[Matt Wiser]

And some more:


1510 Hours: Cuban 47th MRR, Progresso Lakes, Texas.


Major Ruiz-Santos poked his head again out of a shattered window in the City Hall. He and his headquarters personnel had been holding the Americans off for several hours, but now, one thing was clear: there was no way out. He and what remained of his regiment were now cut off, from both the river and their own forces to the east, and it was now only a matter of time. He'd also heard aircraft overhead, and wondered why he hadn't been bombed into oblivion. Maybe the Americans were concerned about hitting their own troops? Ruiz-Santos crawled to where Captain Toledo was, huddled at the entrance to City Hall. “Anything?”

“No, Comrade Major, nothing yet. Though it's been quiet for the last fifteen minutes or so.”

“It has been that. Maybe they're low on ammunition, and had to hold up for resupply?” Ruiz-Santos asked.

“I don't know, but right now, Comrade Major, your guess is as good as mine.” said Toledo. “At least they killed Lieutenant Moss, so we won't have to worry about Havana.”

“There is that,” agreed Ruiz-Santos. Then one of the men shouted. The Yanquis were up to something. Both officers crawled to where the man had shouted, and peeked through a hole in the wall. They saw an American soldier coming to them under a white flag. “Hold your fire!” Ruiz-Santos ordered.

“What's this?” Toledo asked.

“I don't know, but I'm going to find out,” Ruiz-Santos said. He went to the front door and went outside to the curb. There, he received the American. “I am Major Ruiz-Santos, of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba,” he said in English.

“Second Lieutenant Manuel Olivera, United States Army.” the American replied.

“What is it that you want?” Ruiz-Santos demanded.

“Your surrender, Major.” Olivera said. “You're surrounded, low on ammunition and food, and there's no way out. Just put your weapons down and come on out.”

“Oh, just like that?” Ruiz-Santos shot back.

“Yes, Major. Just like that. You and your men will be well treated, and your wounded will be tended to. And you've done everything you could have done.”

“And if I refuse?” Asked Ruiz-Santos.

“You will be responsible for the consequences,” Olivera said. “Hear those jets overhead? My company commander says they're loaded with laser-guided bombs. And they've got your location targeted.”

Ruiz-Santos looked up. There were two American planes overhead, and they looked like F-111s. He looked back at his men,who were now at the windows. And Ruiz-Santos knew that he was responsible for them. He also knew that he did want to see his family again. “I only ask that the wounded leave first.”

Olivera nodded. He waved to his own lines, and both tanks and Bradleys advanced. American infantry came out of the Bradleys, and approached city hall. And one female officer walked up to the two. “Ma'am,” Olivera said, “Major Ruiz-Santos, Cuban Army.”

“Captain Nancy Kozak, United States Army,” she said, saluting.

Ruiz-Santos' jaw dropped. It was bad enough to surrender, but surrender to a woman? But he knew it was over. “Captain, I only ask that my wounded be brought out first.”

“I think we can do that. Have your men throw their weapons out the windows, and no funny business.” Kozak said.

Ruiz-Santos nodded. He went back to the city hall and spoke. Cuban medical orderlies and even a couple of nurses came out, assisting the walking wounded, as well as bearing several stretcher cases. After this was done, the remaining Cubans came out of City Hall and two adjacent buildings, hands up.
Seeing this, Ruiz-Santos gave Kozak his rifle and pistol. “Your prisoner, Captain.”


1525 Hours: 377th Ground-Attack Regiment, San Benito Municipal Airport.


The pilots and ground staff of the 377th were gathered in their hangar. The regiment's last Su-25 had been pronounced ready to fly after several hours of repairs, and now the moment of truth had arrived. The pilots had drawn straws to see who would fly it, and Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Dimenshenko was the lucky one. The plane was fully armed with four KMGU cluster bombs, four 80-mm rocket pods, and two R-60 AAMs. At least he'd had no formal mission orders, so Morozik had told him to fly to the 77-83 intersection, and look around for opportunity targets. He smiled, closed the canopy, and taxied out of the hangar. Captain Kamarev looked at the patched-up plane, and asked Morozik, “Will this work?”

“I don't know. All I know is that my war's over,” Morozik said. “Where's the dammed airlift?”

“Good question.” Kamarev said, looking to the south. Then he saw three specks in the sky. “There.”

Morozik looked in that direction, and he saw them too, one An-12 and two smaller An-26s. Just as the transports closed in, the Su-25 rolled down the runway and into the air. Then the three tranports landed.

“Mechanics, armorers, and medical staff in the An-12. Pilots in the first An-26. Other remaining ground staff in the other one,” Kamarev shouted.

Instead of a mad rush, it was orderly. Unlike many evacuation flights, this time, there was enough room for everyone. Kamarev went up to the cockpit of his An-26 and found the pilot. He was surprised to see that the pilot was almost as old as his own father. “Where'd they find you?”

“Retired Aeroflot, then they recalled me when this mad business got going.” the pilot replied. “Find a seat, and buckle in. We're getting out of here.”

“Give me a headset first. I need to talk to my airborne aircraft,” Kamarev asked.

“Here,” the navigator said, throwing a spare over.

Kamarev didn't waste time. “Mikhail, when you're finished, head south. Get to Monterrey if you can.”

The pilot turned and looked at him. “That's where we're headed.” With that, the pilots gunned the engines, and the An-26 rolled down the runway and lifted off. Instead of climbing out, they stayed low until they got across the river. The An-12 made it, but as it got clear, its tail gunner saw a horrific sight: the other An-26 was pulling up when an American fighter, maybe an F-8, came down and sprayed the two engines with cannon fire. Both engines exploded, and tore the wings off the transport, which spun down into the ground, fireballing as it did so. The An-12 itself barely made it, for as the F-8 turned to follow, it had to avoid a shoulder-fired missile, and had to leave.


1540 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters

General Suraykin looked at his map, and swore loudly. Not at General Golvoko, his Chief of Staff, but in general. One regiment of the 105th Guards Airborne was now in place, and it was likely he'd need the whole division. And both tank divisions in the line were getting ground down. He knew that the 52nd was the worst off, and it would need some help, but soon, 24th Tanks would soon be in the same position, and in dire need of help as well. Suraykin looked up at General Golvoko. “I don't like it, but there's not much choice. Order 6th Guards Motor-Rifle Division to take up positions behind the 52nd Tank Division.”

Golvoko looked at the map. He nodded. “Yes, Comrade General,” he said calmly.

“Any sign of the 101st Airborne Division? If they decide on a heliborne assault, there's not that much we can do about that,” Suraykin reminded his Chief of Staff.

“So far, no, Comrade General. Though some of the 101st's attack helicopters have been in action, none of the three maneuver brigades have been identified at the front,” responded Golvoko.

“So far,” Suraykin said. He knew that if the Americans suddenly put troops behind him on Highways 77-83, he'd have a very hard time breaking out to the south, if he needed to do so.

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“Now, what about the air force? Any additional sorties today?” Suraykin asked.

“The Air Force reports that they're trying. We've had some Su-22Ms and even Su-24s come in, but for every aircraft that does appear, at least three don't,” Golvoko reported.

“Let me guess: either shot down or forced to jettison their weapons when enemy fighters appear.”

“That is basically it, Comrade General.”

Suryakin nodded. “See if you can't get any more out of our comrades in blue, Golvoko. Even a few more aircraft will help. And the morale factor is considerable one. Seeing our aircraft still in the battle has given our men a boost.”

“I'll put more pressure on the Air Force, but they're on record as not wanting to make promises they can't deliver.”

“Still,” Suraykin reminded his Chief of Staff, “Get whatever you can. Think of the infantrymen and the tank crews out there.”


1605 Hours: Headquarters, Cuban 2nd Army.

General Perez slammed his fist on the map table. He was not in a good mood after getting the latest from his left flank. “What do you mean by over?” Perez thundered at a staff officer.

“Comrade General, it appears that it's over in Progresso Lakes. There has been no contact at all with the 47th MRR, and reports via the Mexican side of the border indicate that fighting there has ceased.”

“Ceased?” Perez asked, with an angry tone in his voice.

“Yes, Comrade General. They appear to have formally surrendered.”

General Perez glared at the staffer. “They did what?”

The Chief of Staff came in, much to the staff officer's relief. “The 47th MRR has formally surrendered, Comrade General. One last message was sent, saying that the Americans were outside the regimental headquarters, and that they were destroying their classified materials.”

“Did they ever acknowledge the order sent from Havana?” Perez asked.

“No, Comrade General, they did not.” the chief replied. “Chances are, the American jamming prevented their ever receiving it.”

Perez calmed down. Still, not knowing who on his staff was reporting back to Havana-almost certainly to the DGI-was a bit unnerving. “All right, that battle's over and done. What about those Soviet air-assault troops?”

“They've just arrived, and have joined the 214th Tank Regiment, as instructed,” the chief responded.

“Good. They're our only reserve left, unless someone can pry a regiment out of our neighbors to the north,” Perez commented, referring to 3rd Shock Army.

The Chief of Staff responded, “That, Comrade General, would be easier said than done.”