to target, forty-five seconds.

“Roger that,” Guru said. Then he made the call. “Firebird flight, ready, ready...PULL! Switches on, music on, and time to go to work.”

“Two copies,” Kara.

“Three, roger,” Sweaty.

“Four,” Hoser.

“Firebird lead, Coors,” the Weasel leader called. “Time for us to go to work.”

“Copy that, Coors. Get some.” Guru said. He turned on his own ECM pod. “Switches set?” He asked Goalie.

“All set. Everything in one pass.”

“Good girl,” Guru said as he pulled up to 1200 feet AGL. That was bending it for the SA-2, but the Weasels should be able to kill the SA-2's Fan Song F radar.

Up ahead, Coors One-three fired his first HARM missile, and that HARM took out a nearby P-40 search radar that not only served the SA-2 site, but the AAA batteries near the airport. A second HARM forced the SA-2 to shut down, while he began to orbit. His wingmate, Coors One-four, fired a Standard-ARM at the SA-2, unknown to him, and unfortunately for the Soviet SAM operators, the AGM-78 went right to the Fan Song radar, and the AGM-78's big 214-lb warhead blew the radar apart.

Just then, the AAA batteries near the airport came up, and fortunately for the inbound raiders, only one had a Firecan fire-control radar, and as it came up, a HARM came down on it, killing the radar, and causing casualties among the AA gunners.

At Terrell Airport, the MiG-23MLAs of the 85th Guards Fighter Regiment (GIAP) were sitting on the ramp at the west side of the field. Their three squadrons had only just arrived in Texas, and it was proving to be everything they had been told about the place. And all of it bad. From locals who hated their guts, guerrillas who took pot shots at sentries at night, and could be counted on to mortar the field on a regular basis, and then there were the Americans in the air, whose F-14s, F-15s, and F-16s were every bit as dangerous as their intelligence briefings had told them. Some of the pilots were wishing they'd paid more attention to what the Su-25 pilots of the 452nd Independent Ground-Attack Regiment (OshAP) had told them about “this wonderful place called Texas.” Then the alert siren sounded, and the alert pilots ran for their aircraft. They were just getting strapped in when one of them looked to the south. The smoky trails and the chevron tail were obvious. F-4s were coming in.

“Lead's in!” Guru said. He'd pulled up to attack altitude, lined up the runway and ramp area in the pipper, and rolled in. “Steady, steady....”

“Flak coming up,” Goalie said. She'd noticed the 57-mm guns starting to shoot.

“Not this time, Ivan...” Guru muttered. “And...HACK!” He hit the pickle button, and walked his dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes across the field. He pulled away, and called, “Lead's off target.”

At the airport, the sirens were sounding and those personnel still out in the open were running for cover as Guru's F-4 came in. Two of the 2nd Squadron, 85th GIAP's MiG-23s were taxiing to takeoff when the F-4 walked its bombs across the field, and not only had several of his bombs hit either Su-25s or MiG-23s, but at least two had blasted holes in the runway. The leader taxied to the end of Runway Three-Five, but didn't notice the second F-4 coming in...

“SHACK!” Goalie said as Guru pulled off target. She could see several fireballs as parked aircraft exploded. “We got secondaries!”

“Save it for later,” Guru said. He turned north for I-30.

“Two's in hot!” Kara called. She rolled in, and as she did so, she saw two MiG-23s attempt a takeoff roll. Ignoring the flak, she released her bombs and pulled away to the north. “Two's off.

The two MiG-23s had started to roll down the runway as Kara's F-4 came in. The wingman saw the bombs exploding ahead of him and aborted his takeoff, but the leader didn't. As his MiG went down the runway, his MiG got into a bomb crater and crashed, going up in a fireball.

“Good hits!” Brainac called to Kara from 520's back seat. “And we got a couple of fireballs.”

“Good enough,” Kara said. She turned to follow Guru north. The sooner they were north of I-30, the better.

“Three's in hot!” Sweaty called. She came in, and put her bombs to the right of where Guru had. Not only was most of the Su-25 regiment exposed, but several warehouses next to the airport were as well. “HACK!” She called as her twelve Mark-82s came off the airplane. As Sweaty pulled away, she saw her bombs rip into two of the warehouses, while several Su-25s were blasted apart by a couple of Mark-82s landing among them, and at least one of her bombs landed right on the runway for good measure. “Three's off.” She, too, headed north.

“Good hits!” Preacher said. “And there's secondaries.”

“Four's in!” Hoser called. He saw where his element leader had made her run, and he laid down his bombs perpendicular to hers, namely, going right down the runway, and though he was taking a chance with the AAA coming up, he wanted that runway. “HACK!” Hoser called as he flew down the runway. His bombs came off his F-4 as he overflew the runway, and both he and KT saw a MiG-23 parked on the runway, while a fire burned in the middle of a bomb crater. Not your day, Ivan....

The MiG pilot saw what happened to his leader, and with the tower not answering his calls, he decided to get out of the plane. He'd seen Sweaty's F-4 make its run, and ran for a slit trench west of the taxiway. He had just jumped in when Hoser made his run, The bombs marched down the runway, and when one of the bombs found his MiG-23, the plane blew apart. He ducked into the trench as the F-4 pulled up and away.

“Four's off,” Hoser called.

“Got a secondary,” KT said. “Must've been that MiG.”

“He didn't have a good day,” Hoser said as he headed north.

“Firebirds,” Guru called. “Form on me and let's egress. Coors, how's it going?”

“Keepin' 'em busy, Firebird,” Coors One-three said. “You guys get clear.” Clearly, the Weasels were living up to their motto of “First in, last out.”

“Copy that,” Guru said. Just then, Kara pulled her bird close to him in combat spread. Then both of them heard a call from Sweaty.

“Lead, Sweaty, BREAK! Bandit in your six.”

Guru and Kara immediately broke. Guru pulled up and did a cross-turn to the right, while Kara stayed low and did a turn to the left. As they did, both could see an Su-25 that had been right behind them. “Sweaty, Guru. You have him?”

“Got him, Lead,” Sweaty said. She lined the Su-25 up in her pipper and selected HEAT. She got a loud growl in her headset as the AIM-9P3 was tracking. “FOX TWO!” Sweaty called as she squeezed the trigger.

In that Su-25, Lt. Col. Alexander Rutskoi was cursing his luck. He'd had several chances for air-to-air action in his combat time in America, and had actually shot down two CH-47s and two Hueys, along with taking a shot several times at A-10s. Now, he'd been getting ready to land when the tower waved him off. The base was under attack. Colonel Rutskoi seized his chanced and got in behind the first two F-4s as they formed up. He armed his R-60 AAMs and checked his cannon ammo status. Enough. He was trying to lock up one of the Phantoms when he saw them suddenly break. How'd they spot him? Then he saw a missile trail fly past his aircraft. Now he was the hunted.

“Damn it!” Sweaty cursed. The first Sidewinder had simply “gone stupid” and not tracked. She lined up the Su-25 again and got tone. “Fox two again!” This time, the missile flew straight and true into the left engine of the Frogfoot and exploded. To her surprise, the Russian was still flying, though trailing smoke.

Colonel Rutskoi let out some curses of his own as the Sidewinder exploded ahead of him. He was turning his head, looking for his attacker, when a loud bang exploded behind him. Then his left engine light went on, along with a couple other warning lights. But the Rook, as the Su-25 was known to its pilots, was built to take punishment, like its American counterpart.

“Tough mother,” Sweaty muttered. She got good tone on her third missile. “FOX TWO!” Again, an AIM-9P shot off the rail. This one went right, then left and tracked the Su-25. As it did, she did a high yo-yo to maintain position behind the Russian. This time, though, it wasn't necessary, for the third missile flew right into the Su-25's right engine and exploded. After the explosion, she saw the canopy come off, the seat fire, and the pilot was in his chute. Then the Frogfoot just flew into the ground, exploding on impact. “SPLASH!”

“Good kill, Sweaty!” Hoser called.

“Whoo-hoo, Lead!” Kara called. “Looks like we got another new ace.”

“Save it for later,” Guru reminded her. “Let's egress. Coors, we're out of here.”

“Copy that, Firebird. We're on the way out.”

Colonel Rutskoi had felt and heard the second strike on his Rook. He knew he'd be ejecting for the third time in America when the right engine exploded and every light on his control panel came on. He pulled the handle on his K-36D ejection seat, and he was soon hanging in his chute. Rutskoi watched as Sweaty's F-4 pulled up and rolled, apparently so the crew could verify the kill, then the F-4 rolled back and headed north, followed by a second F-4, obviously the wingman. Now, as he drifted to earth, he saw Soviet soldiers converging on his parachute. Shouting every cuss word in Russian that he knew, the Colonel saw the soldiers put their weapons down. These motor-rifle blockheads thought every parachute was a downed American.....He landed, and the pain that shot through his ankle meant he'd broken it. As he stood up, though in pain, a Kazakh private came up, shouting “Stoi.” He replied with several choice cuss words in Russian, along with his rank, and the private lowered his AK-74 and motioned for him to follow.

Sweaty and Hoser joined up on Guru and Starbuck, and the Weasels were right behind them. It wasn't long until I-30, and the Weasels, just like the morning strike, they broke off to head for the tanker track. Firebird Flight, though, didn't need to refuel, and they headed back to Sheppard. After waiting in the pattern for two Marine flights and another 335th flight to land, and two more Marine flights to take off, they came in and landed.

Guru taxied 512 to its revetment, and popped the canopy. “Good one.”

“It was,” Goalie said. “We need to get one more, then I'll be an ace.”

“In time,” Guru replied as Sergeant Crowley brought the crew ladder. “Get some buckets of water, Sergeant. Lieutenant Blanchard's now an ace.”

“Yes, sir!” Crowley said. After attaching the ladder, the crew chief ran to fill a couple of buckets, while Guru and Goalie climbed down from the aircraft. They did a quick postflight check, then picked up the buckets. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.” Guru said. He and Goalie headed towards the revetment where Sweaty's aircraft was parked. Kara and Brainac were waiting when they got there, and they, too, had water-filled buckets. Hoser and KT showed up just afterward, and all six converged on Sweaty and Preacher, who were demonstrating the kill with hand signs to their crew chief. The Staff Sergeant saw those bearing buckets,and backed away. “Sweaty,” Guru said.

“Major?” She asked, then she turned, seeing the six close in on her and her GIB. “Oh, shit.”

“For which we are about to receive, we thank you, “ muttered Preacher.

“Congratulations, Sweaty and Preacher!” Guru yelled as Sweaty and Preacher were drenched by their flight mates.

“Welcome to the club,” Kara said. “Like the Major said a while back: 'you only make ace once.'”

“Thanks, guys,” Sweaty said. “Guess we'll be celebrating something else tonight.”

“We will,” a voice said from behind Major Wiser. It was General Tanner, who was there along with his aide, and Colonel Allen Brady, the CO of MAG-11. “Looks like we've got another ace team.”

Guru and the others turned, and saw the three. “Whups,” Guru said, sketching a salute. “General.”

“Another pair of aces?” Tanner asked.

“Yes, sir!” Guru replied. “Looks like someone's buying a round for these two.”

“I'll take care of that one,” Colonel Brady said. “By the way, congratulations, Major.”

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said. “Been pretty busy today, and haven't had much time to notice.”

Both General Tanner and Colonel Brady nodded. “Understandable, Major,” Tanner said. “Get debriefed, and you've got time for one more mission today. Get that done, and get back here by 1700. Two hours before twelve-hour ought to be enough.”

“Yes, sir!' Major Wiser said,

Everyone got back into game mode, and on their way back to the squadron's offices, Guru stopped by 512 and informed Sergeant Crowley of his aircraft's condition. The crew chief was pleased that no problems or issues had come up, and that there was no battle damage. Then they went into the classroom they used, and found the SIO there, waiting. “Major,” Lieutenant Licon said. “How'd it go?”

“Tore up the airfield,” Guru said. “And Sweaty got her fifth.”

Licon nodded, then asked everyone to show their strike paths on a recon photo, and on an FAA chart of the field. “So you guys hit both ramp areas?”

“We did,” Kara said. “Got bombs on both the MiGs and the Su-25s. Too bad they don't credit ground kills like they did in World War II.”

“I'll go along with that,” Goalie said.

“Same here,” Sweaty added.”

“Okay,” Licon asked. 'How about resistance?”

“Just triple-A,” Guru said, and the others nodded. “Didn't have any SAMs, so the Weasels did their thing.”

“Flak optical or radar?”

“Optical, .looked like,” Sweaty said. “There was smoke coming from the center of the west battery. They had the radar, and must've taken a HARM or Standard-ARM.”

Licon nodded. “And the kill?”

“Su-25,” Sweaty nodded. “He pulled in right behind the CO's element, and I called the break. They broke away, and took the first shot with AIM-9. It missed, so I gave him two more.”

“Both hits?” Licon asked, and Sweaty nodded. “See a chute?”

“Canopy went off, and the seat fired. Then he was in his chute,” Preacher said.

“Witnesses?” Asked the SIO, and six hands shot up. “Okay,” he smiled. “I'll write that one up as confirmed, and it's official: you're now an ace,” Licon said to Sweaty.

Sweaty smiled back. “Thanks, Darren.”

“You're welcome. I'll see you guys later,” he said, then went to debrief the next mission.

“Now what?” Kara asked.

“I'll check with Van Loan and see what Ops has for us,” the CO said “Get something to eat, get some rest, and check your squadron paperwork. Be back here in an hour.”

Heads nodded. “Where you headed?” Goalie asked.

“Taking my own advice on the last,” Guru said. “This CO thing takes getting used to.” He reminded the flight to be back in an hour, then went to his office. He was pleased to see that there wasn't much, and after taking care of what there was, he decided to see what was in the special packet Colonel Rivers had left for him. After Rivers' death, Sergeant Ross had come to Guru the following day, with a key to one of Colonel Rivers' desk drawers. In a letter in a packet Rivers had left for him, Guru had been told to get the key from Ross. Though he'd done so, he hadn't had time to see what was in the drawer. Now Guru did.

He went to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup, then unlocked the drawer. He got the packet, and opened it. There were a couple of Manila folders, and a note from Rivers. Guru, if you're reading this, get Carson's 201 File. Curious, Guru went to a file cabinet which had the officers' records and got Carson's file. He opened it, and went back and forth between the file and Rivers' material. “Son of a....this can't be right.” Guru went back and reread it. Then he read the other two folders. His jaw dropped. “Mother of God...” And the bile was forming in his stomach. “Of all the...” He'd had good reason to loathe Carson before, but now....And what to do?

Guru got up and thought for a moment. Nodding, he opened his office door and saw the Exec there. “Mark, I need to see you.”

“Getting ready to brief and then go,” Ellis replied. “What's up?”

“This can't wait, Mark.” The CO replied. “Push your mission back by an hour. Then come in here.”

Curious, Ellis nodded, and went to the Ops desk to postpone his mission. Then he came to the Major's office. “What is it?” Ellis asked, seeing the expression on Guru's face.

“Close the door,” Major Wiser said. “First, we never had this conversation, and you did not see this material. Understood?”

Ellis was curious. “Okay, what are we, uh, not talking about, and what am I not seeing?”

“Have a look,” Guru said, indicating the material on his desk.

Ellis gave a nod, then sat down and went over the material. It didn't take long for a look of revulsion to come across his face. “Now what?”

You guys have seen Major Carson before....and here's several reasons why he's so despised.



335th TFS Commander's Office: Sheppard AFB, TX: 1430 Hours:


Major Matt Wiser stared at his Exec. “Mark, I have no idea. Most of what's in that file? Either the Statute of Limitations passed a while ago, or an Article 32 Hearing is going to see it as “He said, she said.”

Captain Mark Ellis looked at his CO, then at the material on the CO's desk. “Hate to say this, but you're right. Not much we can do, legally.”

The CO ndded. “Yeah. Still, get Ryan Blanchard here.” Capt. Ryan Blanchard was the Officer-in-Charge of the Combat Security Police detachment attached to the 335th. And before joining the Air Force, she had been a deputy sheriff in Michigan. “I want to run this by her, then get the Department Heads, Ross, and the senior female NCO.”

“Will do,” Ellis said as he got up. Five minutes later, Captain Blanchard, who was no relation to Sweaty Blanchard, came in.

“Ryan,” Major Wiser said. “I wish I didn't have to ask to see you. But this concerns a member of the 335th.

“Major,” Ryan said. “Well, Congratulations first of all. What's up?”

“First of all, we are not having this conversation. You didn't see this material.”

“Understood, sir,” Blanchard nodded. “So...”

“Have a look.”

Ryan nodded, then went over the material that the CO had shown the Exec. Both Major Wiser and Captain Ellis watched as her face turned red. To both of them, it looked like she was ready to pop.

“Major....I knew he is some kind of arrogant, self-righteous, know-it-all, and wannabe martinet who comes across as someone you'd like to punch out, but this?

“Yeah. And there's nothing legally we can do about it?” The CO asked.

The ex-Deputy Sheriff nodded. “Afraid so, Boss. The stuff at the Academy? The Statute of Limitations has expired, and even it it hadn't, says here the victim wouldn't testify. Elmendorf? That was consensual, even if the girl in question was the Wing Commander's daughter. She was over eighteen at the time.”

“Okay,” Ellis said. “And the last thing?”

“That is the he said/she said. No way would a civilian grand jury get an indictment. I know, you can get a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich, and even if they didn't and a DA went ahead, it'd get tossed at the Preliminary Hearing. Which is equal to an Article 32,” Ryan said. “I don't like it any more than you guys, but that's the way it reads to me.”

“Okay, Ryan. I read it the same way. Stay here, I want you here with the Department Heads. Mark, get them,” Major Wiser said.

Fortunately, it took just a minute to get the squadron's department heads, since Ellis had already contacted them. Not to mention Master Sergeant Michael Ross, the senior NCO in the 335th, and Tech Sergeant Natalie Sanchez, the senior female NCO. Kara was there, as she was the senior ranking female pilot, while Goalie was there as senior WSO, though there were WSOs with the rank of Captain in the squadron. Doc Waters, the squadron flight surgeon, Don Van Loan, the Ops Officer, Darren Licon, the SIO; Capt. Kevin O'Donnell, the Maintenance Officer, and the supply and ordnance officers. Everyone was wondering what the CO wanted them for. “Major,” Van Loan said. He could tell this was serious.

“Okay, last one in, close the door. And draw the blinds,” The CO said. “Now, we did not have this meeting, and the subject matter stays in this room. Do I make myself clear?”

Heads nodded, then Mark Ellis said, “You do, Major.”

“Sergeant Ross?”

“Loud and clear, sir,” Ross' voice thundered.

“Good,” Major Wiser said. “Now, we all know, love, and loathe one Major Frank Carson, even if you can't admit it,” the CO nodded.

“You can say that, Major,” Kara said. “Even if it's barely concealed.”

Major Wiser nodded. “Yeah. Okay, Carson's Academy as we all know. His contempt towards officers who aren't Academy grads, and treating NCOs and enlisted as serfs and he's the lord? That's just the start.”

“What are you getting at?” Van Loan asked.

“Okay. You and Goalie are Academy, right?”

“Yeah, I”m '81,” Van Loan said.

Goalie added, “82 for me.”

“Okay, Carson is '78. They have a SERE course at the Academy, and cadets are instructors, right?” the CO asked.

“That they do,” Goalie said.

“Carson was an instructor,” Major Wiser said. “He took advantage of a female cadet during an interrogation scenario.” And the CO saw jaws drop and feelings of disgust come across their faces.

Kara stared at the CO. “Why isn't this SOB in Leavenworth?”

“A week before the Article 32 hearing, she backed out and refused to testify. Then she left the Academy,” the Major said. “Rivers did some digging and found she had a visit at an off-campus cadet hangout from a couple of tough guys with Boston Irish accents saying if she testified, it would be a shame if something happened to her mother.”

“Witness intimidation,” Van Loan observed.

“Yeah. Rivers found out that she transferred to the University of Washington, and OSI arranged an ROTC scholarship for her. She's a C-130 driver at Yokota now,” Major Wiser said. “As for Carson? We've got a fellow who treated the Academy as a frat house in uniform.”

“Of all the...” Goalie said. “Not surprised. They told us a couple things about him. Wasn't sure if it was Upper Classmen scaring us Doolies, but now...”

Doc Waters nodded. “Okay, he graduates, gets flight, then what?”

“Got sent to Clark, and we all know how wild the towns are near that base,” Major Wiser said. “Even if we haven't been there, word gets around.”

Heads nodded at that. The towns near Clark AB in the Philippines were notorious for being dens of recreational activity whose legality was dubious at best. “Then what?” Kara asked.

“He got sent to Elmendorf in '82, he's a Captain now, and got sent back to the Lower 48 six months later.”

Several people looked at each other. “What for?” Mark Ellis asked. Though he already knew.

“Seems he got caught in the sack with the eighteen-year old daughter of the Wing Commander,” Major Wiser said.

Jaws dropped when the others heard that. “Oh, boy,” Sergeant Ross said. “Uh, sir.”

“So where'd they send him then?” Kevin O'Donnell asked.

“Moody, and the 347th,” the CO replied. “He impressed enough people that he went to Squadron Officer School, then got promoted to Major in October, '84. How he did any of that, I have no idea. Got married about that time, too.”

“And that didn't last long,” Van Loan commented. “It was final about the time he joined the squadron.”

“Yeah,” Major Wiser nodded. “Anyone want to bet that she found out about his past?”

“No takers,” Doc Waters said. “That's a given.”

“Makes sense,” Kara noted. “When was his divorce finalized?”

“November, '85,” the CO said. “Right after he joined the Squadron, and two weeks after Rivers did.”

Darren Licon nodded. “Okay, Major. How'd he get to the 335th?”

“He was on leave from Tinker when the war began. Couldn't get back to Tinker, as Ivan was slicing through West Texas and New Mexico like a knife through butter. So he reports to the nearest base, which is Nellis-”

“He was in Vegas?” Van Loan asked. “Hell, you and me were there for the Red Flag!”

“I know,” Major Wiser nodded. “But he was on leave. After a couple weeks at Nellis, they sent him to Kingsley Field and the first wartime F-4 RTU class. He passed-barely. And because of the losses we took those first few weeks, they sent him to us.”

“He does look good on paper,” Ellis admitted. “But he sure doesn't have a clue how things go in wartime.”

Major Wiser nodded. “Don and I picked that up pretty fast, though we were only First Lieutenants at the time. Colonel Rivers did, too, along with everyone else. But hold onto your hats. Frank was a flight leader three times, and he lost it three times.”

“What happened?” Licon asked.

“He had six wingmen shot out from under him,” the CO said firmly. “The last time it happened, I was Ops Officer and the guys in the second element came to me and said they wouldn't fly with him anymore. Took them to see Rivers, and then he called Frank in. Pulled him as a flight lead then and there.”

Kara nodded. “That sums up his flying ability.”

“It does, and the only thing keeping him in the cockpit is the fact that we need warm bodies in cockpits. If I could, I'd ground him and keep him pushing paper.” Major Wiser said. “Which brings us to this last matter. You all know Sandi Jenkins, right?”

Heads nodded. “Yes,sir,” Ross said. “When she was an Airman First Class, she was real popular, friendly, and I thought that if she ever finished college and went to ROTC or OTS, she'd go far.”

“Okay,” the CO said. “A month or two into the war, the Air Force announced an Airman to Pilot program. Enlisted airmen with two or more years of college, pass a flight physical, and pass the Officer Qualifying Test could go. A thirty-day version of knife and fork, they get their commissions, then off to flight or nav training.”

Van Loan nodded. “That's right: the knife-and-fork at Vandenberg, along with basic flight. The intermediate and advanced flight at Edwards.”

“Right you are,” Major Wiser said. “Okay, Sandi was the first enlisted airman from this squadron to go to that. How does Carson get into the picture? He was her immediate superior, and before Rivers saw her application, he had to endorse it.”

Darren Licon looked at the CO. “Don't like the way this is going, Major.”

“Neither do I,” Doc Waters said.

“Fast-forward to September, when we're still at Cannon. We get our first replacement crews since PRAIRIE FIRE kicked off. Sandi was one of them, though she didn't want to come back to the 335th. But we needed replacements, and she was in the pool. When she reported in, Rivers had a long talk with her. And as Exec, I wasn't allowed in. Just between the two of them. Then Don, he had you put her in as his wingmate.” said Major Wiser.

“That I remember. He treated her like she was his own daughter,” Van Loan recalled.

“That he did,” the CO noted. “She's a natural as a stick, and if she finishes those two years of college? She'll go far. And have you noticed that when she and Frank are in the Club at the same time? She stares at him with this look that says “Don't fuck with me.'”

“You bet,” Kara said. “If those eyes were daggers, Frank would be dying the death of a thousand cuts.”

“I've done the same thing,” Goalie added. “After the BS that he tried with me and Guru,” she nodded at the CO.

“Guilty,” Major Wiser admitted. “Now, Sandi was with the Colonel when he went down, and she was pretty distraught when she came back.”

“That she was,” Van Loan said. “Can you blame her? Not to mention having a 57-mm shell go through her left elevator without exploding?”

“No,” Kara said. “But what's with her and Frank?”

“Bottom line? He gave her a quid pro quo. I'll endorse your application. You give me one night in bed,” the CO said, and he hardly concealed his disgust at the thought.

Jaws dropped, and several people were muttering curses. “Of all the....bastard!” Kara yelled. And Goalie turned red, looking like she was ready to blow her cork.

Kevin O'Donnell looked at the CO. “Can't we put cuffs on him?”

“Wish we could,” Major Wiser said. “Ryan, you tell them what you told me.”

Ryan Blanchard stood up and spoke for two minutes. When she was finished, the same looks of disgust were still on everyone's faces.

“We can't change the past, people,' the CO reminded them. “We can, though, affect the future. And here's what we'll do.”

“And that is?” Kara asked.

“First, Carson's on the clock, even though he doesn't know it. He's got until 11:59 PM on New Year's Eve to shape up. If not, there's half a dozen good reasons in his OER to send him packing. I haven't kicked him out yet because he'd have good cause to go to JAG and say it was retaliation. So....Kara, you're the senior female officer in the squadron. You and Goalie?” Major Wiser nodded at his GIB. “Pass the word to the other female officers. Any unusual behavior on the part of Major Carson gets reported. Either to me, Captain Ellis, Captain van Loan, or Captain Blanchard. Got it?”

Kara and Goalie nodded. “Got it, Major,” Kara said. When he heard that, the CO smiled. That was the first time Kara had addressed him by his new rank.

“Mark? You and Don, in fact, all of you, spread the word to the other officers. Same thing.”

“Will do, Major.” Mark Ellis replied.

Okay, Sergeant Ross?”

“Sir?” Ross asked.

“Spread the word to the NCOs and enlisted airmen. Same thing. Anything unusual about Major Carson, I want reported. Sergeant Sanchez?”

“Yes, sir?' The Cuban-American female NCO asked.

“Tell the enlisted women. Same drill,” the CO said. “But, all of you? I'll need proof. No rumor or innuendo. It has to be verifiable. Good enough that I can kick Carson out, at least. And at most? Our friend Ryan here can put cuffs on him.”

Heads nodded, while Ryan grinned, arms folded across her chest. “It'll be a pleasure to do just that, Major.”

“To be wished for,” Major Wiser said. “All right: if he screws up big time? He's out. If he comes to me anytime between now an New Year's and asks for a transfer? I'll happily get rid of him that way. But, if he doesn't shape up? He's gone, period. Only thing is, he'd be someone else's problem.”

“Collateral damage,” Van Loan said.

“Unfortunately,” the CO nodded. “Okay, remember: we did not have this conversation, and this subject matter stays in this room. All we did was have a meeting of department heads and the CO. I'll talk to the General tonight along with Colonel Brady.” Marine Colonel Allen Brady was the CO of MAG-11, to which the squadron was attached. “I'll also talk with Sandi ASAP, and the soonest I can, I'll lay down the law to Carson. Is that clear, everyone?”

Heads nodded, and Ross' voice boomed. “Loud and clear, sir.”

“Good,” the Major said. “Okay, we've still got a war to win, people, so get back in the game. We've got missions to fly and two and a half hours of daylight left.”

Mark clapped his hands. “You heard the boss, people! Let's get back in the groove.”

People got up to leave, and as they did so, the CO told Kara, “Get our flight together. As soon as Van Loan has a mission for us, we're going.”

“Got you,” she replied.

He turned to Goalie. “Wish those rumors you heard at the Springs were just that?”

Goalie nodded. “Yeah, I do. Heard some nasty ones. Part of me wishes they weren't true.”

“I know,” the Major nodded. 'But then, you do know now there's some basis to those.”

“Nothing we can do about that, like you said. But I've got classmates who have that same kind of behavior. Hating non-Academy grads, thinking that class ring entitles them to whatever they want in the Air Force, and being general, all around assholes.”

Major Wiser looked at his GIB. “Which is why I probably won't go to my ten-year high school reunion, if the war's over by then.”

“Why's that? Goalie asked.

“The jocks are still jocks and the jerks are still jerks.”

“Remind me not to go to mine, if the war's over by this time next year. Or my fifteenth. For just that reason.” Goalie laughed.

The CO smiled. “Back in the groove. That's the Goalie I know” He saw his GIB have a nasty-looking grin..” Come on, we've got business with the other enemy. Van Loan should have a mission for us by now. We'll brief, then let's get it done.”

“Too bad some poor Russians have to pay for Carson's sins,” Goalie quipped.

“Convenience,” Major Wiser said. “Come on. We've got two hours of daylight left. Let's see what Don's got, then we make some poor Russians or Cubans burn, bleed, and blow up.”

The next set:

335th TFS Squadron Offices, 1500 Hours:


Major Matt Wiser and Lieutenant Lisa Eichhorn left the CO's office and headed to the Ops Desk. They found Capt. Don Van Loan, the Ops Officer, All were anxious to put the disclosures of the past hour behind them, and get on with business. Deadly business. “Don,” the CO asked. “What have you got for me?”

“Two targets, both next to each other,” Van Loan replied. He handed Major Wiser the briefing packet. 'Supply dump and a truck park. Supply dump northeast side of the U.S. 175/F.M. 2578 junction. The truck park is on the northwest side.”

“That's an Army-level rear area,” Lieutenant Eichhorn, call sign Goalie, pointed out.

The Ops Officer nodded. “It is. You'll be getting two Weasels. Coors One-one and One-two. They'll meet you at the tanker track over Mineral Wells.”

“And our way out is over some of the folks we hit this morning or afternoon,” the Major, call sign Guru, said. “Swell.”

“Sorry, Boss, but this is the first one that came down,” Van Loan said. “Intel sheet says SA-4 in the area, along with AAA near the target. And that's not counting MANPADS, or any mobile AAA systems with any convoys.”

“MiG fields?” Guru asked.

“Nearest operational ones after you took out Terrell Municipal are Athens, Tyler, and Corsicana. There's been some activity out of the old Connelly AFB near Waco, but no word on who they are. Might be the Su-27s who got run out of Dyess.”

“Might,” Guru said. “Okay. Thanks, Don. Don't tell me where you're going, but have a good one, and bring everybody back.”

Van Loan nodded, then shook the CO's hand. “Will do, and will try, Boss.”

“Wouldn't it be nice if we did lose someone in particular?” Goalie wondered aloud.

“Down, girl,” the CO said. “The downside of that is we lose a perfectly good and honest GIB.” He nodded to his GIB. “Let's go brief, then we get going.”

Goalie nodded, then the two of them headed to the classroom the CO's flight used as a briefing room. Guru led her in, and Kara was waiting, with the rest of the flight. “CO on the deck!” Kara said.

“That'll be enough of that,” the CO said. Then he saw General Tanner in the background. “General,”

“Major,” the General nodded. “Wanted to see you for your last one today.”

“Yes, sir,” Guru said. “Hope you don't mind a quick brief, sir.”

“Keep it short and sweet, Major,” Tanner said.

'Yes, sir,” Guru said. “Okay, listen up. We've got two targets. Both across a road from each other.”

“Let me guess,” 1st Lt. Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard said. “The usual supply dump/truck park combo.”

“Four-oh, Sweaty,” Guru replied. “Here's the target area,” He passed around the recon photos included in the briefing packet, pointing out the supply dump and the truck park. “Lead and two have the Rockeyes, so I'll take Kara and hit the truck park,” Guru nodded at Capt. Kara “Starbuck” Thrace, his wingmate, then continued. “Sweaty, you and Hoser have Mark-82 Snakeyes again. Take the supply dump. Other than that, we have the usual: four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7s, wing tanks, full 20-mm, and the ECM pods.”

“Threats?” 1st Lt. Nathan “Hoser” West, Sweaty's wingmate, asked.

“SA-4 in the area, and yes, we'll have a couple of Weasels with us. Coors One-one and One-two join us over Mineral Wells. Then there's at least one battery of 57-mm AAA, which may or may not be radar guided, possible 23-mm ZU-23, not to mention any mobile AAA with any convoys, or MANPADS the staff at either facility have access to.”

“And out egress out is close to where we've been going all day,” Kara observed.

“No getting around that,” Guru said. “Which is why the Weasels are with us. They'll have four ARMs each bird, so we should be good on that score.”

“MiGs?” Sweaty's backseater, 1st Lt. Byran “Preacher” Simmonds, asked.

“Good question,” Guru replied. “Nearest fields are at Athens, Tyler, and Corsicana. Possible from the old Connelly AFB in Waco, which is where the Su-27s that were at Dyess went to, but Intel says that's unconfirmed.”

First Lieutenant Kathy “KT” Thornton, Hoser's GIB, asked, “Bailout areas still the same?”

“They are,” the CO nodded. “Anyplace rural and away from roads is good. Anywhere north of I-30 is best. The Army's pushed a mile or two south of I-30 east of Lake Ray Hubbard, but it's still fluid. North of the Interstate is your best bet.”

Sweaty nodded. “Tanker tracks still the same?”

“They are,” said the CO. “Tanker Track SHELL is still over Durant, Oklahoma. And the same divert fields as previously briefed. Stay away from McKinney Municipal, though: it's a dedicated Medical Evac field, and the MASH there is pretty busy. So stay away unless you have no choice.”

Heads nodded.

“Boss, what's after this one?” 1st Lt. Judd “Brainac” Brewster, Kara's WSO, asked.

“Hopefully, that's it,” the CO said. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right; gear up and meet me at 512.”

As people headed to their locker rooms to gear up, the General came to see Guru. “Major, good briefing.”

“Thank you, sir.” Guru said. “General, when we get back, I need to talk to you. Privately.”

Tanner nodded. He had a very good idea of what the new Major needed to discuss. “I'll be here, Major. You have a good mission, and bring everyone home.”

“Thank you, sir, and will do.” Guru said. He left the room and went to gear up. When he came out, Goalie was waiting. “Well?”

“Let me guess: what did the General want to know?” Seeing his GIB nod, Guru continued. “Just a good brief, bring everyone back, and I asked to talk to him after we get back.”

“About a certain Major?” Goalie asked.

“Yep,” Guru said. “And maybe see what screwups can earn that.....person a General Court-Martial.”

“To be wished for,” Goalie said as they left the squadron's building, which had belonged to a T-37 squadron prewar. Then they ran into Maj. Dave Golen, 1st Lt. Sandi Jenkins, and their respective GIBs.

“Dave,” Guru said. 'And Sandi,” he nodded. “How'd it go?”

“Hit a convoy on I-45,” Golen said. He was an IDF “Observer” attached to the 335th. And on many occasions, he'd done more than observe.

“Any MiGs?”

“No, but Sandi got a Hip helicopter,” Golen said with pride. “Hopefully, she'll get a proper kill one of these days.”

“Good girl,” Goalie said.

“That she is,” Guru nodded. “Dave, could you guys go on ahead? Goalie, I'll see you at 512. I need to talk with Sandi for a minute.”

“Of course, Guru,” Golen said, while Goalie nodded and headed out to the dispersal area.

“Major?” Sandi asked.

“Sandi....how are you holding up?” the CO asked.

The lieutenant, who had her brown hair done up in a bun, nodded. “Sir, is it always like this when you lose a wingmate?”

“That pit in your stomach?” Guru asked. Seeing her nod, he said “It is. I was with a previous CO two weeks into the war when he was shot down. One minute he's there, the next? He's a fireball. And I had two wingmen shot out from under me in the early days. When I was with the Resistance? Saw and did some things I still won't talk about. You just get used to it, that's all.”

“That's what Major Golen said, sir. He said he lost friends in the Yom Kippur War.” Sandi replied.

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Feeling better, though? I imagine just flying was therapeutic. And getting that Hip was icing on the cake.”

Sandi's eyes brightened. “Yes, sir! And I felt that the Colonel was there. I can't explain it but I felt like...his voice telling me, 'Good kill', when I shot the Hip.”

“I know what you mean,” Guru said. “I know what Carson did with you. It makes me sick that a fellow officer used and abused his position to get what he wanted. You're not the first he's done this to, but, if I have anything to say about it, you will be the last.”

“Sir, how did you know?” Sandi asked.

“Colonel Rivers left a packet for me. Among other things, what happened to you was in it,” the CO said. “You have a right to know: he did this to someone at the Academy.” Guru explained for a moment, then finished. “We can't change the past. But we can affect the future, and he doesn't know it yet, but Carson's days in this squadron are numbered. If he doesn't shape up by New Year's Eve? He's out. If he fucks up just once before then? It's bye-bye for him. If he wants a transfer? I'll gladly sign the form, then shove him on the next C-130 out of here. Only regret is that he's then someone else's problem. But seeing him shoveling snow at Goose Bay or K.I. Sawyer would be good.”

Sandi smiled. “Sir, it would be worth paying money to see.”

“It would,” the CO agreed. “Listen, Sandi. If you need to see me for any reason? My office door is always open. If I'm not flying, and you need to talk, just knock. Spread the word about that. Colonel Rivers did the same thing, and I'm just carrying on where he left off.”

“Thank you, sir,”

“ Feeling better?”

“Yes, sir!” Sandi said, and Guru could tell from her voice that she was feeling better.

“Good, Lieutenant. Now go and debrief with Major Golen, and we'll see you at the Club tonight. You have a kill to celebrate.”

“Yes, sir!” She said, and snapped a perfect salute.

Guru returned it, and nodded. “All right, carry on.”

Sandi smiled, then headed into the squadron building. Then Guru went over to dispersal, and found his flight waiting at 512. “What was that about?” Kara asked.

“Had a little talk with Sandi Jenkins,” Guru said. “Wanted to see how she was holding up, and let her know that we know about her and Carson.”

“How's she doing?” Goalie asked.

“She's doing fine,” Guru said. “Dave's like the older brother from another mother to her, and she got a Hip today.”

Kara and Sweaty both smiled. “Well, do we have another ace in the making?” Sweaty asked.

“We'll know when she starts splashing MiGs,” Kara grinned.

“That we will,” Guru said. “Let's get into game mode, people. This ought to be our last one of the day. So....when we're on the radio? Just remember, call signs when we talk to each other, mission code to anyone else. Got it?”

“Got it,” Sweaty said, and heads nodded.

“Anything else?' Guru asked, and heads shook no. “Okay, then. Let's hit it.”

Guru and Goalie went to their aircraft, and the others did the same. Sergeant Crowley, the crew chief, was waiting, “Sir,” he saluted. “512's ready to go.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said. He and Goalie did their walk-arounds, then mounted the aircraft. After going through their cockpit preflight, Guru got the “Start Engines” signal from Sergeant Crowley. First, one, then both, J-79 engines were up and running, Guru then contacted the tower, and got permission to taxi. After the wheel chocks were pulled away, Guru taxied 512 out, and the other three F-4s in the flight were right behind him. After holding at the runway to allow the armorers to remove the weapon safeties, the tower gave permission to taxi for takeoff. Guru taxied 512 onto the runway, and Kara taxied 520 right in close to him.

“Tower, Firebird One-one requesting clearance for takeoff,” Guru called.

The tower acknowledged by flashing a green light. Guru released the brakes, and 512, followed by 520, then Sweaty's element, rolled down the runway and then into the air.

And the next:


South of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, 1550 Hours:


Firebird Flight was at low-level, headed east. They had met up with the two F-4Gs of Coors Flight, and it turned out that Coors One-one was the CO of the 562nd TFS. But Major Wiser was the strike leader, and the light colonel gladly tucked his two Weasels in with the F-4Es. Inside the Phantoms, pilots and GIBs watched their instruments, or in the case of the pilots, kept up their visual scanning. Wartime experience had taught them that radar, whether onboard or from AWACS, didn't always pick up every airborne threat, while other threats, such as SAMs or AAA, not to mention power lines or radio/TV towers, were called out using the Mark I eyeball.

“Passing I-35W,” Goalie called as twin ribbons of interstate highway passed beneath them. “Two minutes to I-35E.”

“Roger that,” Guru said from the front seat. His eyes were at a swivel, going from his instruments to outside, then to the radar repeater, then the EW display. Oh, for the TEWS that the F-15Es are getting, he thought, though there was talk of McAir contracting to Mitsubishi for a “glass cockpit” F-4 if the war kept going, and there was no reason to think it would be over anytime soon.

“Firebird Lead, Crystal Palace,” the AWACS called. “Threat bearing one-niner-five, for sixty-five, medium, going away.”

“Those Flankers?” Goalie asked.

“As long as they're going away, they could be old MiG-17s for all I care,” Guru said. “Copy that, Crystal Palace.”

“If they were, we'd make Robin Olds nostalgic,” she replied. “One minute.”

“One minute,” Guru said. Then I-35E appeared, and as they flew over, there was scattered vehicle traffic. A small convoy headed south, and an equally smaller one going north.. “Turn point.”

“And turn,” Goalie called. Next up would be I-45, then the IP over the Trinity River.

Guru made the turn, and the others were tucked in, nice and tight. So far, no threats, either ground or airborne, had materialized, but that could change in a heartbeat. It was a minute to I-45, then another thirty seconds to the river. “IP dead ahead,” Guru said. “Coors, Firebird Lead. IP ahead.”

“Roger that, Firebird Lead,” Coors One-one called. “Time for us to go to work,” and the two F-4Gs pulled up and gained altitude, daring the SAM and AAA radars to come up. And they did, for an SA-4 and a gun radar came up, and two “Magnum” calls came over the radio.

“Firebirds,” Guru called. “Switches on, music on, and PULL!” That meant arm weapons, turn on the ECM pods, and pull up to attack altitude.”

“Roger Lead,” Kara called.

“Copy,” Sweaty.

“Four, roger,” Hoser.


Guru pulled up just as one of the F-4Gs fired a HARM at an SA-4 radar, Just then, two SA-4 missiles launched, but the HARM was faster, and the AGM-88 killed the SA-4 radar vehicle, and the two missiles went ballistic. An AAA radar came up, and Coors One-two fired a Standard-ARM at the Firecan radar, and the missile's 214-lb warhead found its target, blasting the radar vehicle and sending shrapnel all over the battery. Then it was the strike birds' turn.

“Switches set?' Guru asked Goalie.

“All set back here.”

“Gotcha,” Guru said. He leveled out at 900 feet, then rolled in. “Target in sight. Lead's in hot!” Guru then lined up the truck park in his pipper, ignoring the 23-mm flak coming up. “Steady, steady.....HACK!” He pushed the pickle button, and twelve Rockeye CBUs came off the fuselage and wing racks. “Lead's off target.”

In the truck park, the truck drivers from the 28th Army's material support regiment were cursing the powers that be. They had arrived from Houston before dawn, and had hoped to unload their cargo and get on the way back to Houston, but had been told to wait. Most of the truck drivers were mobilized from their civilian collective owners, while others had served in transportation units during their Army service. Most were standing around, chatting or waiting on something to eat, when someone shouted “AIRCRAFT!,” and pointed to Guru's F-4 rolling in. The truckers scattered for cover, while MVD troops, who escorted truck convoys, opened fire with their AKMs or ZU-23s mounted on trucks or BTR-152 APCs.

As Guru pulled away, he banked to see where his bombs had landed,and he noticed the tracers coming up. Then the CBU bomblets showered the trucks, exploding a number of them in fireballs. “SHACK!”

“Good hits!” Goalie said.

“Good enough,” said Guru. He then pointed his F-4 north.

“Two's in!” Kara called. She picked out the truck partk, and saw the CO peel away, and his CBUs explode. She grinned, then centered her pipper on some tracers that were trying to follow the CO's bird. No way, Ivan. Not today....”HACK!” And another dozen CBUs fell onto the truck park.

In one of the BTR-152s, an MVD Lieutenant was shouting at his Uzbek gunners. He was trying to get them to lead their target, but the F-4 was too fast. His gunners turned their gun back south, only to see a blur pass overhead, and a rain of CBU bomblets come down. Several of the bomblets landed in the BTR and it exploded around the occupants.....

“Good hits!” Brainac, Kara's GIB, called. “We got secondaries!”

“Save it,” Kara replied. She, too, headed north. “Two's off target.”

“Three's in!” Sweaty called. She picked out the supply dump, and rolled in. Sweaty was able to line up several fuel tanks in the pipper, and hit the pickle button. “HACK!” And a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes came off the racks, and she walked her bombs across the dump. “Three's off.”

Several of Sweaty's bombs landed in the fuel storage area, and set off several large explosions as fuel drums, storage tanks, and even several fuel trucks, exploded in orange-red fireballs.

In his F-4, Hoser saw the explosions. “Four's in!” He called, and rolled in. Spotting several trucks that looked to be like they were loading, he lined them up in his pipper, then hit the pickle button. “HACK!” Twelve Mark-82s came off his airplane. Hoser then rolled away to the northeast, then headed north. “Four's off.”

In the supply dump, the Soviets manning the dump watched as first Sweaty's F-4, then Hoser's came in. Another rain of bombs followed from Hoser's aircraft, Several supply trucks, filled with supplies for the 28th Army's divisions, exploded. And a five-hundred pound bomb had landed next to the slit trench where the Army's supply officer had jumped in when the first bombs had hit the truck park....

“Good hits!” KT Thornton, Hoser's GIB, called.

“Secondaries? He replied.

“Several.”

“Good enough,” Hoser said, turning his F-4 to follow his element leader.


In his F-4, Guru had a smile underneath his oxygen mask. “Firebirds, form up on me, and let's get the hell out of here.”

“Copy, Guru,” Sweaty called.

Guru acknowledged, then turned to his four. Kara was bringing her F-4 right in, tucked in nice and neat. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he returned it as they headed north for I-30. Sweaty and Hoser were right behind them. “Coors Lead, Firebird Lead. We're outta here.”

“Copy Firebird,” Coors Lead said, “We'...” then there was a burst of static on the radio.

“Firebird, Coors One-two. Coors Lead is down.” his wingmate replied. And Guru could hear the concern in the woman's voice.

“Any chutes?” Guru called back.

“Negative. Gadfly came up all of a sudden.” Coors One-two responded. That meant SA-11.

Oh, man....somebody just inherited a squadron and didn't know it. “Coors One-two, nothing you can do,” Guru said. “Follow us and egress now.”

“On my way,” One-two said. And as Firebird Flight crossed I-30 and headed for Lavon Lake, Coors One-two joined them. And the strike crews noticed all four wing pylons were empty. Two HARMs and two Standard-ARM missiles had been expended.

“Across the fence,” Goalie said. That meant the battle line.

“Coors One-two,” Guru called. “You okay?”

“Affirmative,” One-two replied. The female Captain in One-two's front seat was a six-month Weasel vet, and had seen it happen before. Though not to the CO.....”We can make the tanker, then home plate.”

“Been there, done that, One-two. Good luck.” Guru said.

“Copy that. Maybe we can do this again, though without losing anybody.”

“Amen to that,” Guru said. He didn't envy that squadron's exec. Then the F-4G broke off and headed for the tanker track.

Though the loss wasn't from their squadron, the mood in Firebird Flight's cockpits was subdued as they headed back to Sheppard. They had lost Weasels or flak suppressors before, but it had been a while. They orbited in the pattern as the first A-6s began to launch, and four other flights of either Marine or 335th F-4s were ahead of them. Then they came in and landed. The flight taxied into their revetments, and the crew chiefs were waiting.

In 512, Guru and Goalie popped their canopies as they taxied in, and when Guru parked the F-4, both let out a sigh of relief. “That's done.” He checked his watch. It was 1615. “You do know that if we did a hot refuel and rearm, we could go out again.”

“IF,” Goalie said. “That in the cards?” After four missions, she was beat.

“No,” Guru replied. He took his helmet off, then wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

Sergeant Crowley, the crew chief, came up with a crew ladder. “How'd it go, sir?”

“Went good for us, Sergeant,” Guru said. “One of the Weasels went down, though.” He stood up and climbed down from the cockpit. “First in, last out, for them.”

“Sometimes it's first in, never out,” Goalie added as she climbed down from the plane.

“Yes, ma'am,” Crowley said. “Sir, any problems with 512?”

“No, Sergeant, she's still truckin'. Pull the strike camera film, and get her ready for morning.”

“Yes, sir!”

“One thing, Sergeant. Has Sergeant Ross told you about Major Carson?” Guru asked with due seriousness.

“Yes, sir. He came by and gave us the run-down. No rumor or innuendo, and if we do see anything, report it.” Crowley replied.

“Good man, Sergeant,” Guru said. “All right. Let's get 512 ready for the morning.”

“You got it, Major.” Crowley said, then he and the ground crew got to work as Guru and Goalie left the revetment. They met Kara and the other members of the flight at the entrance.

“Ordinarily, Boss,” Kara said, “I'd be saying 'good one.' Not today.”

“Haven't had a flak suppressor or a Weasel go down on us in a while,” Sweaty said.

“Yeah, but they were taking it bad in the early days,” Guru reminded them. “They took fifty percent losses back then. Just like the early Weasel days in Vietnam.”

Kara winced, as did Sweaty. “Ouch,” Kara nodded.

“Believe it,” Guru said. “And they're still flying G model F-105s on strikes into Cuba, they say.”

“Thuds?” Hoser asked, surprised at hearing that. “Those things are old.”

“But they get the job done,” Goalie said. She'd read some accounts from the Georgia Guardsmen who flew the old F-105Gs into Cuba.

“That they do,” Guru said. “Let's debrief, then check any paperwork. Then hit the Club. We've got a few things to celebrate tonight.”

Kara and the others grinned at Sweaty. “That we do, Major.”

Hoser looked at his CO. “Three pilot aces and two backseat aces in this flight. This a first?”

“Probably some Navy guys in F-14s,” Guru noted. “But in the AF? Maybe. But we've got three backseat aces. Brainac had two before he was Kara's GIB. He's got more kills than his pilot.”

Kara grinned at her GIB. “That he does.”

“Come on. Let's get debriefed.” Major Wiser said.

They went into the squadron building and got out of their flight gear, then went to the classroom they sued for briefings. When Guru opened the door, he found not only the SIO, 1st Lt. Darren Licon there, but General Tanner and his aide also. “Major,” Tanner said.

“General,” Major Wiser said, snapping a salute.

“What happened out there?” Tanner asked.

“Good for us, not so good for the Weasels, and bad for the Russians,” Guru replied. “Sir.”

“All right,” the General nodded. “Lieutenant?”

“Major,” Licon asked. “How'd it go?”

“Put my bombs on the truck park,” Guru said. “Got some secondaries as we pulled away.”

“Captain Thrace?”

“I'll confirm that,” Kara said. “Saw some secondaries as we were rolling in,” and Brainiac nodded.
“We got some as we pulled away.”

“Lieutenant Blanchard?” Licon asked Sweaty.

Sweaty pointed to the supply dump on a recon photo. “Put the Snakeyes on the fuel part of the dump, and we had quite a few secondaries go off.”

Hoser added, “She did, and we added to that.” He pointed to the western part of the dump on the photo. “Then we got out of there.”

“When did the Weasel go down?” General Tanner asked.

The flight all looked at each other. “Just after Hoser called off target,” Guru said. “Told him we were headed out, he started to reply, then there was a burst of static.”

“His wingmate came up and said the lead Weasel was down,” Sweaty added. “She formed up on us and we all headed out.”

Licon nodded.”What happened?”

“She said Gadfly.” Guru said. “SA-11 strikes again.”

“Damn it,” Tanner said, speaking in the debrief for the first time. “Any radar warning?”

“No,sir,” Guru said, and the others nodded. “Had to have been optical.” That meant optical guidance, for which several Soviet radar-guided SAMs had optical backups.

“Any other resistance?” Licon asked.

“Triple-A,” Sweaty nodded. “But no radar, and it was poorly aimed.”

“Concur,” Kara said, and Hoser simply nodded confirmation.

The SIO nodded. “Thanks, everyone. Major, I'll pull the strike camera footage and send it up the line.”

“Okay,” Guru said. He looked around, and caught General Tanner's attention, and the General nodded. “People, could you leave us? I need a word with the General.”

Kara nodded, as she was senior, then everyone, including Tanner's aide, left the room, and Licon closed the door behind him.

“General, permission to speak freely?' Major Wiser asked.

“Certainly, Major. It's your squadron.” Tanner replied.

“Thank you, sir. Sir, is there any way we can haul a certain officer before a General Court-Martial?”

“I know full well who you're talking about,” the General said. “Unfortunately, I had my legal officer have a look. Either the Statute of Limitations has expired, or an Article 32 hearing would rule insufficient evidence to proceed.”

“General, Colonel Rivers left me some information that said the same thing. And I had my senior CSP officer, who is a former Deputy Sheriff, have a look. She said pretty much the same a couple of hours ago.”

The General nodded sympathetically. “Believe me, Major. That officer is on a short list of people I would happily kick out of the Air Force in a hot minute. Unfortunately, we still need warm bodies in cockpits, despite their other faults.”

“Understood, sir,” Major Wiser said. “Sir, he doesn't know it yet, but he will as soon as I can, but he is on the clock.”

“Major?”

“Sir, he's got until 11:59 PM on New Year's Eve to shape up, drop that 'Academy man knows everything' attitude towards fellow officers who don't have an Academy ring, starts listening to the NCOs, and treats the enlisted airmen with some respect instead of as pieces of equipment,” Major Wiser said. He saw he had Tanner's full attention. “If he doesn't by then? He's gone.”

“And before then, Major?” Asked the General.

“Sir, if he screws up big time? He's done. And if he asks for a transfer anytime before then? I'll happily sign on the dotted line, and put him on the space-available C-130 myself. The only regret is that I'd be inflicting him on a fellow officer who doesn't deserve him.”

Tanner nodded. If he was a squadron CO who suddenly got Major Carson, he'd be wondering what he'd done to deserve someone like him. “Major, I think you're handling things in this matter as well as can be expected. I've had a look around, and things are going well in the squadron. Colonel Rivers laid down a fine foundation. If I were you, I wouldn't change a thing.”

Major Wiser smiled. “Yes, sir. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. I'm not changing a thing. And when that officer we've discussed leaves, this unit can only get better.”

“That it will,” Tanner said. “Colonel Rivers had every confidence in you when he made you Exec, and you ran the squadron well when duty required him away. I knew from his reports that the 335 was in good hands if anything happened to him. And I have every confidence in you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Major Wiser said.

“Don't worry about missing out on Squadron Officer School or any other PME. World War II proved that guys who went through the School of Hard Knocks wound up doing well as squadron commanders. You and several others are carrying on the tradition.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, the memorial service for Colonel Rivers is at 1000 tomorrow?” Tanner asked.

“It is, sir.”

“I'll be there.” The General checked his watch. “It's now 1640. You've got some squadron business, I imagine. Take care of it, Major, then I'll see you at the Officer's Club. We've got a few things to celebrate.”

Major Wiser smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Tanner shook his hand, then left. Then the Major left for his office, and as he got to the squadron's office space, he saw the members of his flight, along with a number of other pilots and GIBs, waiting. Including Major Dave Golen and Lt. Sandi Jenkins. The Major smiled, then gave a thumbs-up. And everyone applauded.

“How'd it go with the General?” Kara asked.

“Pretty good,” the Major said. “He said Colonel Rivers laid down a good foundation with this squadron, and we can only improve on it. I'm not changing a damned thing.”

“That's good to hear,” Capt. Mark Ellis, the Exec, said.

“It is, the CO nodded. He went to Maj. Dave Golen, their IDF “observer.” “Dave.”

“Guru,” Golen said, going by the IDF's habit of first names or call signs. “Again, my congratulations.”

“Thanks, Dave.” Major Wiser turned to 1st Lt. Sandi Jenkins. “Sandi? Feeling better?”

“Much better, sir,” she replied. “I've had a talk with Major Golen, and he's told me some things from '73 and in this war.”

“When he-or any of us-talk, it's from experience. This is his third war, so listen to him.”

“I do, sir.” Sandi replied, and the CO saw Golen nod.

“Good,” Major Wiser said. “Now, I'll see you in the Club. You've got a kill to celebrate.”

Her face brightened. “Yes, sir!”

The CO smiled, then nodded, and went to his office, where his flight mates were waiting. “Guys, if anyone thinks they're getting the 335th anytime soon? Forget it.”

“That's good to hear,” Goalie said.

“It sure is,” Sweaty added. “One more thing to celebrate tonight.”

“It is,' the CO said. “Now, Kara?” He turned to his wingmate. “The last time we celebrated a new ace, you wound up stark naked in the front seat of Carson's aircraft. Now, I don't mind if you get overexcited, but please, no shenanigans like that while the General's here, if you would.”

Kara looked at her CO, but saw that he was serious. “Got you, Major. I'll try and keep things under control.”

“You do that,” Major Wiser replied. Then Mark Ellis knocked on the door. “Mark?”

“Got a few things for you, before you knock off.” the Exec said.

“Guys, I need to take care of this, then I'll see you guys at the Club. The General may be buying the First Round, but I'll buy one in lieu of a promotion party tonight.”

There were smiles, then Goalie said. “Well, when these promotions go through, we'll have to have a squadron promotion party.”

“We will,” the CO promised. As everyone else left, he nodded to Goalie. “And we'll have a more....private celebration as soon as we can.”

Her expression went coy. “I'll be waiting.” Then she nodded and left the office.

“Don't need to ask about that,” Ellis said.

The CO nodded. “Wartime romance. And we're not the only ones in this squadron. Van Loan and Sweaty are seeing each other.”

“I noticed. They share a table at the Club every so often. A table in the chow tent, and on occasion, a sleeping bag or camp bed.”

“Along with two or three other couples, and don't forget Kara's antics,” the CO said. “What have you got for me?”

“Aircraft status update,” Ellis said. “We'll have eighteen for the morning.”

The CO looked at the sheet. “Two down for maintenance?”

“Yep. One's down due to a radar gone tango uniform, and Sandi's bird from the other day still needs a new elevator. The parts for both are on order.”

“Tell Ross to turn the scroungers loose,” the CO ordered. “See if they can't get the radar parts before Supply does. And see if they can't find a new elevator for Sandi's mount.”

Ellis looked at his CO. “That's a factory-level part,” the Exec pointed out.

“So?” Major Wiser replied. “There's bound to be F-4 elevators in some warehouse somewhere. Find one.”

The Exec nodded. “I'll tell Ross.”

“What else?”

“Ryan Blanchard wants an Apache Tracker Team assigned. The Marines, OSI, the new FBI office in town, and the Texas Rangers all think someone's taking an interest in this base.”

“Okay,” the CO said. “Tell her to put it in writing, and I'll approve it. Anything else?”

“That's it,” Ellis said.

“Good,” Major Wiser said. He checked the clock on the wall. 1650. “Good. Ten minutes and we can hit the Club.” Then there was a knock on the door. “Yeah?”

It was one of the Sergeants in the Admin side. “Sir, Major Carson's here.”

“He wants to see me?” Major Wiser asked.

“No, sir. He just got back.”

“Boss, have you-” Ellis asked.

“No. Not yet, but might as well get it over with,' the CO said. “Stay here, though. I want a witness.”

“You got it.”

“Sergeant? Tell the Major the CO wants to see him. Now,” Major Wiser ordered.

“Yes, sir.” the Staff Sergeant said. A minute later, the office door opened, and an officer who was universally despised in the 335th, as well as MAG-11, stepped inside. He was a dead ringer for the Malcolm McDowell played character from the movie Blue Thunder.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Major Frank Carson asked., snapping a salute. And both the CO and XO could tell from the tone of voice that there was a bit of contempt in it.

“I did,” the CO said. He was leaning against the front of his desk, and sketched a return salute. “Close the door.”

Carson did so, and then asked, “What's this about, sir?” And Major Wiser could tell that the “sir” was an afterthought.

“I've been waiting to tell you this since I took over the squadron....”

The next:


335th TFS Squadron Commander's Office, Sheppard AFB, TX: 1652 Hours:


Major Matt Wiser glared at the officer in front of him. He'd loathed the man for over a year and a half, and even when he was still a First Lieutenant, he'd been put off by Major Frank Carson's overbearing, Academy “know-it-all” attitude, his Boston Blue Blood arrogance, and that was the beginning. After coming back from his E&E with the Resistance, and getting 1st Lt. Lisa Eichhorn as his GIB, the two had developed a more...private relationship to go along with their professional one. Carson had found out, and tried to have them written up for fraternization. Major Wiser's predecessor as CO, Lt. Col. Dean Rivers, had asked them if the....private was getting in the way of the professional. They had replied no, and said that if it ever did, he'd be the first to know. Then Colonel Rivers had shoved a memo from General Tanner, the Commanding General of Tenth Air Force, advising unit commanders, JAG, and OSI to ignore any fraternization cases unless it was a senior forcing himself on a subordinate,. He had also outlined several other regulations that were getting in the way of job number one, which was winning the war. And the General felt that anything that got in the way of winning the war was to be ignored. Then, after dismissing the two officers, Colonel Rivers had given Carson a severe dressing-down, and Carson's complaints to General Tanner had been ignored, and now that the Inspector General's representative had been kicked off base by Tanner himself.....it was obvious to everyone that no one cared for Major Carson's attitude, complaints, or the man in general. Except Carson and a few fellow Academy grads from other services who had the same attitude, everyone in Marine Air Group 11 felt the same way.

“Major, have a seat,” Major Wiser said.

“I'd rather stand, sir,” Carson replied. And both the CO and XO could tell the contempt in the man's voice.

The CO nodded. 'Suit yourself, Frank. Now that I've had a couple days to settle in, it's time you and me had a chat. And you'd better pay attention. First of all, what's with you? Your Academy 'know-it-all' attitude, Boston Blue-blood arrogance, strutting around as if you're the Lord and everyone else is the peasants?”

“I have been trying since I arrived in this squadron to enforce Air Force Standards, and all rules and regulations-”

Major Wiser slammed his fist on the desk. “And a lot of that means nothing here. In case you haven't noticed, we are at war. And we've been fighting for our national survival for two bloody years. There's no time for your kind of attitude.” He glared at Carson. “That Academy ring on your finger means nothing. SAMs, triple-A, and MiGs don't discriminate, and ninety percent of the officers in this squadron, hell, the entire Air Force, came out of AFROTC or OTS. They are not brand-new Doolies, despite what you may think. And when NCOs give you advice, you listen! And the enlisted airmen who keep this unit flying and fighting are not pieces of equipment to be used, abused, and disposed of as you see fit. Those men and women work fourteen to sixteen hour days so that we can fly and fight. All that matters is ordnance delivered on the enemy and MiGs shot out of the sky. I could care less if officers go by first name or call sign, or if the NCOs and airmen who work on the flight line or in the hangars are either wearing the grimiest, dirtiest uniforms they have, or wear gym shorts at most, or shorts and either T-shirts or sports bras in the women's case because it's so hot on the flight line. We don't have time for snappy salutes, spit-shined boots, polished brass, or pressed uniforms! We're flying four, five, six times a day, if not more, and we don't have time for that kind of nonsense!”

Carson glared at the CO. It was bad enough that he'd been passed over for command of the squadron, but this...this peasant from some tiny California town, who'd gone to a 'hick' school and then OTS, now not only had the squadron, but rank to go with it. “Sir, there are still Air Force rules, and regulations-”

“And half of that means nothing once the balloon goes up!” The CO shot back. “Remember what the General said? If it gets in the way of winning the war, winning the war comes first! If we have to fold, spindle, bend, or mutilate a few regs in order to get results? So be it. What matters is results first. And when in doubt, win the war! Or has that ever occurred to you?”

“What about rank?' Carson sneered. “I have seniority in rank over you.”

Major Wiser got in Carson's face. “I'm not as rank as you. And I don't let it go to my head. And when a two-star general thinks I'm doing a good enough job running this squadron, that goes pretty far in anyone's book.”

“Just because the General thinks it's okay doesn't make it right,” said Carson.

“Oh? Care to tell him he made a mistake? He'll give you more of an ass-chewing than I ever will,' Major Wiser said. “And before we go any further, I've loathed you ever since you tried to have me and my WSO written up on a fraternization violation. In case you forgot, General Tanner, then the Air Force Chief of Staff himself told JAG and OSI to ignore any such complaints, because winning the war comes first! If you're wondering why I haven't transferred you out already, it's because you could go to JAG and claim retaliation. And I'm not giving you that pleasure.”

“That's another thing,” Carson said. “You and Lieutenant Eichhorn-”

“Ever hear the phrase 'wartime romance'? “ the CO shot back. “We're not the only ones. There's several such romances going on among the officers, and a few among the enlisted as well. As long as we keep our private lives private, it's no one's business but our own. And before you open your mouth, I'll say this: you are a bloody hypocrite.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mark, you have his 201 File?”

“Right here, Boss,” Ells said, handing the CO the file.

“We know what you pulled at the Academy,” the CO said. “Treating the Academy as if it was a Frat House in uniform. Hell, your GPA would've made you eighth in your class. But your disciplinary record puts you in the 49th percentile. Then there's your taking advantage of a female cadet in a SERE exercise.”

“That never went to trial, let alone the Article 32,” Carson reminded the CO.

“Because some tough guys from Boston-did your daddy arrange that-intimidated the victim into dropping the charges. I'll tell you this: she left the Academy, and went to the University of Washington on an AFROTC scholarship thanks to OSI. She's now a C-130 driver at Yokota in Japan, and she's done more for the war effort than you ever will.” Major Wiser said. “Then there's your time at Clark after graduation and getting your wings, and then Elmendorf.”

“That was consensual,” retorted Carson.

“It may have been, but as far as the Wing Commander was concerned, if anyone he doesn't like touches his little girl, it sure isn't. Be glad he didn't take a shotgun to you and give you an ass load of buckshot or just march the two of you to the Chaplain's office for a double-barrel ceremony,” the CO reminded Carson. “Then Moody, and Squadron Officer School, and promotion to O-4 below the zone. How'd you manage that? The Academy's old-boy network help you?”

“I had an understanding commanding officer, unlike here,” Carson snorted.

“And you got married,” Major Wiser said. “But it didn't last long, because you were in the middle of divorce proceedings when the war began. Caught you on leave in Vegas, I see. Celebrating your impending divorce?”

“Wouldn't you?'

“Maybe, but I'm a bachelor,” the CO said. “And last, but not least, the Sandi Jenkins business. There's no excuse for that kind of behavior, and it galls me that a fellow officer would pull that kind of BS. One more reason for anyone to despise you.”

“What...” Carson stammered. How did that get out? It was so simple. One night in bed in exchange for his signature.

“She told Colonel Rivers when she came back as a First Lieutenant and with pilot's wings. He treated her like she was his own daughter, and made her his wingmate,” nodded the CO. “And she was with him when he went down. And before I forget, If I ever hear you badmouthing Colonel Rivers, I'll be tempted to slug you then and there. And everyone else in the squadron would be feeling the same way, so don't bother.”

“Are you threatening me?”

The CO got in Carson's face. “No. Just reminding you that you are the most hated man in this unit and on this base. And I'm giving you notice, Major.” Major Wiser thumbed at a calendar. “New Year's Eve, Major. 11:59 PM. If you haven't done a complete and total 180, you're done. And if you fuck up just once? You are out of my squadron.”

“What?” Carson asked. “You can't be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” Major Wiser said. “And if you want to leave this squadron on your own terms? Just come to me and I'll sign the transfer orders. Then I'll shove you on the next space-available C-130 out of here. My only regret? I'd be making you someone else's problem, and that officer would be wondering what he did to have you arrive.” Then the CO got eye to eye. “Too bad I won't see it, but seeing you shoveling snow at Goose Bay or K.I. Sawyer, or being in some Air Liaison Team on the Montana-Alberta border when it's minus thirty outside in January would be something I'd love to see.”

Major Carson glared at the CO. And to the CO and XO, it was a look of total contempt. “Anything else, sir?” And that 'sir' was an obvious afterthought.

“Just reminding you that I gave you your first, last, and only warning. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,....sir.” Carson muttered.

“I doubt it, but one can hope,” Major Wiser said. “Now get out of my sight!”

Carson didn't say a word, but snapped a salute, did an about-face, then stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

“That, Boss, is not a happy person.” Ellis observed. “Never seen him that mad.”

Major Wiser nodded. “Neither have I, Mark.” He glanced at the wall clock. Ir read 1705. “Why do I get the feeling that the last ten minutes have been a complete waste of time?”

“Had to be done, Boss.” said the XO. “Sooner or later. At least you got it out of the way.”

“Yeah, but why do I also have the feeling that every word I said went in one ear and out the other?”

“At least you gave him fair warning,” Ellis said.

“There is that,” Major Wiser nodded. He looked at the clock. “Come on, the Club's open, and we got a few things to celebrate before twelve-hour kicks in.”

That we do,” grinned Ellis. “And you got a round to buy.”

“Don't remind me,” the CO said.

“Boss, it's my job to remind you.”

Major Wiser laughed. “That it is,” he said. “Come on.” And the two officers left the CO's office, and headed over to the Officer's Club tent.


Officer's Club Tent, Sheppard AFB, TX: 1710 Hours:


Major Matt Wiser and Captain Mark Ellis walked into the tent that held the Officer's Club. The prewar Officer's Club had been a candidate for reactivation, but it was a burned-out shell. It turned out that the Soviets had simply taken it over, until a Resistance operation managed to get a bomb into the building and blew the place apart, killing 44 Soviets and injuring 200 more. In reprisal, the Soviets took 440 prisoners from a forced labor camp and 560 ordinary people rounded up from Wichita Falls and nearby towns, and shot them all. War-crimes investigators were going through the mass grave, even as the fall rains were coming, to recover bodies and try to identify them. When MAG-11 heard the story after moving in, they had donated excess clothing and other supplies to the families looking for their loved ones' remains. And it had given the aircrews and the soldiers from III Corps yet another score to settle.


When the two AF officers entered the tent, they found it full of Air Force, Marine, Navy, and even some Army Aviation officers from III Corps. And it didn't take them long to be noticed by General Tanner and Colonel Allen Brady, the CO of MAG-11. “Ah, I see our last guest of honor has arrived,” the General said.

“Sorry to be late, sir,” Major Wiser said. “But we had squadron business with a certain officer. And I had to give him fair warning.”

Both the General and Colonel Brady nodded. They knew full well who the Major was referring to. “And how did it go?” General Tanner asked.

“About what I expected, sir,” Major Wiser nodded. “Though I can't help but think that everything I said went in one ear and out the other.”

Both Tanner and Colonel Brady nodded as well. They knew that it was more than likely the case, but the talk had to be done. “Time will tell, Major. Either he'll do a complete 180, or he's on his way out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Brady came and shook the Major's hand. “Haven't had time today, Major. But congratulations. Glad to see you make O-4, but too bad the man who thought you should get it isn't here to see it.”

“Thank you, sir,” the Major replied. “I know he's looking down on us and smiling. He knows.”

“That he does,” Colonel Brady said. “Now, get your drinks, because we've got some business to take care of before 1900 and twelve-hour kicks in.”

Major Wiser nodded. “Yes, sir.” He and Mark went to the bar and the barkeep came over. “What have you got tonight, beer wise?”

“Foster's, Sapporo, some Bud,” the barkeep replied.

“Any Sam Adams?”

“Expecting some later in the week. Sorry, Major.”

“Oh, well. Bud for me,” Major Wiser said.

“Same here,” Ellis added.

The barkeep nodded, popped two bottles, and plopped them down in front of the two officers. Major Wiser paid him, then they walked over to where most of the squadron's officers were gathered. “You know, Bud's a good way of sticking it to the Russians.”

“What do you mean by that?” Capt. Kara “Starbuck” Thrace, the Major's wingmate, asked.

“Anheiser-Busch was one of those, like McAir, that wasn't hit in the firebombing of St. Louis,” the Major said. “They're still going, and every bottle they put out is one more to shove up Ivan's ass.”

“That's how many beer bottles shoved up that bastard Chebrikov's rear end?” First Lieutenant Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn, the Major's WSO, asked.

“A lot,” Ellis replied.

The bell at the bar rang, and General Tanner got up. “People,” he said as he surveyed the crowd. “Two days ago, you lost your CO. Lieutenant Colonel Dean Rivers. A fellow Vietnam vet, a trusted aide, and a good friend to me. To you, he was a father figure, someone the more junior members of the squadron looked up to. And to others, he was not just a beloved commanding officer, but he was a good friend. And he'll be dearly missed.” The General paused for a moment. “I know losing a CO is hard, and trust me, in my F-105 days, I lost a couple. But, he's looking down on you and smiling, and he'll be with you in spirit as we finish the job he helped start, and we kick those Commie bastards back to where they came from,” General Tanner surveyed the crowd again. “So, here's to Colonel Rivers.” He raised his beer bottle.

“To Colonel Rivers,” the crowd repeated. And the toast was drunk.

“Now, then, to more positive business,” the General said. “Major Wiser, front and center!”

The Major heard several of his friends mutter “Uh-oh,” as he stepped forward. “General,” he nodded.

“Colonel Rivers set things in motion when he decided his Exec should have the rank that went with the job. Unfortunately, he went down before it could be finalized. It's a pity he's not here to see this, but he's watching you from above and he's no doubt very pleased. So, here's to the new CO of the 335th, Major Matt Wiser, and here's to the best damn Air Force F-4 unit in Tenth Air Force!”

“Hear, hear,” the crowd said, and then the 335th people started to shout “Speech! Speech!”

The Major got up and addressed the crowd. 'Well, people, let me say this: It's an honor and privilege to be your commanding officer. Colonel Rivers had a rule in the squadron: 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.' Well, the 335th ain't broke, and nobody's going to fix it! Despite what some people-” he shot an icy glance to one corner of the bar where Major Frank Carson was sitting-”may think.” He surveyed the 335th officers. “I know I've got to buy a round tonight. But, there's several of you who are up for promotion in the coming weeks. When you guys get your promotions, we're going to have one hell of a promotion party! How's that, people!” There was a lot of applause, then he finished. “And like the General said, Colonel Rivers is going to be watching over us, and be with us in spirit, as we get the job done and send those Commie bastards back to where they came from! Drink up, people!” Then he turned to General Tanner. “General,”

“Major, I believe you have some squadron business to take care of now?”

“Yes, sir,” Major Wiser said. “Lieutenant Valerie Blanchard and Lieutenant Bryan Simmonds, front and center!”

When Sweaty and Preacher heard their names called, there was applause, as everyone knew that they had made ace that day. “Major,” Sweaty nodded.

“Now., Sweaty and Preacher's first kill was a MiG-21R that some Cuban was using to get the guys in Western New Mexico on Candid Camera,” the Major joked. “I got the escort, but she got the photo plane. Their second kill was a MiG-29, and he, like his flight lead, didn't think that an F-4 could kill a Fulcrum, Well, we taught them wrong, and that MiG flight leader walked home from that one. Kill number three was a Hip on the Denver Siege Perimeter, while number four was a MiG-23 that she got when our dear friend Kara Thrace made ace-” the Major waved at Kara, and she waved back-”while their fifth? Some Su-25 jockey thought a Frogfoot could handle an F-4. He thought wrong, and Sweaty and Preacher made sure he walked home from that one. Though I bet as he was walking back to his field, he was probably wondering, 'Where did that damned F-4 come from?'” There was quite a bit of laughter at that. “Now, Sweaty, Preacher, you guys are now fighter aces. You two are a pair of certified, card-carrying aerial assassins, and no one can take that away from you. Welcome to the club!” Major Wiser, an eight-kill ace, said, and there was a thunder of applause.

“Thanks, Major,” Sweaty said, while Preacher echoed it.

“You've got an hour and a half to party hearty, so get with it,” the CO said. He turned to the General, who nodded. 'All right, we got one last bit of business. Lieutenant Sandi Jenkins and Lieutenant Ken Dahlberg, front and center!”

When they heard that, Sandi and Ken gulped, then went to where Sweaty and Preacher had stood.

“Now, you two don't have call signs, and that's something we need to work on, isn't that right people?”
The Major said, and there was a bit of chatter about that, then he waved his hand and everyone quieted down. “Now, Ken, you were so good at the RTU they kept you on as an instructor, but you finally get to do what you signed up for, and you're doing a hell of a job. Sandi?

“Major?” Sandi asked.

“Sandi, you were in the 335th from Day One, not as a pilot, obviously, but as an airman. Then Airman to Pilot opened up, and you were the first to go from this squadron. It was a tough road, but you're back, and you've earned the respect of your squadron mates for coming back. Colonel Rivers took you under his wing, and made you his wingmate, and he treated you as if you were his own daughter. He made you forget that past, and get on with the job at hand. And you were with him when he went down, and speaking as someone who saw two squadron commanders go down, well, 'been there, done that.'” Major Wiser paused, then continued. “I know what it's like. That pit in your stomach. Well, all you can do is suck it up and get on with the job at hand. Now, you've got the older brother from another mother as your element lead-and Major Golen, stand up if you will?” Major Dave Golen, their IDF “observer” stood up. “And the two of you are going to do just fine. Now, she got back in the saddle today, got it out of her system, and, most important, Sandi got her first kill today. How's that for back in the groove?”

Once again, there was quite a bit of applause.

“Now, it may have only been a Hip, but what the hell, a kill's a kill, right?” The Major asked. “And when she gets her fifth? We're going to have a hell of a party, and not only are we going to be proud of her, but I know Colonel Rivers will be, watching from above. Isn't that right?”

The crowd shouted approval, “Hell, yes!”

“Okay, Sandi? Ken? You two did great today, and keep at it.” The two nodded, then Major Wiser finished. “Okay, I'll buy the next round, then it's sixty-five minutes to twelve-hour, so drink up, people!” The Major bought the round, then took his second beer over to Goalie's table. She had been sitting with Kara and Brainiac, Kara's WSO. “Well?”

“Was it this raucous when Colonel Rivers took over?” Goalie asked.

“More subdued,” The CO said. “We just had two CO s and an XO shot out from under us, the news was still bad, even though the front lines were stalled, and we were wondering how long he'd last.”

“I can imagine,” Kara said. “Heard plenty about how bad it was at Kingsley.” Kingsley Field in Oregon was the West Coast F-4 RTU.

“Bad enough,” the CO said, recalling those first months of the war. He changed the subject. “Now, Kara, you going to hustle anyone at the pool table or at a poker game tonight?”

“Maybe, Boss,” Kara said. “What are you getting at?” And both Goalie and Brainiac were listening intently.

“Well, the last thing anyone wants is a repeat of your antics after you made ace,” the Major noted. “Tonight, if someone loses to you and can't pay? Take a check for once.”

“Okay, Boss,” Kara said as she got up and headed over to the pool table.

“Well?” Goalie asked. “When are we having our little private celebration?”

“Not while the General's here,” Major Wiser said. It was an open secret in the 335th that the two were seeing each other on a more.....intimate basis.

“Fair enough,” Goalie said.

The Marine mess people brought dinners into the Club, and the CO got a fried chicken dinner for himself and another one for Goalie. “This is fine. A cold beer, fried chicken, corn on the cob, cole slaw, and good company.”

“That it is,” Goalie smiled.

Major Wiser nodded, then glanced over at the pool table. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Goalie asked, turning to look.

The CO put his palm to his face. “Please tell me that isn't Kara and the General at the Pool Table, and someone has challenged the other to a game.”

“Okay, I won't,” Goalie said.

“That's good.”

“But Brainiac will,” Goalie said, nodding at Kara's WSO.

“Well?” Major Wiser asked.

Brainiac smiled. “Exactly as described, Major.”

“I was afraid of that.”


The CO, and everyone else, watched, either from a distance or close up, as General Tanner and Kara went through the game. It didn't take long for Kara to realize that she was up against someone who'd done this before, and often. And it didn't take long for experience to take hold, for there was shock in the Club as General Tanner did something that few had managed to do. Beat Kara. She smiled, shook hands, paid the $50.00, then came over to the CO's table in a fury.

“How'd he manage that?” Kara fumed as she finished her beer.

Goalie looked at her. “How much did he take you for?”

“Fifty,” spat Kara. “He's done this before.

“I'll find out,” Major Wiser said, standing up. “And Kara?”

“What?”

“Can't win them all.”


Major Wiser went over to the General, who was shaking hands with Colonel Brady. “General, I see you've managed to do what very few have managed to do. Beat the Wild Thing at one of her games.”

Tanner nodded. “Major, I'm not new at this. Won quite a few at Takhili in my second F-105 tour.”

“I'll take your word for it, sir.”

“Well, I've got some of my own paperwork to catch up on,” Tanner said. “I'll see you at the memorial service. 1000, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tanner took his leave, then Major Wiser went back to the table. Kara was still there, fuming. “What'd the General say?”

“Takhili, 1967,” the CO said. “Did this quite a few times, he said..”

“Figures.” Kara spat. “Well, the poker table awaits.”

One of the Navy Flight Surgons with MAG-11 rang the bell at the bar just after that. “Okay, people! Twelve-hour now in effect!”

Major Wiser checked his watch. “Nineteen hundred on the dot,” he said. “Okay, Kara? You stick to club soda or Seven-up. Comprende?”

“Gotcha,” Kara said as she got up.

“And Kara?”

“Yeah, Major?”

“No shenanigans like you did when you made ace, okay? The last thing I want to is find out you're in Carson's front office, stark naked and drunk as a skunk. Especially while the General's here,” Major Wiser said with all due seriousness.

“Major, you know me,” Kara said, giving the innocent act.

“I do,” the Major replied. “There's a right time for getting crazy, but tonight's not one of them. Not while the General's on base.”

Kara looked at her CO and saw that he meant it. “Understood.”

“And one more thing: tonight, make an exception. If someone can't pay what they owe you? Take a check this one night.”

“Will do, Major,” Kara said, then she went and got in on a poker game.

“Well?” Goalie asked.

“This is a first,” Major Wiser said. “Kara actually taking it cool for a night.'

“With the General here? Even she wouldn't get that crazy.” Goalie said.

“You never know, but she will,” the CO replied. “I'll get us a plate of nachos, something nonalcoholic to drink, and be back We've got a couple of hours to kill before aircrew curfew.”

The card games and the pool table were busy, and those not interested were glued to a rerun of the 1979 World Series on ABC when Colonel Brady rang the bell. “Okay, people! Aircrew curfew for those on the flight schedule is now in effect!”

Those on the flight schedule, no matter what service they belonged to, got up and headed for their respective tents. Even with the memorial service scheduled for 1000, it would still be a typical day, with three or four sorties per crew the norm.

And more:



335th TFS Offices, Sheppard AFB, TX: 29 October, 1987, 0530 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser entered the squadron offices, and found the night duty staff still at it. They didn't get off duty until 0600, then the day shift took over. Another bunch of unsung airmen who keep us in the fight, he knew, though their numbers compared to the day shift were small. He nodded at Capt. Kerry Collins, the NDO. Collins was serving as Night Duty Officer while he got over a cold, and Doc Waters, the Flight Surgeon, was serious about anything that affected the health of the aircrews. As the CO came in, Collins jumped up and Major Wiser nodded. “Kerry, we're in a war zone, and that jumping up and down nonsense has to stop.”

“Sorry, sir. Old habits are hard to break.”

“Academy, right?” the Major asked.

“Class of '82, sir,” Collins nodded. He'd just been promoted to Captain only a month earlier.

“That explains it,” Major Wiser said. “You've heard about Major Carson?”

“Yes, sir,” Collins said. “Sir, if those stories are true-”

“They are, Captain,” the CO said. “You can take it to the bank.”

“Then, sir,” Collins said with due seriousness, “Find something and nail his ass to the wall, then nail him. Uh, sir.”

“Hopefully, we'll do just that,” Major Wiser said. “How's the cold?”

“Another four or five days, Major,” Collins spat. He gestured to some pills he had been prescribed. “Be glad to get off the pills.”

“Well, at least at night you can steal a nap. Unless there's a Scud alert, and we haven't had much of those recently.” The CO gestured to his office. “The Exec in?”

“Yes, sir. He's in your office.”

“Thanks, Kerry,” Major Wiser said. He went to his office and opened the door. “Morning, Mark.”

Captain Mark Ellis, the XO of the 335th, stood up from a chair in front of the desk.”Boss,” he nodded, then handed his CO a cup of coffee.

“Okay, what do you have for me?” Asked the CO.

The XO handed him a paper. “Aircraft status sheet. Still two birds down.”

“Ross' scroungers find anything to help in that regard?' Major Wiser asked, looking at his Exec.

“A couple of the radar parts, but not everything,” Ellis admitted. “They're still looking. But they did get us some extra hydraulic fluid and brake fluid. And an unattended Pave Spike pod.”

“A WHAT?”

“A for real Pave Spike pod, unattended with no tags identifying which unit it belonged to. So they, uh, appropriated it.” The XO said.

The CO stared at his Exec, then nodded. “All right. Anything on the other parts or the elevator for Sandi's bird?”

“They're running down leads, and as for the elevator, Ross says that he knows someone who knows someone who might have an idea where we can find one.”

Major Wiser nodded. “Okay. Just as long as there's no felony arrests, and no one gets caught or hurt,” he reminded his Exec. Then he signed the sheet. “Any word on replacement aircraft?”

The Exec handed him a message form. “Two birds due in from Japan, and we should have them by Monday.”

“Monday,” the Major made a note. “That's 2 November. From McClellan?”

“You got it. They have to install the bombing computer and the stuff like Pave Tack and Pave Spike interface, and the AGM-65 controls. The stuff that Japanese law doesn't let them install at the factory.”

Major Wiser nodded. “And anything about crews?”

“Two crews fresh from Kingsley Field.”

'Okay, that'll get us to twenty-two aircraft and thirty-two crews,” the CO commented. “Most we can expect for a while.”

“Yeah,” the Exec agreed.

“Anything personnel wise?”

'One applicant for Airman to Pilot,” the Exec handed a form to the CO. “Airman First Class Holly Lockhart. Five semesters at USC before she dropped out to join the Air Force.”

“Any problems?” Major Wiser asked.

“Yeah, She works for one Major Frank Carson,” Ellis said, and he could tell that the CO's face was turning red upon hearing that.

“Of all the...and we know Frank's price for signing the application.”

“We do, sad to say,” Ellis replied.

The CO nodded. The thought of Carson using his power to get another female airman into his bed for a night made him furious. Not to mention queasy. “Okay, I've got an idea to bypass Frank. You're the Exec, and can sign things for me if I'm not available, right?'

“That's right, Boss.”

An evil-looking grin came over the CO's face. “Here's how we'll do it. You sign for him, as he's 'unavailable.' Then bring the application to me, I'll sign it, then we pass it along and Lockhart packs her bags. You like?”

“Major, has anyone told you that you can be a sneaky bastard?” Ellis said.

“Got to be one when I was Exec,” the CO replied. “What else?”

“Morning report for MAG-11,” Ellis said, handing him the document.

The Major nodded and signed it. After he handed it back to Ellis, there was a knock on the door. “Yeah?”

A female officer in a flight suit with wavy blonde hair came in. First Lieutenant Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn was the Major's WSO, and also his girlfriend, though since he'd become CO, they'd been more discrete, especially with General Tanner, the Tenth Air Force Commanding General, on base. She had two cups of coffee in her hands. “Morning, Major,”

“Lieutenant,” the CO nodded pleasantly, though it was an open secret in the squadron that the two were on an intimate basis with each other. “Still trying to bribe me with coffee?”

“Just trying to make sure my pilot is awake and alert, as usual,” Goalie smiled.

“Fair enough,” Major Wiser said. “Mark, everything set for Colonel Rivers' memorial service?'

“All set, Major. Everyone's supposed to be back by 1000, and the only ones who can't attend are the ordnance guys and Combat Security Police. They have to work, because-”

“I know: as soon as the service is over, people are going right to their cockpits,” the CO said. “And chances are, my flight will be among them. Who's the Chaplain?”

“Navy one from MAG-11,” Ellis said.

“Rivers was Lutheran,” the CO reminded the Exec. “Is he?”

“Couldn't get one,” Ellis said. “Episcopalian.”

The Major nodded. “That's me, but I haven't been in church in years. Okay, squadron color guard?'

“Ross is handling that.” Master Sergeant Michael Ross was the senior NCO for the 335th.

“The salute?”

“Colonel Brady offered some Marines to do that,” the XO replied. Colonel Allen Brady commanded Marine Air Group 11, to which the 335th was attached. “He said it's the least he could do.”

Major Wiser nodded. “All right. Ten hundred?”

“Starts on the dot,” Ellis said.

The CO nodded, then looked at the wall clock. “0545. Chow tent opens in fifteen minutes. Let's go eat, then we brief, then we fly.” Then he looked at his GIB. “Kara keep her promise?”

“She did. Saw her in the shower, and she was ready to go.” Goalie said.

“Fair enough,” said the Major. “Let's go.” He drained his coffee, then nodded at his WSO. “Ready?”

“Hungry enough to eat a horse, and ready to fly.”

The CO nodded. “Let's go. Oh, Mark? Next time?'

“Yeah?' the Exec replied.

“Cocoa.” Major Wiser said, then he headed on out.

“Where am I going to find cocoa on this base?” Ellis wondered aloud.

“Ask Ross,” Lieutenant Eichhorn said, then she followed the CO.

Ellis nodded, smiled, and said to himself. “Gotta keep the CO happy.” Then he made a note for Ross and the scroungers, then followed the CO to the Mess Tent.


When they got to the Officer's Mess Tent, they found most of the 335th's aircrew, along with their Marine and Navy counterparts. And the first officer Major Wiser found was Colonel Brady. “Colonel,” he said, saluting.

“Major,” Brady said, returning the salute. “Just wanted to let you know: I'll be at the service. And your Exec asked about a rifle salute? Not to worry. I'll provide seven Marines for one.”

“Thank you, sir,” Major Wiser said.

“And Major? If you need any advice? Just ask. Stepping into a dead man's shoes is something that is not taught in any service academy or officer's candidate school, regardless of branch,” Brady said.

“I will, sir,” the Major said. “And where's General Tanner?”

“He's eating with the enlisted troops this morning,”

And that was why the General was so popular. He took care of his subordinates, something that a certain officer in the 335th seemed not to understand. “We're his 'kids' you know, sir,”

“That we are, Major,” replied Brady.

Then Major Wiser saw the members of his flight gathered near the entrance. “Sir, I need to talk with my flight.”

“No problem, Major,” Brady said. “In case I don't see you before, good luck, and I'll see you at the service.”

Major Wiser nodded. “Thank you, sir, and will do.” He, Ellis, and Goalie went over to where Kara, Sweaty, Hoser, and their respective WSOs were waiting. “Kara,”

“Major,” Captain Kara “Starbuck” Thrace replied. “Had a quiet night.”

“She did,” First Lieutenant Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard said. “Got home with us, and woke up at zero-dark-thirty, ready to get with it.”

“Any antics?” Major Wiser asked.

“Nope,' Kara replied.

The CO nodded. “I don't mind people out getting crazy, but not while the General's here.”

“Will do, Major,” Kara said, and the others nodded.

Just then, the Mess Officer came out and changed the sign from CLOSED to Open. “All ready, folks,” he said.

“All right: let's eat. Then I'll get the frag order, we'll brief, then we fly.” Major Wiser said.

After breakfast, his flight headed for the old classroom they used as a briefing room, while the CO went and got the FRAGO from Capt. Don Van Loan, the Ops Officer for the 335th. He then went to the briefing room, and found his flight members waiting. “People,” he said.

“What have we got, Guru?” Sweaty asked. Guru was the CO's call sign.

Guru opened the packet and a scowl went over his face. “Great. On-call CAS. Northeast sector, along I-30.”

“We could be in a holding pattern for a while,” Kara pointed out.

First Lieutenant Nathan “Hoser” West, Sweaty's wingmate, nodded. 'That we can, Boss.

“I know,” Guru said. “Let's see...antiarmor loadout, with twelve Rockeye CBUs each airplane. Full load 20-mm, four AIM-9s and two AIM-7s, two wing tanks and ECM pod to go along with that.”

“What if they don't give us a target? First Lieutenant Bryan “Preacher” Simmonds, Sweaty's GIB, asked.

“I'll ask Van Loan for any good secondary targets,” Guru replied. “If he can't give us any? We'll find some opportunity targets. Because we don't get paid for bringing ordnance home.”

First Lieutenant Kathy “KT” Thornton, who was Hoser's GIB, asked, “Bailout areas still the same as yesterday? “

“They are, and before you ask, no change in the weather, and no change for two days. There's a storm coming into California tomorrow, and we'll feel it in two days. So we make the most of good weather.”

Kara nodded, then asked, “Threats?”

“Anything from Regimental level on up,” the CO replied. “And the same MiG fields as yesterday as well.” He regarded his flight members. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “Okay, gear up, and I'll see you at 512.”

The flight members nodded, then everyone headed to the locker rooms to gear up. On the way out, Guru stopped by the Ops office and found Don Van Loan. “Major?” Van Loan asked.

“Don, we drew on-call CAS, and we need secondary targets in case we don't get tasking.” Guru said.

“Got that truck park east of Rockwall on Route 276,” Van Loan said. “The one you could've hit, but found that SA-6 site instead.”

“Anything else?”

“Suspected divisional HQ north of the junction of F.M. 548 and F.M. 233, north of Forney,” Van Loan pointed to the suspected target on the map. “And there's a vehicle maintenance and repair area at Roue 205 and F.M 548, near Chisolm.”

“And if we find something else, it's fair game.”

“You got it, Boss.”

“Okay,” Guru said. “Have a good one, and I'll see you when we get back, or at the service, whichever's first.”

“You too,” Van Loan said, shaking the CO's hand.

Major Wiser went out of the office and as he did, Major Frank Carson, the nemesis to him and everyone else in the squadron and MAG-11, came in. “Frank,”

“Major....” Carson said, and the CO could tell it was a sneer.

“I'll say this once: you say one bad thing about Rivers, and you'd better pray I'm the only one who heard it. Because if the General does...”

“Is that all?” Carson sneered.

“No. Airman Holly Lockhart is going to Airman to Pilot. Whether you like it or not,” Guru said, then he headed over to his plane's dispersal, leaving a confused Major Carson in his wake. When he got to 512, his flight was waiting. “Guys,

“What'd Carson want to know?” Sweaty asked.

“He won't be forcing an airman into bed who wants to go to Airman to Pilot, let's put it that way,” Gurus said. “Okay, Van Loan found us some secondary targets. If we don't get a tasking by 0900, we're going for one. If we can't ID a secondary? Free strike. There's enough in that AO to hit.”

“There should be,” Goalie said. “That's 1st Guards Army, according to the intel sheet.”

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Same drill as before: Call signs between us on the radio, mission code to anyone else. Got it?”

“Got it,” Sweaty said, and heads nodded.

“Okay, anything else?” There wasn't . “Let's hit it.” Guru said.

The crews went to man their aircraft, and both Guru and Goalie went to 512, and Staff Sergeant Michael Crowley, the crew chief, was waiting. “Major,” he said, saluting.

“Sergeant,” Guru said. “512 ready?”

“She's ready to rock, sir,” Crowley said.

Nodding, both Guru and Goalie went through their walk-around, then they mounted the aircraft. After strapping in, they wen through the preflight, then Sergeant Crowley gave the “start engines” signal. First, one, then two, J-79 engines were up and running, then Guru called the tower for taxi and takeoff. He was cleared to taxi, and as he did, Kara, Sweaty, and Hoser taxied behind him. They held at the end of the runway so the armorers could pull the weapon safeties, then Guru's element was cleared to taxi for takeoff. Guru taxied onto the runway, and Kara was tucked in echelon right. Then he called the tower. “Tower, Corvette One-one requesting takeoff clearance.”

The tower flashed a green light in response. Then both pilots released their brakes, and both F-4s rolled down the runway and into the air, with Sweaty and Hoser right behind them.

Just wondering, guys; did anyone pick out who the Su-25 driver was that Sweaty splashed?

Yes, without even checking wikipedia: Afghan war hero, later politician, amirite?

You are correct. And the story goes on, while the 335th says goodbye to a dearly loved CO:


North of Dallas, Texas: 0845 Hours:


Corvette Flight was orbiting at 26,000 feet over North Texas, and the aircrews could see other aircraft orbiting, then being cleared to strike. However, none had anti-armor loads, while their flight and a Marine F-4 flight just above them did. And in all four Corvette Flight aircraft, tempers were running short.

Major Matt Wiser, the flight lead and the CO of the 335th TFS, glanced at his watch. “0845. We need to strike somebody and get back,” he said to his WSO.

“Don't get paid for bringing ordnance home,” First Lieutenant Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn said. “How long have we been here?”

“Since 7:30,” Major Wiser, call sign Guru, said. “Can't stay here all day. I”ll call Hillsboro.” Hillsboro was the call sign for an EC-130E Airborne Command Post that directed the FACs and ground-based Air Liaison Teams with ground forces. “Hillsboro, Corvette One-one.”

“Corvette One-one, Hillsboro, go.” the controller replied.

“Any tasking for us? If not, we have prebriefed secondary targets and can go after those,” Guru said.

“Stand by, Corvette.”

“You said it ten minutes ago, fella,” Guru muttered.

“Hey, Lead?” Capt. Kara “Starbuck” Thrace, called. “Anything?”

“Nada, Two,” Guru replied. “Yeah, I know, we got targets to service and then a place to be.”

“Roger that, Lead,” Kara replied.

“Corvette One-one, Hillboro,” the ABCC controller replied. “Contact Nail Six-One for tasking.”

“Roger, Hillsboro,” Guru replied. “Contact Nail Six-One.”

“Hey, Hillsboro, this is Shamrock Zero-eight,” the Marine flight elader called. “Can we get in on Corvette's action?”

While the Marines were talking with Hillsboro, Guru called the FAC. “Nail Six-One, Corvette One-one. How copy?”

“Read you, Corvette,” Nail replied. “Say aircraft and type of ordnance please.”

“Corvette Flight has four Foxtrot-Four Echoes, with twelve Rockeyes and full twenty-mike-mike each airplane.”

“Copy that, Corvette,” Nail said. “We have an armored column moving north on F.M. 548 headed for Route 276. They're yours.”

“Roger that, Nail,” Guru replied. “Corvette, on me,” Guru said, and he took his F-4 down. The others followed. As they went in, Guru saw an A-7K orbiting overhead. That would be the FAC.

“Corvette, Nail, expect regimental level air defense,” Nail said. That meant ZSU-23-4s and SA-9 or SA-13 SAMs, plus shoulder-fired missiles.

“Copy,” Guru replied. “Corvettes, music on, switches on, and time to go to work,”

“Two,” Kara.

“Three,” Lieutenant Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard.

“Four,” Lieutenant Nathan “Hoser” West.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Nail, can you mark the target?”

“That's affirmative, Corvette,” Nail replied. 'Can you give me two passes?”

“Nail, Corvette, that's a negative,” replied Guru. “One pass only.”

“Roger Corvette,” Nail said. 'Marking the target.”

Corvette Flight watched as the A-7K rolled in, and fired two white phosphorous rockets to mark the lead elements of the armored column. As the A-7 pulled up, tracer fire and a SAM came up after the FAC, but missed. “All right, people!” Guru said. “One pass, south to north.” He turned to get lined up for his attack run.

“Switches set,” Goalie said. “All set back here.”

“Good girl,” Guru said, “Corvette Lead in hot!” He rolled in on his run, picking out the leading vehicles. God, a whole armored regiment on the move....This won't be your morning, Ivan. Guru picked out the regimental advanced guard and lined up some tanks in his pipper. “HACK!” Twelve Rockeye CBUs came off the racks, then he pulled away. “Lead's off target.”

Below, A Soviet army captain was leading the advanced guard of the 292nd Guards Tank Regiment, 72nd Gaurds Motor-Rifle Division. The division had been shot up at Wichita in May, and had been in reserve with the rest of 1st Guards Army, but now, they were back at the front, and the division had been sent to shore up the 204th MRD, which was a mobilization-only unit, equipped with old T-54s and open-topped BTR-60s, and was getting shot to pieces. His men were mostly veterans, and were eager to get back into action, and show these Americans that the Soviet Army never gave up. The captain looked up from the commander's hatch on his T-64BK command tank and saw a dot approaching his unit at high speed, and three more behind it. He yelled into his throat microphone, “AIRCRAFT ALARM!” Then Guru's F-4 flew overhead and the CBUs came off the aircraft.

Guru pulled out and rolled left so that he could see how his bombs did. He and Goalie were looking as the CBUs exploded, and a number of vehicles exploded in fireballs. “SHACK!”

“Good hits, Corvette Lead,” Nail said.

“Thanks, Nail,” Guru said as he headed north.

“Two's in hot!” Kara said as she came in.

“Triple-A coming up,” First Lieutenant Judd “Brainiac” Brewster, Kara's GIB, said.

“No radar,” Kara said. She lined up the advanced guard's 122-mm SP guns. “HACK!”

The Soviet captain watched as several tanks fell out of line, burning, and just as one crew bailed out of a burning tank, it exploded, killing them, and sending shrapnel flying. He ducked, and as his tank drove forward, he stood up in his hatch and looked to his rear. Just then, Kara's bird came over and released its bombs, and he saw the CBU bomblets explode on and around his artillery battery.

“Good hits!” Brainiac said as Kara rolled away. “And secondaries!”

“All right!” Kara replied as she set course north. “Two off target,” she called, then asked, “Anything behind us?”

“Just Sweaty rolling in.”

“Three's in!” Sweaty called, and she rolled in on the target. She picked out the center of the column, where some tanks and APCs were mixed together. Sweaty ignored the tracer fire from several tank machine guns as she rolled in. Lining up a pair of tanks in the pipper, she muttered, “Not today...and HACK!” Twelve more Rockeyes landed on the Soviet column as her F-4 pulled away.

The Soviet captain ducked again as Sweaty's F-4 came over, and this time,a rain of bomblets landed behind his tank. He had been tucked in behind the lead tank company and a company of BMP-1Ms had been right behind his own tank, and just behind the motor-rifle troops was the second tank company.. It was that company was hit, and several APCs and tanks took hits in their thin roof armor and they went up in fireballs. Grimacing, the captain ordered his driver to keep moving. The sooner the advanced guard was out of this air strike, the better.

“Righteous!” First Lieutenant Bryan “Preacher” Simmonds, Sweaty's WSO, called.

“Good hits?” Sweaty asked as she banked away. “Three's off target.”

“Great hits, and we got a few secondaries,” Preacher called.

“Flak or SAMs?” Sweaty asked as she turned the F-4 north.

“Negative,”

“Four in hot!' Hoser called. He spotted what looked like an SA-9 launch vehicle and several APCs deploying, and to him, that was an inviting target. He lined them up in his pipper....

Just then, the SA-9 fired, head on at him, and his GIB, First Lieutenant Kathy “KT” Thornton, called, “SAM, Twelve O'clock!”

“Not enough,” Hoser said. The missile flew by their plane, and he hit the pickle button. “HACK!” Again, Rockeye CBUs came off, and this time, the CBUs tore into the SAM track and the APCs, exploding the SA-9 vehicle and killing a ZSU-23 for good measure, while also killing several tanks that had gotten off the road to disperse.

“Good hits!” KT called, and she involuntarily ducked as some tracers flew over the F-4.

“”Four's off,” Hoser called, taking the F-4 north.

“Copy that, Four,” Guru called. “Egress and meet up over Lavon Lake, then we're gone.”

Behind them, the advanced guard of the 292nd Guards Tank Regiment was halted, and many of its vehicles were either knocked out or were damaged. The captain grimaced, wondering how he'd inform the regimental commander, when his tank ran over an unexploded CBU bomblet. The blast tore off the left track, and the tank slid into a ditch. The Captain shook his head. It was turning out to be a miserable day, and it wasn't even midmorning. He called his regimental commander, who ordered him to halt in place and await reinforcements and assistance. Just then, from the south, came four more F-4s.....the flight from VMFA-333 was rolling in.....


Over Lavon Lake, Guru was orbiting, and waiting. First Kara, then Sweaty, then Hoser, all came up. Then Guru contacted Nail. “Nail Six-One, Corvette One-one. Got a BDA for us?”

“Corvette, Nail. I give you a four-decimal zero. All bombs on target. Thanks a bunch.”

“Copy that Nail, and you're welcome. We are outbound for home plate.” Guru then set course back to Sheppard.

“What time is it?” Sweaty asked. “We're cutting it close.”

Guru glanced at his watch. “0925,” he replied. “Twenty minutes there, then who knows how long in the pattern.”

“Yeah,” Goalie said. “Well, we'll be there. Even if everyone in this flight is in sweaty flight suits.”

“Remember what LeMay told a recon driver in the Cuban Missile Crisis? He said that he'd never question anyone's appearance if he'd just returned from a combat mission.”

“They told us that at the Academy,” Goalie said.

It was still twenty minutes until Corvette Flight was in the Sheppard traffic pattern. There were two other 335th flights ahead of them, and all had four aircraft, Guru was pleased to see. After several Marine flights of both Phantoms and Hornets left, then it was their turn to land. After touching down, the flight taxied away, and as they did so, the crews popped their canopies. Then they taxied into their dispersal area and then their revetments.

Guru shut down the engines, then took off his helmet. “0955,” he said.

“Shit, you're right!” Goalie said, glancing at her own watch. “We'd better get over there.” She indicated a hangar where the service was being held.

Sergeant Crowley, the crew chief, came up with the crew ladder. “Sir, you'd better get over there,”

“You are so right, Sergeant,” Guru said. He, then Goalie, climbed down from the aircraft. They had a quick look around 512, then Guru said, “She's working like a champ, Sergeant, Too bad you guys have to get her turned around...”

A Dodge Crew-Cab pickup pulled up to the revetment just as Kara, Sweaty, Hoser, and the GIBs arrived at 512's revetment. It was Master Sergeant Ross, the senior NCO. “Get in, sir! I'll get you all over there.”

“Let's go,” Guru said, and all four crews piled into the pickup, and Ross drove over to the hangar. There was already a crowd of AF and Marine personnel there, waiting, When Guru and the others got out of the truck, still with helmets and flight gear, he noticed General Tanner and Colonel Brady talking with Capt. Mark Ellis, the Executive Officer of the 335th. “General,” he said, saluting.

“Major,” Tanner returned the salute. “Well, if our friend Colonel Rivers is watching, and I have no reason to doubt it, he's no doubt smiling with approval. Half of those at his own memorial service show up in sweaty flight suits and haven't even gotten out of their flight gear.”

“Yes, sir,” Guru said.

“Still got a couple of minutes, Major,” Tanner said. “How'd it go out there?”

“Made the lead element of an armored regiment go away, sir,” Guru said. “Some flak, but not much.”

“I'll go along with that, sir,” Kara said. “Hardly anything came up at us.”

“General,” Ellis said, “Licon's been taking impromptu debriefs as people trickle in. But sir, that can wait. The Major's flight is the last in.”

“Let's go, Major,” Tanner said.

“Yes, sir,” Guru replied.

General Tanner led them into the hangar, where folding chairs had been set up for Colonel Rivers' memorial service. There was a lectern up front, with both American and Air Force flags flanking it. One of the chaplain's assistants directed them to their seats, with the General seated next to both Guru and Colonel Brady. Tanner looked around, and saw how everyone was dressed. “I think he'd be pleased.”

“Sir?” Guru asked.

“Enlisted mechanics and ordnance people in their grimy work uniforms, other enlisted and ground officers in BDUs, and the aircrew in flight suits. Hell, Major, you and two other flights didn't even have time to get out of your flight gear.”

“Yes, sir. But General, I think he'd like it that way. Since we're going back out not long after it's over.”

“That you are, Major,” Tanner said. He was in BDUs himself.

Guru nodded, then saw one officer in dress blues. “Sir, there's one who we all know and hate who 's dressed up.”

“Well, Major, expecting him to go with the flow might be a waste of time, but the effort has to be made,” the General replied, referring to Major Frank Carson.

Guru nodded, “Yes, sir,” then he noticed the Chaplain coming with the squadron honor guard. “Sir, it's starting.”

The Star Spangled Banner began to play, and everyone stood to attention and saluted. The Chaplain came in, followed by Master Sergeant Ross, then the squadron honor guard. The Chaplain went to the lectern, while the honor guard flanked the lectern. Then he spoke. “Welcome everyone.” Commander James Champion, USN, CC, said. “I see the 'come as you are' feeling isn't just limited to the Marines,” noticing the dress of the audience. “Please be seated.”

The audience took their seats, then a recording of Amazing Grace began to play. When it was finished, the Chaplain continued “Let us pray. Heavenly Father, we ask thee to admit the soul of Lieutenant Colonel Dean Rivers into your loving arms. Colonel Rivers gave his life in the service of his country, to free those suffering under the jackboot of an oppressive and uncaring occupier, and to protect those who are still free. Comfort his family, who need your blessing as they deal with the loss of a husband and father, Comfort also his fellow airmen, especially those in his squadron, as they deal with the loss of a beloved commanding officer and dear friend. And give your protection to those who are carrying on with the mission he began, as they go into harm's way. Amen.”

“Amen,” the audience repeated.

“Thank you for coming,” the Chaplain said. “Though I didn't know Colonel Rivers as well as most of you, we did have conversations. He was a devoted father, husband, and commanding officer, who is missed not only by his family, but by you. He wasn't just a commanding officer, but a father figure to you all. He is missed by everyone who knew him, and and when he reported to Saint Peter, he didn't need to say much, just 'One more airman reporting, sir. I've served my time in hell.'” The chaplain paused, then nodded. “Though when he got to the Pearly Gates, he no doubt found them guarded by United States Marines,” the Chaplain smiled at the Marine officers in attendance. “But with God's blessing, he will watch over you, as you carry on in his stead.” He nodded to General Tanner. “General, if you'll say a few words?”

General Tanner nodded, then went to the lectern. “Chaplain, everyone. What can you say when you lose someone who was not only a devoted aide, but an outstanding squadron commander? Not much. Dean Rivers was the best aide I've ever had the pleasure to have, and he was always ready, with a work ethic that would've pleased any corporate CEO or the Air Force Chief of Staff. Though when he came to the 335th, he realized that a lot of what he'd learned didn't apply in a war zone, so he became more like Robin Olds than Curtis LeMay,” and there was quite a bit of laughter at that from the audience.

“Dean did things his way, and when they got results, that was all that mattered. And now he's gone. We can take comfort in knowing that though the job's not done, we're on the way to getting it done,” Tanner said. He then looked up towards the hangar ceiling. “And don't worry about Linda and the kids. I'll make sure they're taken care of, and you can count on it.” The General nodded. “Chaplain,” He then went and sat back in his seat.

“Thank you, General,” the Chaplain said. “Major Wiser? Could you come up and say a few words?”

Guru gulped. Though he'd been to all too many of these, he never knew what to say. But he nodded, then went to the lectern. “Thank you, Chaplain. General, Colonel Brady, everybody. Colonel Rivers wasn't just a commanding officer, he was a father figure to everyone in the unit. Whether you were a veteran, or a brand new pilot, WSO, or airman new to the squadron, if you needed to talk about something bothering you? He made time to talk. All you had to do was knock on his office door, and if he wasn't busy? He'd find a few minutes to listen to you and give some friendly advice. He took care of his people, didn't let being an Academy product go to his head, was one of the boys after hours, and when it was his turn to buy a round? He did it like anyone else. And when the female pilots and GIBs came into the squadron? He didn't care. As long as they did their jobs, what did that matter to him? All he saw were pilots and WSOs who wanted to get on with the job of winning the war, and that's what mattered. He listened to the advice the NCOs gave, and found time to talk to the enlisted airmen who make sure those of us who fly and fight can do our jobs. He treated them the same way he would've have wanted if he was a subordinate. And he'll be missed.

“When I came back from my E&E, he asked me if anything was bothering me before getting back in the saddle. We sat down, and I told him that I'd seen and done things that no one should ever have to. Not having been in those circumstances, he could only say this: 'Who am I to judge? You did what you had to do in order to get out of it. Don't let it get to you, and get with the business at hand.' Well, I did just that, followed his advice, and well.....He knew when it was time to be a commanding officer, and when it was time to be one of the boys. He also enjoyed a good laugh, and when it was his time to pay for a round, he cheerfully paid for the beer. Though I imagine that he's having a hard time upstairs explaining to the likes of George Patton or Hap Arnold how he handled the wildest, craziest, and yet, one of the best fighter pilots he'd ever seen,” Guru said, nodding at Kara, and there was some laughter at that. “And I know you're with us as we finish the job you helped start. You were with Sandi Jenkins when she splashed that Hip, and thanks.” He looked up. “GBU, Colonel, and Godspeed.” Guru then went back to his seat.

“Good job, Major,” Tanner whispered.

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said. “I never know what to say at these things.”

“You're not the only one.”

The Chaplain went back to the lectern. “Let us pray,” he said, reciting the Lord's Prayer. Then a recording of Amazing Grace was played, then he nodded to a Marine Gunnery Sergeant. The Gunny went to the open hangar door, where a squad of seven Marines were waiting.

“Squad! Present Arms!'

The riflemen presented their M-16s.

“Ready, aim, fire!” The Gunny said. The first volley rang out. “Fire!” The second volley. “Fire!” then the final one. Then a Marine bugler played Taps. And everyone came to attention and saluted.

“This concludes the service. Thank you for coming.” the Chaplain said.

As the crowd broke up and headed back to their jobs, Guru talked to General Tanner. “General, the next person who says they get used to these things will be the first.”

“You're right on that, Major. Anyone who says they do is either uncaring or a liar,” Tanner said.

“Sir, one thing before we head back. The November list of officers?”

“Should be out today, tomorrow latest,” Tanner said. “Some of your people are likely on it.”

“Yes, sir,” Major Wiser said. “At least I'm hoping.”

“Okay, Major. Get your flight debriefed, get something to eat, and get back out.” Tanner ordered. “I'll see you when you get back.”

“Sir, are you...”

“I'll be on base rest of the day. I won't leave for Nellis until this evening,” Tanner replied.

“Yes, sir,” Guru said. He saluted, and Tanner returned it. He knew he'd been dismissed, and went over to his flight. “Well?”

“Not bad,” Goalie said. “I would've been, god, I don't know what I would've said.”

“Same here,” Kara said, and the others nodded.

“Okay,” Guru said. “Let's get back into game mode.” He saw 1st Lt. Darren Licon, the SIO, and waved him over. “Darren, how soon can we debrief?”

“Ten minutes, Major,” Licon said.

“Okay, meet us in the briefing room,” Guru said.

“On my way,” Licon said.

“Break's over, people!” Guru said to his squadron. “Time to get back into the game.”

Ellis nodded, while Sergeant Ross' voice boomed out. “You heard the man. Let's go, people!”

The next one:


335th TFS Operations, Sheppard AFB, TX: 1050 Hours:


Major Matt “Guru” Wiser and the rest of his flight were sitting in their briefing room-a former classroom used by a prewar T-37 squadron-and were waiting on the squadron's intelligence officer to come in and debrief their first mission. After the memorial service for their late and loved CO, Lt. Col. Dean Rivers, they had to debrief, then brief for their next one, then get ready to go back out. But they were still waiting for the intelligence officer to arrive. And so they were killing time with sandwiches and coffee or bottled water.

“What's taking Darren so long?' Capt. Kara Thrace, call sign Starbuck, asked. First Lieutenant Darren Licon was their squadron's intelligence officer.

“Somebody's debrief ran over would be my guess,” Major Wiser said. He was finishing off a tuna sandwich and a bottle of water. And he was trying not to be angry about it. He was the new CO, and still finding out this “CO thing.”

“What other sandwiches are there?” Second Lieutenant Kathy “KT” Thornton, one of the WSOs, asked.

“Ham, tuna, turkey, Pastrami, Club, chicken, and something brown that's just sitting there.” First Lieutenant Nathan “Hoser” West, her pilot, replied.

“Any BLTs?” First Lieutenant Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard, the second element lead, asked.

“No,” Major Wiser said. “Why? You want a sandwich that looks back at you?”

“Now that I think about it? No.” Sweaty replied.

Her WSO, First Lieutenant Byran “Preacher” Simmnods, nodded. “At least I wouldn't have to say a prayer over those.”

There was some laughter, then a knock at the door. “Yeah?” Major Wiser said.

Lieutenant Darren Licon came in. “Major,” he nodded. “Sorry I'm late, but Captain Van Loan's debrief ran a little over.”

“No problem,” Major Wiser said. “How you holding up?”

“Fine, Major. Like Colonel Rivers once said. 'Suck it up and go on.”' Licon said.

“That he did,” the CO said. “Let's get this over with.”

“Let's do, Major,” Licon said. He spread out a TPC map of the area. “What'd you hit.?”

“Tank regiment in road march, well, the lead element, anyway,” Major Wiser said. “At least that's what the FAC marked for us.”

First Lieutenant Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn nodded. “I'll go along with that,” she said. She was the Major's WSO.

“Where, exactly?” Licon asked.

“F.M. 548, south of Route 276,” the CO said. Lead element marked with WP, then we rolled in.”

“What'd you hit, sir?”

“Tanks,” the CO said.

“We got some secondaries,” Goalie added.

“Okay, Captain Thrace?” Licon asked.

“Went in behind Guru, and saw some SP guns. Not sure what kind, but got several,” Kara said.

“Secondaries?”

“A few,” Lieutenant Judd “Brainiac” Brewster, who was Kara's WSO, said.

“Okay, Sweaty?” Licon asked. Since Sweaty was a First Lieutenant, he was more comfortable going by call sign with her.

“Mixed tanks and APCs,” Sweaty said, indicating on a recon photo where she had made her run.

“And we had a few secondaries,” Preacher added.

“Okay, and Hoser? Last but not least,” Licon asked.

“Picked out something like an SA-9 launcher,” Hoser said. “He shot a SAM at us, but it didn't track.”

“And you killed him?”

“Got a secondary or two,” KT replied.

“All right, any resistance?”

“Some tracer fire,” Kara said. “But nothing heavy.”

“I'll go along with that,” Sweaty added. “Something that looked like 23-mm, but no radar warning.”

Licon nodded. “If there was a ZSU down there, he may have been using optical backup. Any MiGs?”

Heads shook no.

“All right, Major, I'll write it up and pass this to MAG-11 and Tenth AF. Did anyone come in after you?”

“There were some Marines who had the same loadout we did,” Guru said. “Don't know if they went in after us, though.”

“Weren't they trying to get in on our action?” Kara asked.

“I think you're right,” Guru nodded. “But we got kinda busy there for a few minutes.”

“I'll check with MAG-11 and find out for sure,” Licon said. “Thanks, Major.”

“Anytime.”

Major Wiser nodded as Licon packed his material and headed to the next debrief. “Okay, finish whatever you're eating. I'll see Van Loan and get our next one.” Capt. Don Van Loan was the 335th's Operations Officer.

“We'll be here,” Kara said.

The CO nodded and headed into the squadron's offices. He went to the Operations section and found Don Van Loan getting ready for his own second mission. “Don,”

“Boss,” Van Loan said. “Got this for you.” He handed the CO a Manila folder. “Everything's there.”

Major Wiser looked thorough it. “You're kidding me. We were there yesterday!”

“Same area, different target,” Van Loan said. “And a different route.”

“At least we get Weasels,” the Major noted. “Though they may not like going to that area. Their CO got killed there yesterday.”

“Comes with the territory, Boss,” Van Loan reminded the CO. “You know that.”

“Yeah,” Major Wiser said. “Had to ask, though.”

“Don't blame you,” the Ops Officer said. “Feeling better?”

“With each passing minute,” the CO replied. “You?”

Van Loan nodded. “Just doing what an uncle said. You take the punch to the gut, bounce back, and move on.”

“Smart man,” Major Wiser noted. “Where'd he learn that?”

“Hanoi. Spent five years and ten months there,” Van Loan said. “May '67 to February of '73.”

“What's he doing now?”

“Commands the 525th TFS. He was at Ramstein when the West Germans kicked us out. They're at Little Rock last I heard.”

“Stay in touch?' the CO asked.

“Yep, as best we can.” Van Loan said. “He heard about us, and says that if Kara ever shows up there, she'll find her match.”

“Maybe,” the CO said. “Thanks, Don. You have a good one, and remember what the desk sergeant on Hill Street Blues says.”

“What?”

“Let's be careful out there,” the CO reminded his Ops Officer. “Don't want to write any letters for a while.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Van Loan said. “You guys have a good one yourselves.”

“Thanks, Don,” Major Wiser said. He then headed back to the briefing room, and the rest of the flight was waiting. “Okay, guys. We got a new one.”

“Where we going?” Goalie asked.

The CO looked at everyone. “Same place we went to yesterday. Terrell.”

“What?” Sweaty yelled. “We were just there!”

“And that's where you got number five,” the CO reminded here. “But, we're not going back to the airport. Marines hit it again last night with A-6s. We're headed north of Terrell.” He spread out the TPC chart and some reconnaissance photos from the folder. “Here. One mile east of the F.M. 245/247 Junction. There's a helicopter dispersal area. Squadron to regimental size.”

“What kind of helos?” Kara asked.

“Hinds and Hips,” Guru said. That meant Mi-24 Hinds and Mi-8 Hips. In Soviet attack helicopter units, the Hinds were the gunships, while the Hips flew support missions to back up the gunships.

“Defenses?” Asked Sweaty.

“Good question. The latest intel has the Terrell SA-2 site still down, but we're not taking chances. Weasels are coming, in the form of Coors One-five and One-six. Expect some 23-mm optical AAA, and possible MANPADS. This is the rear area of 1st Guards Army, so expect some Army-level air defense. That means SA-4s, 57-mm AAA, and keep in mind that a Weasel got killed yesterday by SA-11, so some of those might still be around.”

“MiGs?” Preacher asked.

“Terrell Municipal is still out of commission, as I said,” the CO replied. “Nearest MiG fields are Athens, Tyler, Corsicana, and the old Connelly AFB in Waco. Su-27s are now confirmed there, so hope the F-15s keep those suckers at bay.”

'And pray if they can't.”

The CO nodded. “Remember your Flanker tactics: get down low in the ground clutter, do a Doppler Break, holler for help from AWACS, and pray a 'teenage' fighter is around.”

Heads nodded. “Ordnance, Boss?” KT asked.

“Twelve Mark-82 Snakeyes each airplane. Wing bombs have the Daisy Cutter fuze extensions,” Major Wiser said.

“Air-to-air?” Kara wanted to know. “The usual?”

“It is,” the CO said. “Two AIM-7Es and four AIM-9Ps each airplane, plus full load of 20-mm. Two wing tanks and the ECM pod in the right front Sparrow missile well.”

Hoser nodded. “Bailout areas still the same?”

“You got it,” Major Wiser said. “Okay, here's our route. We go in past I-30 at Royce City, and head for Union Valley, here,” the Major indicated on the map. Then we turn south, and head for the IP. “ He showed a reconnaissance photo showing an abandoned rock quarry and its pond. We pop up to 800 feet AGL from 450, and make a straight run in. Once you're clear, do a hard right turn, and head for Rockwall and I-30. We meet up over Lavon Lake.”

Heads nodded. “Tanker track still the same?” Sweaty asked.

“Track SHELL still over Durant, Oklahoma,” the CO said. “And divert fields are the same as yesterday.'

“Fair enough,” Kara said. “Let's go kill some Hinds.”

“Good girl,” Major Wiser nodded. He saw that everyone was still in their flight gear, which meant survival vests and G-Suits. “Let's get to 512.”

The flight members headed on out, and as they did, they ran into Maj. Dave Golen, their IDF “observer,” and his wingmate, First Lieutenant Sandi Jenkins and their WSOs. 'Major,” Golen nodded.

“Dave,” the CO said. “Headed on out?”

“Yes,” Golen said. “Maybe this time, I will show you how a gun kill is done in our book!”

“Always hoping for air-to-air?” Kara asked.

“Of course!” Golen said.

The CO looked at him. “Remember, no trolling for MiGs.”

“Understood,” Golen replied. He knew that the strike mission came first.

“And Sandi? How are you doing?”

“Better, sir.” Jenkins replied. “Feeling a lot better.” She had been Colonel Rivers' wingmate, and had been with him when he was shot down.

“Good. No unnecessary risks, both of you,” Major Wiser told them. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Golen replied, while Jenkins nodded.

“Good. Have a good one, both of you.”

“Thank you, Guru,” Golen said, then they headed to their aircraft.

“Sandi's looking better,” Sweaty observed.

“She is,” the CO agreed. “She'll be a lot better when she gets her next kill.”

The flight went to 512's revetment, which was the Major's aircraft, and gathered for his final instructions. “Same drill on the radio?” Kara asked.

“You got it,” Major Wiser replied. “Mission code to AWACS and other parties. Call signs between us. Got it?”

Heads nodded, then Hoser asked a question. “Boss, how many more?”

“At least two today,” the CO said. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “Time to get it done, people. Let's hit it.”

The others headed for their aircraft, while the CO and Goalie went to 512. Staff Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief was there. “Major,” he saluted. “She's ready to rock.”

“Good work, Sergeant,” Guru said. “Too bad you guys couldn't be at the service.”

“Ross told us, sir,” Crowley said. Master Sergeant Michael Ross was the senior NCO in the 335th.

“Okay,” Guru nodded. He and Goalie did their walk-around, then climbed the crew ladder into the cockpit. They strapped themselves in, and did their cockpit checks. Guru then gave the “thumbs up” to signal ready for engine start. Sergeant Crowley gave the signal. First one, then the second, J-79 engines were run up, and after a quick final check, Guru called the tower. “Tower, Corvette Flight with four, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Corvette Lead,” the Tower replied. “Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Three Left. Hold prior to the runway.”

“Roger, Tower,” Guru replied. “Corvette Lead rolling.”

Sergeant Crowley gave the hand signals, and Guru taxied out of the revetment, and when Crowley saluted, both Guru and Goalie returned it. They taxied to the end of the taxiway, with the other three F-4s following. Then they held so that the armorers could remove the weapon safeties, and for an incoming flight of Marine F-4s to come in and land.

“Corvette Lead clear to taxi for takeoff,” the Tower called.

Guru acknowledged, then taxied 512 onto the runway, and after he did, Kara taxied in and formed up on his left. Then he called the Tower. “Corvette Lead requesting clearance for takeoff.”

As usual, the tower flashed a green light. Guru released the brakes, and 512 rolled down the runway and into the air. Kara was right behind him, and after thirty seconds, Sweaty and Hoser did the same.

The next, and the 335th has a visit from Frontal Aviation:


Over North-Central Texas: 1140 Hours:


Corvette Flight was over the northern part of Lake Ray Hubbard, already having gone down low, and had met up with their Weasels over the lake. While the WSOs handled the navigation, the pilots were watching for threats, keeping an eye on their instruments, and checking their own maps in their kneeboards.

In 512, Major Wiser was keeping his head on a swivel, with his eyes looking for threats. That had been drummed into his head at the RTU down at Homestead AFB, not that long ago. Three years or three lifetimes, it seemed. “Royce City dead ahead,” he called.

“Roger that,” Goalie said. She watched as the town, then I-30 passed underneath. “And turn.”

Guru turned 512 onto its new heading for the town of Union Valley, ten miles away. As he turned, he could see A-4s, A-7s, A-10s, and Army attack helicopters at work. The Soviet 1st Guards Army was pressing its counterattack, and VII Corps was busy parrying it. “Flight, Lead. Music on.” That was the call to turn on their ECM pods.

“Two, copy,” Kara.

“Three,” Sweaty.

“Four copies,” Hoser.

“Thirty seconds to turn,” Goalie said. “Steady, steady, and turn!”

Guru turned south, towards the old rock quarry that was their IP. “Flight, Lead. Switches on, and stand by to pull.”

“Steady...” Goalie called. “And pull!”

Guru pulled up, and just as he did, his Radar Warning Receiver picked up an SA-4 radar, a gun radar, and a search radar. “Coors, Corvette. Got some radars, fella.”

“We got 'em, Corvette. Going in,” Coors One-five called. The two F-4Gs climbed to 5,000 feet, and as they did, they shot off a couple of HARM missiles, and “Magnum” calls came over the radio.

“Guru, Starbuck,” Kara called. “Target at Eleven O'clock!”

“Copy that,” Guru replied. “Lead's in!” He rolled his F-4 in on the target. “Switches set?”

“All set,” Goalie said.

“Okay, here we go,” Guru said. He lined up the helicopter dispersal area in his pipper, and spotted two Mi-24s sitting on the ground, among several. You are mine, he thought as he lined them up. “HACK!” Guru called a s he hit the pickle button and a dozen Mark-82 Snakeye 500-lb bombs came off his F-4. Then he made a hard 6-G turn to the right to get away. “Lead's off,” he called.

In the dispersal area, the Soviet 55th Independent Helicopter Regiment was having a busy morning. They had deployed to America from their base in Bzhag, Poland, and had been in the thick of combat almost from the beginning. Now, the Regiment was fully engaged in supporting 1st Guards Army's attack against the Americans pushing down the east side of Lake Ray Hubbard, and trying to cut off Dallas from the east. The Regiment had sent two squadrons of Mi-24Vs into combat, leaving a third in reserve, while the Fourth Squadron's Mi-8MTs supported the dispersal operations.

In the Second Squadron's dispersal, a SAF Major was having a bad day. He was the commander of the squadron, and they'd already lost five of twelve Mi-24Vs to either American helicopters or Stinger missile teams, and it wasn't quite noon yet! He barked orders at the ground crewmen, who were busy refueling and rearming the squadron's helicopters for they had to get airborne and back into the fray as soon as possible. Then he saw two ground crew pointing to the north, and he saw an F-4 Phantom rolling in. He shouted, “Air Raid!” before taking cover in a slit .trench.

As Guru pulled the egress turn, both his and Goalie's G-suits inflated. But Goalie was able to keep watching as the bombs exploded. 'Good hits!”

“How good?” Guru asked as he came out of the turn and headed north.

“Good enough,” she replied as a secondary explosion came into view. She also spotted Kara's F-4 in its attack run.

“Two's in hot!” Kara called. She picked out two Mi-24s with a fuel truck between them, and decided they were going away. Kara lined them up in her pipper, and pressed the pickle button. “HACK!” she called, and her Mark-82s came off of 520. Then she put the plane into its own egress turn, and as she did, she called, “Two off target.”

The SAF Major poked his head out of the trench, and saw that two of his helicopters were blazing wrecks. To his dismay, there were no antiaircraft guns firing. He started to get up, then remembered that enemy aircraft rarely attacked alone. He saw Kara's F-4 come in, then he ducked back down into the trench. As he got to the bottom of the trench, he felt the concussion of bombs exploding, and heard the bombs going off.

“SHACK!” Brainiac called. “Got a secondary.”

“Fair enough,” Kara said. She knew that if the fuel truck had gone up, so would the two Hinds. Kara smiled underneath her oxygen mask, then headed north to link up with the Major.

“Three's in!” Sweaty called. She started her roll in, and picked out a cluster of tents and vehicles. That had to be a Squadron or Regimental command group, she knew. So much the better. Just then, she saw some 23-mm flak start to come up from the perimeter of the dispersal area. Too little, too late, Ivan. Sweaty lined the tents in her pipper and hit the release button. “HACK!” Her bombs came off her aircraft, then she went into the egress turn. “Three's off target.”

In his trench, the SAF Major heard the howl of Sweaty's plane as it came over, then the sound of more bombs exploding. After the last bomb went off, he took a quick peek. He saw some ZU-23s try and engage the F-4 that flew past, but their fire was ineffective, going behind the F-4 as it left the area. Then he looked at the Regimental command post, and saw that the tents and command vehicles had been torn apart. Tents had been blasted to ribbons, while the command vehicles had been either torn apart by bombs, or had been tossed aside by the concussion. He started to get up, then saw the ZU-23s turn back north and fire. Another aircraft, he knew, so he got back into the trench.

“Good hits!” Preacher told Sweaty from the back seat.

“Good enough?” She asked as she came out of the turn and headed for Lavon Lake and the rendezvous.

“I'd say so,' Preacher said.


“Four's in!” Hoser called. He rolled in, and picked out an Mi-8 Hip parked near several fuel bladders and a couple of fuel trucks. Ignoring the flak coming up, Hoser lined up the fuel trucks in his pipper, then hit the pickle button. “HACK!” Again, twelve Mark-82 bombs fell on the Soviet helicopter regiment as Hoser made the egress turn. “Four's off safe.”

Hoser's bombs landed among the fuel bladders, exploding them in a fireball, and also taking out the Hip and the fuel trucks.

Watching the bombs go off, KT Thornton, his GIB, called. “We got secondaries!”

“Good ones?” Hoser asked as he headed north.

“Big ones,” she replied.


“Corvettes, Lead,” Guru called. “Form on me and let's egress.”

“Copy Lead,” Kara replied. “On your right wing.”

Guru looked to his right, and found Kara's F-4 tucked in nice and neat. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he returned it. “Sweaty?”

“On our way, Lead,” Sweaty replied.

“Coors, Corvette,” Guru called the Weasels. “We're clear of the target.”

“Roger that,” Coors One-five called. “On our way.”

Guru had started to circle over Lavon Lake with Kara when Sweaty and Hoser joined up. “Coors, Corvette Lead. We're headed home.”

“Roger, Corvette,” Coors One-five replied. “Nice doing business with you guys.” The F-4Gs then turned for the tanker track, while the F-4Es headed back to Sheppard.

Corvette Flight had barely gotten to altitude when a call came on the radio Home Plate (Sheppard) was under attack. “WHAT?” Guru yelled over the radio.

“Stay clear, Corvette,” the tower replied.

“Roger, tower,” Guru replied. The flight began to orbit at 10,000 feet, and above them, they could see other flights, either 335th or Marine, orbiting as well. Two of the flights, whose they didn't know, broke off and headed for another tanker track, this one over Fort Sill, Oklahoma. One Marine Skyhawk flight decided not to head for the tankers, and headed for Altus AFB in Oklahoma instead.

“How long can we orbit?' Goalie asked.

“We're not Bingo yet,” Guru replied. “Two, how's your fuel?”

“Still green,” Kara replied.

“Sweaty,” Guru asked. “How's your state? And Hoser's?”

“Not bingo, if that's what you mean,” Sweaty said.

“Okay so far,' Hoser said. “Estimate two-zero minutes to Bingo.”

Guru nodded in his cockpit, and as he orbited, glanced north. Two, then three columns of smoke were now rising from the base, but he-and the rest of the flight, watched as a Marine I-HAWK SAM came up and exploded an aircraft, and the plane plummeted to earth in flames, exploding on impact. Two more SAMs went up, and one of them found a target, and that plane exploded in midair. Above them, they could see a dogfight in progress, and two aircraft, whose they couldn't tell, falling in flames. And a couple of parachutes.

As they orbited, the crews were scanning visually, while the WSOs had their radars on. And it was Sweaty who made the call. “Lead, Sweaty. Tallyho! Bandits at Eleven O'clock low!”

Guru glanced in that direction and saw them. Two Su-17s coming from the direction of Sheppard. “Sweaty, Guru. Press to engage. Two and I will cover.”

“Roger that!” Sweaty said, “Hoser, on me. Let's go!” She then rolled in behind the Su-17s.

As Sweaty and Hoser did, Guru and Starbuck assumed a cover position. Both armed their AIM-7s, and their GIBs were trying to lock the Fitters up. “Anything?' Guru asked Goalie.

“Negative,” she replied. “Too much ground clutter.”

Dave Golen's voice then came over the radio. “Corvette Leader, Mustang Leader. Break right!”

Without thinking, Guru broke right and low, while Kara broke left and high. As he did, Guru saw two missile trails, then the familiar sight of MiG-23s. “Copy Mustang. Get some.” Where the hell did the MiGs come from?

“Roger,” Golen said. He led Sandi Jenkins, his wingmate, into the fray.

Sweaty and Hoser, though, were closing in on the Su-17s. The two Fitters broke, and Sweaty went for the leader, while Hoser took the wingman. In her cockpit, Sweaty had armed her Sidewinders, and was trying to get good tone. The AIM-9's seeker growled in her headset, then it growled very loudly. Missile lock. “FOX TWO!” Sweaty called as she fired a Sidewinder.

In the lead Su-17, the commander of the Second Squadron, 274th Fighter-Bomber Regiment, was turning his head. He'd led eight of his aircraft in a strike on Sheppard AFB, and watched tched as American fighters, then SAMs, took a toll. Three of his aircraft didn't make it in, and though he and three other aircraft had gone in, hitting several buildings on the base and putting bombs on one of the runways, the other one dropped its bombs short of the runway and had turned away, only to eat a Stinger from the ground. Not sure of what damage he'd inflicted on the target, he turned for home, and had the other element split off. Then his wingman called. F-4s incoming. He turned left, then right, looking for an attacker, then his plane exploded around him. His last sensation was the heat....

:Sweaty and Preacher watched as their Sidewinder flew up the Su-17M's tailpipe and exploded. The big Sukhoi's tall caught fire, then the internal fuel tanks exploded, turning the Fitter into a fireball. There was no chute. “SPLASH!”

“Sweaty got a kill!” Goalie said from 512's rear cockpit.

“Save it for later. Still got a fight on,” Guru reminded her.

Above them, Dave Golen was lining up the lead MiG-23. He selected his M-61 Vulcan cannon, then drew lead. “Steady...” he muttered, then took the shot. A two-second burst was all that he needed, for 180 rounds of 20-mm cannon shells tore into the MiG, and the MiG-23 rolled inverted, trailing smoke and fire, then plunged into the ground. There was no ejection. “That's a kill.”

“Good kill, Lead,” Sandi Jenkins said, then lined up the MiG wingman. She armed her Sidewinders, and centered the pipper on the MiG's tail. The seeker head growled very loud in her headset, and she squeezed the trigger twice. “FOX TWO!”

The MiG wingman heard his leader die, and he was trying to look around, looking for a second F-4 that had to be out there. He lost sight of the two F-4s that he and his leader had been tracking, then he saw a Sidewinder missile fly past him. He turned right, which solved the problem for Sandi's second missile.

Sandi watched as her first missile missed, and the MiG turned right, and the second Sidewinder flew up his tailpipe and exploded. The MiG trailed fire, and rolled right and headed down. As she flew past, she watched the canopy come off and the seat fire. To her horror, she didn't see the pilot separate from the seat, and he fell to his death. Better you than me, she thought. “Splash one!”

“Good kill, Sandi!” Kara called.

“Where's the other Fitter?' Guru asked. “Goalie?”

“Can't pick him out. Too much clutter.”

Hoser, though, was chasing the second Fitter, with Sweaty covering him. Over Lake Arrowhead, fourteen miles south of Wichita Falls, he got lock and fired a Sidewinder. “FOX TWO!” He called, and the AIM-9 flew up the Fitter's tail and exploded, taking it off. The Su-17 spun down into the lake, and this time, there was a chute. Fortunately for the pilot, Lake Arrowhead State Park was being used by the U.S. Army for CH-47 Chinook ops, and the Soviet pilot was pulled from the lake and captured by the Army.

“Good kill, Hoser!” Sweaty called.

“Thanks, Sweaty,” Hoser replied. It was his first.

“Corvettes, Lead. Form up on me over the lake.” Guru said. The other three crews acknowledged, and Dave Golen and Sandi joined them. “Sheppard Tower, Corvette One-one.”

“Corvette One-one, Sheppard. “Runway Three-Three Lima and Three-Three Charlie are now open,” the tower replied. “Clear for landing on Three-Three-Lima. Winds are two-six zero at ten.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru said. Corvette Flight, thanks to the others leaving for the tankers or for Altus, was first in the pattern. They came in and landed, and as the crews taxied to their dispersal, they saw a 727 burning on the ramp, along with a Marine KC-130, with fire crews hosing them down with foam, while General Tanner's C-130B was untouched. To Guru's relief, the dispersal area hadn't been hit, and hopefully, none of his people had been hurt or killed. He taxied into his revetment and shut down, popping the canopy as he did. “That was interesting.”

“No kidding!” Goalie said. “When's the last time we got bombed? A month or so?”

“Something like that,” Guru said. “Scud attacks don't count.” He took his helmet off and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as Sergeant Crowley came with the crew ladder. “Sergeant.”

“Shit hot, sir!” Crowley said. “You guys missed all the fun.”

“Had our own,” Goalie said as she stood up in her cockpit.

“That we did,” Guru nodded. 'Sweaty and Hoser got kills on those chumps.” He climbed down from the cockpit, and Goalie followed. The two did a quick postflight walk-around, then he turned to Crowley. “No damage, Sergeant. Pull the camera film and send it in. Then get her turned around ASAP.”

Crowley smiled. “You got it, Major!”

Guru and Goalie went to the entrance of the revetment, and found Kara and Preacher there. “Jealous?” Guru asked.

“Of whom? Sweaty, Dave, Hoser, or Sandi?” Kara asked.

“Either one or all of 'em,' the CO said. He looked at his wingmate. “Hey, you and I can't get them all.”

Kara reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, well.. I guess so.”

Sweaty and Preacher came up, with Hoser and KT following. “Geat job,” Major Wiser said. “That's six for you, Sweaty.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Sweaty grinned. “Nice to have kills on back-to-back days.”

“It is that,” Guru said. “Nice job, Hoser,” he nodded, shaking Hoser's hand. “Your first, right?”

Hoser smiled. “It is, Boss.”

Guru grinned. “Good work, and that might not be your last. If the Club's still standing, we can celebrate.”

“That we can,” Kara said.

'Let's go,” Guru said. “Need to debrief, and see if anyone got hurt.” They headed over to the Squadron's building, and when he opened the door, Guru found people picking up the pieces and getting on with things. He noticed Capt. Mark Ellis, his Exec, and waved him over. “Mark, what the hell happened?”

“Major, I have no idea,” Ellis replied. “I had just taxied in when the siren sounded, and the next things I see are Fitters over the base, strafing and dropping bombs.”

“They didn't hit the dispersal area,” Guru said. “So what'd they hit?”

“Runway 17/35 took a couple of bombs, and Red Horse is out now, filling in the craters,” Ellis said. AF Red Horse Engineers could build a new base on their own, or get a damaged base back operational. “Seabees are out as well.”

Guru nodded. “What else did they hit?”

“The old Officers' Club, the one that the Resistance hit,” Ellis said. And north of here? An old Atlas ICBM site.”

“What the hell was there?” Major Wiser wanted to know.

Ellis shook his head. “No idea, but nothing's there as far as I know.”

“Okay,” Guru nodded. “Any of our people hurt?”

“No. Ross has been out, and he's reporting no casualties,” Ellis said.

“That's always good to hear,” Major Wiser replied. Then Dave Golen and Sandi Jenkins came in. “Dave,” Guru said. “Thanks for getting those MiGs off of us.”

“My pleasure,” Golen smiled. “And this engagement was a gun kill. Like it should be in our book!”

“You said you'd show us one,” Kara said, coming up and shaking Golen's hand.

“That I did,” Golen said, a grin coming across his face.

“Sandi?” Guru nodded to Sandi Jenkins. “Good job. That's your first fast-jet kill.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sandi replied. “And I know Colonel Rivers was there. I can't explain it, but he was there.”

“I'll take your word for it,' Guru said. “Okay, you two. Get debriefed, and get ready to do it again.”

Golen nodded, then he and Sandi went to see the Squadron's intelligence officer.

“How many today?” Goalie asked as she came up.

Guru looked at her, and his flight. “Expect two more today. With that storm coming in tonight...”

“Maximum effort?”

“Yep,” Guru said. “Let's debrief, eat, then get ready to do it again.”