[Matt Wiser]

And it goes on...and the conclusion to last night's cliffhanger:


0635 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico


Captain Padorin and his officers were looking at their stopwatches. The pair of Type-65 torpedoes had two minutes left on their run. He turned to his weapons officer. “Yuri, load an MG-74 decoy in one of the tubes. Once the torpedoes detonate, launch the decoy. Don't wait for my order.”

The weapons officer acknowledged with a nod, then he relayed the order to the crew in the torpedo room. While that was going on, Padorin turned to the Starpom. “After the decoy is launched, take us to 300 meters. We're still some distance from the continental shelf, so we've got some deep water.”

The Starpom nodded. Then he looked at his watch. “Fifteen seconds to first impact.”

Up above, the sonars of several American ships had picked up the incoming torpedoes. The damaged frigate Talbot had been abandoned very quickly after the missile hit, with an uncontrollable fire, having to have her magazines flooded. And the damaged destroyer Mahan was still fighting fires when the torpedo alarm was sounded by both Kidd and the destroyer Richard E. Byrd. Several ships tried streaming Nixie torpedo decoys, and Kidd herself even fired a Mark-46 torpedo down the bearing of the incoming weapons, hoping to catch whoever had launched the torpedoes.

The first Type-65 exploded under the now abandoned Talbot. The torpedo's huge warhead blew the burning frigate apart, disintegrating the stern, and wrecking what little watertight integrity she had left. Within five minutes of the detonation, the shattered hulk slipped beneath the waves. Of a crew of 277, 140 were lost with the ship or died of wounds after rescue.

The second torpedo exploded right underneath Mahan's stern, blowing about fifty feet of the ship's aft section off. The missile magazine had been flooded as a damage-control precaution, so it didn't detonate, but that made little difference, as that portion of the ship simply disintegrated. The order to abandon ship came quickly from the Executive Officer, who'd taken command after the Captain had been killed in the missile hit. She sank within fifteen minutes of the torpedo hit, taking 220 of a crew of 400 with her.

Aboard K-236, cheers filled the boat as sonar reported the two detonations. As per Padorin's order, an MG-74 decoy was launched, and the boat went deep. Padorin smiled. “Well done, Comrades. Let's get out of here. New course: two-four-zero. Navigator, let me know when we're closing on the Continental Shelf. And secure from battle stations.”

“Comrade Captain?” the Zampolit asked.

“Simple. They'll expect us to head east, for deeper water. The last place they'll expect us is closer to shore.”


0650 Hours: 377th Ground-Attack Aviation Regiment, San Benito Municipal Airport.


Captain Gorovets was briefing his pilots. He had more pilots than flyable planes at this point, and individual squadrons were a thing of the past at this point: he'd chosen the best from all three squadrons, and designated the rest for evacuation. “All right, this is it. We go in flights of two. And don't take any unnecessary risks. This comes from the top. If things get too bad out there, abort the mission.”

Lieutenant Maxim Popov, one of the pilots set to fly the first set of missions, asked, “What's the expected threat, just for the record?”

Normally, that kind of question would earn someone a reprimand. Not today. “Expect everything,” Gorovets said. “F-4s, F-15s, F-16s, F/A-18s, F-20s. Not to mention HAWK and Patriot heavy missiles, Stingers in quantity, and possible shipboard SAMs if you get too far out to sea.”

Several pilots whistled. “Nice to know they care,” Popov said.

“Which brings me back to my original point, Comrades. If your threat receivers start going off-and there's multiple threats out there, abort. I'll see about getting our Flight Direction Officers at 4th Guards Tank Army to get some artillery down on those air-defense systems, but I imagine everyone's going to be screaming for artillery support. And another thing: watch out for friendly artillery: a Grad rocket strike or a one-five-two shell in your airspace can kill you. Anything else?” Gorovets asked.

“How many sorties do we expect to fly?” Senior Lieutenant Dmitiri Lobinstev asked.

“As many as we can. Until one of three things happens: dusk comes, we run out of aircraft, or run out of ordnance,” Gorovets said. “Any other questions?” There were none. “All right, let's go.”

Gorovets would lead this first flight personally. All eight Su-25s were loaded with a mix of KMGU cluster bombs and rocket pods, with other ordnance being loaded as the armorers could make it available. And they'd have a full load of 30-mm cannon ammunition, and two R-60 AAMs. The pilots did quick walk-arounds, then climbed into the cockpits, strapped themselves in, and after the briefest of preflights, taxied out for takeoff. As the Su-25s prepared for takeoff, the pilots who would wait waved. Then the small control tower flashed a green light. Then all eight Sukhois rolled down the runway, and were soon in the air.


0700 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

Generals Petrov and Lukin were anxiously scanning the sky. The An-124s had lifted off from Havana three hours earlier, and they were due at any time. Both generals wondered if the planes had managed to penetrate the American fighter screen over the Gulf of Mexico, both carrier-based and land-based fighters being the main threat. And on many days, the fighters had either prevented transports from getting through, forcing them to abort, or had acted like wolves in a chicken coop and slaughtered the transports. As a result, things inside the pocket were getting worse with each passing hour. General Lukin knew this better than most on the field, when a staff officer had been wounded in an air raid a few days previously. The hospitals were crowded with wounded, he found, medicine, anesthetic, and bandages in short supply, and conditions were filthy, at best. Shaking his head at the sight, he returned to the field, and recommended the man be promoted at once: if he died, his family back in Rostov-on the Don would get a bigger pension, at least. Lukin and Petrov were interrupted by a staff officer coming from a Romb (SA-8) SAM vehicle. The launcher had no missiles left, but Petrov felt it could still be useful as a mobile radar station, and thus the SAM crews often had the only working radars left. “Comrade Generals, the transports are coming in: three large targets and several smaller targets inbound from the East. ETA is five minutes.”

“Thank you, Comrade Major.” Petrov said. “Well, Lukin, how much will we get this time?”

Lukin was asking that question to himself. He'd seen the filthy conditions at the field hospital, and knew that whatever they received, it wouldn't be enough. “Let's hope it's better than what we've gotten in before: we've had days when nothing got in.”

“True, Lukin,” Petrov said, scanning the eastern sky with his binoculars. “There they are.”

Lukin looked through his own binoculars. He saw the three transports, with several fighter escorts. And one of the escorting fighters broke away and made an approach to the field. The Su-27 came in, trailing smoke, and landed with no nose gear. It skidded off the runway and bellied in. The pilot raised the canopy and ran clear, just in case.

While that was going on, two of the big transports came in and made their supply runs. Parachutes blossomed as cargo pallets fell from the aircraft. The two big Antonovs then turned away, heading back towards the Gulf of Mexico. The third plane turned and headed north, then east, before beginning to drop its cargo. And then it happened. A smoke trail came up from below and to the north. Then the missile slammed into the tail of the aircraft, ripping it apart. The big transport slowed, and began trailing fire and debris, and cargo pallets still fell from the aircraft, only some were catching fire as their parachutes were caught in the trail of flame. Another smoke trail came up from below, exploding between the two left engines, and ripping the wing off. The An-124 rolled inverted, and then, streaming fire from the tail and the remnants of the left wing, slammed into the ground just north of the field, exploding in a huge fireball.

Petrov looked at the fireball, then at General Lukin. “Six brave men, and a nearly irreplaceable aircraft. One hopes it was worth it.”

The supply officer came up. “Comrade Generals, We've gotten some of the supplies that were dropped.”

Petrov glared at him, an evil look on his face. “And what, pray tell, did we receive?”

“Some small-arms ammunition, in bulk. Several cases of bandages and other first-aid supplies. Along with 250 kilos of jam, 100 kilos of sugar, and.....”

“And WHAT?” Lukin roared. “Half of this stuff so far is worthless!”

“50 cases of pamphlets for various political departments, in both English and Spanish. They're propaganda materials for the civilian population.”

Petrov exploded. “Who is packing this material?”

Lukin was just as angry. “What ass loaded that aircraft? All right, get the rest of the supply pallets recovered. We can use the parachutes in the hospitals, at least. And get whatever food, medical supplies, and ammunition sorted and distributed as quickly as possible.” He turned to General Petrov. “Comrade General, with your kind permission, I'd like to borrow your satellite phone. There's someone in Havana who needs a good tongue-lashing.”

Petrov nodded. “By all means, Lukin. And when you're finished, I'll have some choice words with him as well.”

“Comrade General...” the supply officer said.

“What is it, Major?” Petrov asked.

“What about the pamphlets?”

Petrov turned to Lukin, who nodded. “We're out of lavatory paper. Put them in the latrines.”