[Matt Wiser]

1710 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.


General Petrov didn't need a staff officer to tell him the airlift was in trouble. He could see it for himself. Not only had an An-124 been shot down, but four other transports inbound had also suffered the same fate, and all had gone down within sight of the field. It was clear that the VTA was in the same position as the Lufwaffe's Fligerkorps VIII had been in November, 1942 to January, 1943 at Stalingrad: having to make do the best they could with an impossible job. But several other transports from Cuba had made it in, and their cargoes had been quickly unloaded, their human cargo quickly loaded aboard, and the aircraft took off. One of the planes, an Il-62 with Aeroflot markings, had been shot down just after takeoff, but the others had gotten away from the field. Whether or not they made it to Cuba, though.....that was a different matter.

General Lukin came up to him. “Comrade General, Eight more inbound, and then that's it for today.”

Petrov looked at him. “Eight?”

“Yes, Comrade General,” replied Lukin.

“What aircraft types?” Petrov asked.

“Three Il-76s, two An-12s, one An-74, and two Il-62s,” Lukin said.

“Did you say 'An-74'?” Petrov asked.

“That's correct Comrade General.” Lukin replied. “Several preproduction examples were sent to Cuba, and now they've been released for the airlift.”

“And whose idea was it to release them now?” demanded Petrov. “Several of the smaller fields we've lost could have supported the An-74s without any difficulty!”

“That, Comrade General, I don't have an answer for.”

Petrov swore, and not only did he swear, but he did so loud and long. His job might have been a somewhat easier had those An-74s been released earlier, for the municipal airports that could only handle smaller transports, those An-12 sized or smaller, would have easily been able to land the An-74s. Now....”Well, at least if the runways get bombed again, the An-74s can still get in and out.”

“There is that, Comrade General. ETA is 1750 our time,” Lukin reported.

“All right. Let's get them down, and then out of here as fast as we can. And let's hope the Americans didn't kill any of them on the way in.”


1725 Hours: Port of Brownsville

Admiral Gordikov watched as the last cargo was unloaded from the Cherepovets. What had been quite useless had been set aside, while what could be useful had been sent off for distribution. Though the nearby field hospitals got first priority, on General Alekseyev's orders. The number of wounded was threatening to overwhelm their medical services, and every last bit of supplies helped. Though how much it did help, nobody knew. The freighter's First Officer came up to the Admiral “That's it, Comrade Admiral. We're riding high.”

“Good. And we may actually be able to use half of this cargo,” the Admiral commented.

“Comrade Admiral, don't blame me. All we were told was,”

“I know what you were told,” Gordikov said, interrupting the first officer. “It's not you I blame, it's whoever loaded your ship.”

“I understand, Comrade Admiral. Will the Captain be returning?” the first officer asked.

“No. A Naval Officer will come aboard to take his place for the final voyage. And it won't be far.” Gordikov said.

“Ah. A run down the coast to Mexico? That's what our orders said were a possibility. Or another run back to Cuba.”

“Much shorter than that. After loading a cargo that must be denied to the Americans, your ship will be sunk as a blockship in the main shipping channel.” Gordikov told the First Officer.

“Comrade Admiral, we can get out of here!” the man wailed.

Gordikov glared at him. “Not when the Americans have mined our own safe passage lane through our own minefields.”

The man's heart sank. Unless they got on a plane out of here, or got over the border into Mexico, they'd be here when the Americans arrived. “Comrade Admiral, we'd rather take our chances.”

“This order comes from General Alekseyev, the Theater Commander-in-Chief. No exceptions.”


1745 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico.

“Comrade Captain, a word, if I may?”

Padorin looked up from the navigator's table. It was his Starpom. “Of course, Andrei. Come to the wardroom. Strenlikov, you have the deck and the con.”

“Aye, Comrade Captain.”

The two officers went to the wardroom. Again, Padorin closed and locked the door behind him. “Yes, Andrei?”

The Starpom chose his words carefully. “Comrade Captain, there has been some....unusual behavior coming from our Zampolit.”

“Oh? How would you describe 'unusual'?” Padorin replied.

“I think he's soliciting a mutiny.” the Starpom replied. “Several officers have approached me, and they've said that our dear political officer has sounded them out on what they'd think if he tried to assume command.”

Padorin smiled. “Andrei, you're not the first to tell me about this. Captain Lieutenant Shelpin has already spoken to me about the man's behavior.”

The Starpom laughed. “So our 'sword and shield' man came to you?”

“Correct. And we both see eye-to-eye on this. If our dear Comrade Zirinsky tries anything foolish, he will regret it. Briefly,” Padorin said, his tone very serious.

“And that means in the event of his trying something foolish, he would not be with us the rest of the deployment?” the Starpom asked.

“Your assumption is correct.” Then there was a knock on the door. “See who that is, Andrei.”

The Starpom unlocked the door and opened it. Captain 3rd Rank Nikolai Guriev was there. He was the boat's Chief Engineer. He came in, closing the door behind him and the Starpom. “Comrade Captain, I wish to report some very serious misbehavior on the part of Comrade Zirinsky.”

“You're not the first. Let me guess: he's trying to solicit a mutiny?”

“How'd you know?” Guriev asked.

“Both the Starpom and the Security Officer have already discussed this with me, Nikolai.” Padorin responded.

“Comrade Captain.....I've been with this boat-and you-for her entire life. It's people like Zirinsky that are responsible for the mess we're in. A losing war, food shortages at home, and people are angry. You know that and so does every officer on this boat. I suggest we do something about Zirinsky, at least.”

“Rest assured, gentlemen,” Padorin said, avoiding the term “Comrades”. “If our dear Party zealot tries anything foolish, he will not finish the cruise. If an 'unfortunate accident' is called for, our Security Officer has some ideas. And you, Nikolai, probably have some, too.”

“Indeed I do, Comrade Captain. Indeed I do.”

“Good. Let's see what our dear Party man does over the next day or two. Watch him when he enters your compartments, both of you, and pass that along to the other officers. Quietly, mind you. And should he be so foolish as to try.....he's shark bait,” said Padorin.


1755 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport

“Comrade General, there they are,” General Lukin said, pointing to the east.

General Petrov scanned the sky with his binoculars. Sure enough, the transports, with their fighter escorts, were coming in. The first two to land were two Il-76s, and both aircraft taxied up to the former air cargo ramp, and dropped their rear ramps. Rubber fuel bladders came from the first plane, while pallets of food and water rolled out from the second. “Get the food and water bottles distributed at once!” Petrov yelled. He turned to where eighty or so wounded men were waiting. Most were ambulatory cases, but whose injuries would not permit them to return to the front within a week. “Doctor! Get those men on that first plane!” Petrov yelled to a doctor.

Nodding, the doctor hustled his patients-who had already been screened for self-inflicted wounds-onto the waiting aircraft. The wounded men got aboard, the rear ramp was raised, and the Il-76's pilot gunned the engines and took off. Petrov turned to Lukin. “Who's next outbound?”

“Specialists, Comrade General. Signals-intelligence people, for starters. Also, some planeless pilots from a MiG regiment.” Lukin said.

“All right, get them on that second plane,” Petrov said as an An-12 came in. “I'm surprised: where are the American fighters?”

“They're there, Comrade General,” a voice next to Petrov said. He turned, and it was the pilot of the second Il-76. “F-14s and F-15s are out there, and F-8s as well,” the pilot said. “I was instructed to give this to you personally, Comrade General.” The man then handed an envelope to General Petrov.

“Thank you. Get your passengers loaded, and get out of here,” Petrov said.

Nodding, the pilot went back to his plane. As he did so, a third Il-76 came in, only this one was trailing smoke from one engine. Petrov saw that, then he turned to the envelope. He opened it. “Lukin!”

“Yes, Comrade General?”

“Have a look at this. Some idiot in Havana wants a personal briefing.” Petrov said, showing the letter to General Lukin.

“Maybe hearing directly from someone here would do us some good-and light a fire under those fools in Havana who've been sending us utterly worthless crap, Comrade General.”

“I agree. Do you have someone in mind?” Petrov asked.

“Yes, I do, Comrade General. My deputy, Major General Rostov.”

“Valery Rostov; he's a good man, and has Moscow connections. But what's he doing here?” asked Petrov.

“I believe his reassignment had something to do with a district official's twenty-year old daughter, and a narrow escape from the man's dacha, Comrade General.”

Petrov nodded. It was an old story: sleep around with the wrong woman, and it might come back to haunt you. “It didn't affect his promotion?”

Lukin laughed. “No, he was celebrating his promotion; he's a bachelor, and well, you do get the idea...”

An explosion interrupted Lukin. Both generals turned, and saw the single Il-62 trailing fire from its right engines. Then the engine exploded, tearing off the tail, and the plane rolled right and nosed into the ground, going up in a large explosion as it impacted. And just off in the distance, they could see two F-14s turning away. “Where's those fighter escorts?” Petrov demanded to know.

“I'll wager they're quite preoccupied with keeping the American fighters away, Comrade General.”

As they spoke, the damaged Il-76 taxied up. It quickly unloaded its cargo of ammunition, and a staff officer came up to Petrov; “That plane's pilot told me he's not going back to Cuba with a damaged aircraft, Comrade General.”

“All right: get some of those specialists, and have him take them out. Can he make Monterey?”

“Yes, Comrade General. That's where he'd rather go,” the staffer said.

“Good enough. Get him loaded and out of here. Where's the other An-12?” Petrov asked.

“Shot down east of South Padre Island, Comrade General. F-15s....”