[Matt Wiser]

And the saga keeps on going:

0040 Hours: South Padre Island, Texas.

Major Lazarev was looking out to sea. He had gone to one of the rooftop observation posts, and this one was one of the highest on the island: prewar, it had been a condominium resort. Now, some of these buildings had been fortified, awaiting a possible American amphibious landing. Though personally, he doubted the Marines would come ashore here. There was only one bridge to the mainland, and Army engineers had already wired it for demolition. No, they'd come further south, where there was no such issue, and there was a road that gave any force from the beach a straight shot into Brownsville.

There was one advantage to having the Boiky's crew ashore, and not just as scratch infantry. The lookouts had brought most of their glasses with them, along with some night-vision gear, and they were constantly looking out to sea. They knew their ship-and some more of their shipmates with it-was gone now, and so they'd best make the best of a bad situation. And Lazarev found the destroyer's former Executive Officer, who was now in command of those crewmen who were now infantry.

“Ah, Comrade Major,” Captain 3rd Rank Nikolay Kamarov said. “How do you like the view from up here?”

“It's very good, though I don't like what I saw down below. A shame about your ship.”

“Yes, but that's a sailor's risk. Sometimes, you just lose the ship. If it's really bad, then you're fish food. Better to be here, I think.” Kamarov said.

“Any sign of the enemy?” Lazarev asked.

“Not yet. Not even through night vision. They're over the horizon, more than likely. And the carriers are probably way out to sea. We'd never see them. One of those cruisers, though....we saw a freighter shot to pieces by one of those American heavy cruisers. Ever see what large-caliber shells do to flimsy, unarmored freighters?”

“I get the idea,” Lazarev said.

“Be glad that's all you get,” Kamarov said. “You'll get some warning if they come close. That cruiser-and probably its escorting destroyers, could blast this beach and we'd never be able to shoot in reply.”

“What about the Coastal-Defense Troops?” Lazarev asked.

Kamarov snorted. “One of those puny rockets won't do much to a heavily armored ship like one of those cruisers, let alone a battleship. And our intelligence briefing before we left Havana said there were two of those in the Gulf of Mexico, shelling the Mexican ports. And if they come up here....those forty-centimeter guns will definitely leave an impression-on those who survive, that is.”


0055 Hours: International Bridge, Progresso Lakes, Texas.


Major Pedro Ruiz-Santos of the Cuban Army was not a happy man at the moment. His orders were to defend the town and be prepared to blow the bridge on one hand, and yet, enable the Soviet and Cuban supply convoys from Mexico to cross the Rio Grande. His unit, the remnants of the 47th Independent Motor-Rifle Regiment, was a shadow of its former self. From the heady early days of the war, when at times it had been more like an excursion than actual battle, to the American offensives in 1988-89, the 47th had seen a lot of action. Instead of BTR-70s and T-72s, with towed D-30 howitzers, now, they had old BTR-60s and T-55s, and a couple of 122-mm D-74 howitzers. And the regiment was, by prewar standards, not combat ready, but those things didn't matter now. And so, he was prepared to fight with the tools at his disposal, as he looked at the bridge, and a thought came into his mind. Why hadn't the Americans bombed the bridge?

His regimental executive officer, Captain Leonardo Toledo, came up to him, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Some coffee, Comrade Major?”

“Thank you, Captain. I was just wondering, though. Why haven't the Americans bombed the bridge?”

“Perhaps they're saving it for their own uses, Comrade Major,” Toledo said. “The Americans have promised revenge on the Mexicans for supporting the Socialist cause.”

“You mean invasion of Mexico, Captain,” Ruiz-Santos said. It was not a question.

“That is very possible, Comrade Major.” Toledo replied.

Then the political officer, Lieutenant Ramon Moss, came up. He was the regiment's longest serving (read: surviving) political officer. And both men knew he had channels back to Havana that neither of them had found out-so far. “Comrade Major,” Moss said.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Ruiz-Santos asked.

“Comrade Major, do we have any new orders? The front seems to be getting close.”

“No, Comrade Political Officer, not as yet. The orders stand. Keep the bridge open as long as possible, but be prepared to blow it up when the Americans arrive.” Ruiz-Santos reminded his young lieutenant.

“And whose responsibility is it to issue that order?”

“Mine, or Captain Toledo's if I should become a casualty,” Ruiz-Santos said.

“Shouldn't you check in with higher authority?” Moss asked. Clearly, the young officer was more “Party” than “Army.” No surprise there.

“That's not necessary,” Ruiz-Santos said. “My orders are clear: deny the bridge to the Americans. If I have to do so, I'll push the plunger myself. Is that understood?”

“I understand, Comrade Commander. But still, shouldn't you ask for clarification?”

“No. Communications with 2nd Army HQ are spotty as it is. If I have to blow the bridge without further orders, you can file a report on me when the battle's over. Just hope we're still alive when that happens.” Ruiz-Santos said.

Moss nodded, though clearly disappointed. He'd been taught to get permission from his superiors before taking such a drastic step. But the Major was a hardened combat veteran, while the young political officer had been in the Regiment's Political Department, taking care of those with defeatist attitudes, and assisting with the security tasks routinely assigned that office by the DGI, tasks that came under the euphemism of “Pacification.”

Ruiz-Santos watched as the young officer went off into a building the DGI had appropriated. “If he's filing a report on both of us now, a lot of good that'll do. How's he going to get it to Havana?”

“He'll find a way. But by the time Havana tells him what to do, we'll either be dead, prisoners, or across the river in Mexico, looking for a way home,” Toledo said.

“You're full of good news this time of night.”


0110 Hours, Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


General Andreyev came into the Operations Room, looking for General Alekseyev. “Comrade General, I wish to report: Mission Accomplished.”

“Excellent, Andreyev, You've done well. And your losses?” Alekseyev asked.

“Minimal, Comrade General.”

“And the warheads?” asked Alekseyev.

“All remaining warheads accounted for and in the possession of the 234th Guards, Comrade General. They're under guard, as instructed.”

“Very well done. Now, those warheads are your personal responsibility, until the proper time comes to send them to their final destination. We can't launch them, and we're not handing them over to the enemy. A method of disposing of them has been found, but until that's ready, keep them under guard.” Alekseyev said.

“Yes, Comrade General,” Andreyev said.

Alekseyev pointed to the map. “Now, Andreyev, your two other regiments, and the 47th Tank Brigade, are all the reserves we've left. The Americans may land, here, at the east end of Highway 4, and if they do, your division, and the 47th, are all that may stand between them and Brownsville. The 234th Guards is exempt from that mission until its task is completed. But when it is...you'll be ready?”

“Absolutely, Comrade General!”

“Good. And Andreyev.”

“Yes, Comrade General?”

Alekseyev chose his words carefully. “Were there any personnel..... problems?”

“None, Comrade General. No one shrank from his tasks, and there was no problem carrying out the mission.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Now, if that had been an American facility, I'd give you the Gold Star, right now.”

Andreyev smiled at that. “I said something similar to Colonel Suslov. But the revenge taken upon the KGB will more than make up for that. One score settled. A pity we won't be able to settle others.”

“Yes, a pity. Thank you, Andreyev.”

“Comrade General.”

After Andreyev left, he turned to Chibisov. “How long until that freighter's ready?”

“She's still got some cargo left. The dockside cranes have lost power, and in some cases, it's a manual job to finish up the unloading. Another twelve hours, at best,” Chibisov said.

“Good. Let's go meet our guest. Colonel Sergetov, would you accompany us?” Alekseyev asked.

The three officers went to Dudorov's office. There they found the intelligence chief, making notations on a map. Nodding, he joined the trio and went to the next floor above, where an old faculty office had been found and prepared for their guest. Two guards from the headquarters guard company were on the door. One of them unlocked the door and they found their prisoner lying down on the cot that had been provided. She got up. And was clearly surprised at seeing three very senior Soviet generals.

“Ah, Commander Carlisle,” Alekseyev said. “I trust you've been treated well?”

“So far,” the naval officer replied. “Your hospitality is not what I was briefed and taught to expect.”

Alekseyev sighed. One of their many mistakes in America had been their treatment of prisoners. Something the Americans made very clear in their propaganda, highlighting the difference between “us” and “them.” But he couldn't change the past, no matter how he felt. “That has been unfortunate, but, as much as I would like to change things, the past is past.”

Commander Carlisle nodded. This was something new: two senior Soviet officers admitting a past mistake. “What do you want?”

“I should have introduced myself first. I am General Pavel Alexandrovich Alekseyev, Commander of the Socialist Forces in the American Theater. You've already met General Dudorov, I assume?”

She nodded. “We've become, acquainted, shall we say.”

“Pleased to hear it. My Chief of Staff, General Chibisov, and my aide, Colonel Sergetov,” Alsekseyev said. “I trust you've found your accommodations satisfactory?”

“Not what I was expecting, General,” Carlisle replied. “But since we're winning and you're not, you're showing your 'good side.'”

Chibisov started to say something, but stopped. He knew that the American was right. And he, too, had been embarrassed by the Soviet treatment of prisoners, military and civilian. Then he said, “Very perceptive, Commander. And yes, we are not all barbarians, despite what you've been told.”

“Not just told, but seen. CNN's showed enough of your handiwork enough times. Mass graves, torture chambers, survivors of POW and labor camps telling their stories, civilians describing what happened to them and their families, you get the idea.”

Alekseyev and the other officers knew she had a point. And the Soviets' clumsy attempts at explaining things had fallen on deaf ears at best, and at most, had only made things worse. And with the formerly neutralist countries of Western Europe now back in the American camp, some of those outlets that had been friendly to the Soviets were now closed off for good. Nobody wanted to hear the Soviet side, not now. “I do, Commander. And I do appreciate honesty. You'll be treated well, with the respect due your rank,” He turned to Sergetov. “What's her rank equivalent?”

“A Commander in the U.S. Navy is the equal of a Lieutenant Colonel, Comrade General.” Sergetov replied.

“That settles that. You'll be fed, allowed to walk in the hallway, under guard, and allowed to use the toilet facilities here. I regret that the power supply is intermittent, at best, however; your side's been doing very well in that regard. And when things do end here, you'll be returned to American forces.” Alekseyev said.

“What's the catch?” Carlisle said.

“Ah, the 'catch', as you say,” Alekseyev said. “There isn't one. And when it comes to personal contact with you, only myself, Generals Chibisov and Dudorov, and Colonel Sergetov, will have such. You will not have any.....immoral events to worry about, Commander. I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman.”

She nodded. Clearly, with the war being nearly over-at least on this side of the Rio Grande, the Soviets were clearly wanting to be on their best behavior. “And later?”

“We shall speak again, soon,” Alekseyev said, pausing as one of the guards brought a pillow and some blankets. “Until then, you'll quite safe with us. Good night, Commander,” Alekseyev said. And the Soviet officers left, and the door was closed and locked after they did so.

Alekseyev turned to Dudorov “What do you have in mind for her, Yuri?”

“Comrade General, there is one unit that I have lost track of. It's been under Powell's command before: during that Houston campaign last year. One unit that we know full well that has a reputation for harshness, ruthlessness, and brutality.” Dudorov said.

“You are speaking of the 13th Armored Cavalry, I presume?” Chibsov said.

“Quite so, Comrades. And if the airlift fails, as is very possible, some of those which we need to evacuate will have to go by the international bridges. Our own women, Comrades.” Dudorov reminded his superior officers.

“What does that have to do with her?” Chibisov asked, pointing to the room.

“If we have to evacuate our own women by road, chances are, they'll have to go via the ribbon bridges under construction at the moment. And if the 13th is among the American forces that are out there, I'd rather not take the chance of something happening, given their record in such matters. The Americans happily describe their record: they're proud of the fact that those maniacs use less ammunition and produce more corpses than any other unit of their size.” Dudorov said. “There's no telling what they'd do if some of our own women fell into their hands.”

Alekseyev nodded. He got the idea. “I have an idea of what you're proposing, Yuri. It's getting late. I'm headed to my office for a few hours' sleep. Let me know instantly of any new developments.”

Both Chibisov and Dudorov nodded.

“And Yuri?”

“Comrade General?”

“When you've developed your proposal more fully, please brief myself and General Chibisov,” Alekseyev said.