[Matt Wiser]

The next one...


0140 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College.


General Malinsky was actually getting some good news for a change. His Air Force liaison had just gotten off the phone, and had come over to him. “Comrade General?” the Air Force man asked.

“Yes?”

“Good news, for a change, Comrade General. Additional air support is available, beginning at first light.” the SAF Colonel said.

“What kind of sorties will we get?” Isakov asked.

“Ground-attack and some fighters, Comrades. Including some Il-102s.” the Colonel replied.

“I thought those were prototypes only,” Malinsky said.

“A squadron's worth of preproduction models was sent over in one of the last convoys to make it to Mexico, Comrade General. They should make their combat debut tomorrow.”

Malinsky nodded. “And the rest?” he wanted to know.

“Su-17s and -22s, and some -24s for night work, Comrade General. We're just about out of Su-25s, but a few can make it from Matamoros International Airport, which is where the Il-102s are flying from.”

“And the airlift?” Malinsky asked.

“It resumes at first light. Air drops first, then actual landings. Drop Zones to be marked as usual. However, no drops near the 105th Guards Airborne, despite their requests. They're too exposed to both enemy fighters and SAMs.” the Colonel said.

“Good, Comrade Colonel,” Malinsky said. He turned to Isakov. “Notify all commanders about the increased air activity beginning at first light. And I'll be in my office getting some sleep. You, too Isakov. Tomorrow will be a busy day. Wake me, however, if there's anything serious.”

“Of course, Comrade General.”


0200 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th Tank Division; Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Texas.

Major Krylov pushed his regiment forward, moving towards the sight and sound of the guns. Off to his left, near what had been a private military school prewar, the rest of the division was moving forward, but where were the Americans? Clearly, the 120th GMRD was in contact, but so far, his regiment, and the division, was chasing ghosts. Then his reconnaissance company came in. “Dagger One, this is Mace. Contact front! Probable Bradleys and..” A burst of static ended the transmission. Apparently, the company commander had been found himself. Krylov peered through his periscope, and noted a burning vehicle, then two more vehicles, almost certainly his own, exploded. He called his battalion commanders; “All Dagger elements, this is Dagger One. Contact front. Engage at will: independent fires on contact.”

His battalion commanders acknowledged the order, and the 8th GTR moved ahead. Though his own night sights were the best the Soviet Union had, they were still a generation behind the Americans, with their Thermal Sights on tanks, Bradley IFVs, and on both aircraft and attack helicopters. Where were they? His tank came across his reconnaissance company, and he saw two BRDMs and a BRM burning, and a tank from the company was also disabled. But the rest of the company had moved forward. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose.

“Contact front!” one of his battalion commanders called. “Engaging!” And several T-80s began to fire. And that fire was returned, for numerous tanks began taking hits and exploding.

“Hammer, Dagger One. Say type of enemy.” Krylov called.

“Dagger, Hammer. Tanks. M-60A4s with the 120. We're....” and the transmission stopped.

Then another call came on the radio “Enemy helicopters!”

Krylov peered through his periscope. Yes, he could see several helicopters out there, their flare dispensers showing where they were. And they were firing. And more tanks took hits and erupted in fireballs. Krylov noted where the enemy tanks were, and called for his regimental artillery to fire on that location. Quickly, 122-mm shells began falling. Then another call came from the regiment on his left, the 155th Tank Regiment. “They're coming on our left!” The Americans had laid a trap, and were outflanking the 20th Tanks. A chill came down Krylov's spine as he heard that.

“Rapier, this is Dagger. Do you need assistance?” Krylov called the 155th.

“Dagger, this is Rapier. Affirmative. There's at least a brigade coming in on us. And...” the transmission disappeared in static. Either the 155th's commander had been hit, or enemy jamming was taking hold.

“Dagger two, contact division. Is there a change of plan?” Krylov called his deputy.

“Stand by, we're talking to them,” was the response. Then another call came that chilled him. “Comrade Major! Enemy tanks to the front!” That was his gunner talking.

“If you have a target, engage at will,” Krylov told the gunner, who began laying on a target. But before he could fire, another American tank, unseen by either Krylov or his gunner, targeted him and fired.

The 120-mm sabot round pierced the side armor, and penetrated the crew compartment, throwing out spall as it did so. Hot fragments whirled around the crew compartment, shredding fuel and hydraulic lines, as well as the crew. Neither Krylov or his crew had any chance to complain, for a few seconds later, the propellant for their 125-mm shells exploded, blowing the turret off the tank, and leaving a burning tank hull.


0220 Hours: 398th Coastal Defense Missile Battalion; North of Boca Chica State Park, Texas.

Captain Kokarev and his deputy scanned the horizon with their night-vision glasses. They'd been alerted that the American amphibious group was likely on its way, and Kokarev had ordered his men to their positions. The missile radar was still off, though. No need to attract attention until it was necessary, Kokarev felt. “Anything?” he asked his deputy.

“Nothing so far. Wait, though....ships to the left. Bearing zero-seven-zero.” the deputy said.

Kokarev turned to that bearing. He saw a sight that chilled his heart. Two battleships and a heavy cruiser were closing on Brazos Island. The only Soviets there were air-defense troops manning a radar station and a SAM site, though the defenders were a Cuban infantry battalion. Slowly, surely, the three ships turned as if they were off a practice range, and then they began to fire.

“Mother of God...” Kokarev said as 40-centimeter and 20-centimeter guns opened fire on the island. For several minutes, shells rained down on Brazos Island, and the defenders there could do nothing but hug the ground, and get into their bunkers.

“What are your orders, Comrade Captain?” the deputy asked.

“Hold fire. Do not turn on the radar. I'd rather wait until they come for us. And when they do...at least we'll get four missiles off,” Kokarev replied.

The bombardment continued for a half-hour. Then, just as it had started, the ships ceased fire and sailed off to the east. As they did so, Kokarev scanned the area to the northeast, and again to the east and southeast. Nothing else in sight. “Why didn't they shell us?” he asked.

“Perhaps they're waiting on something else?” the deputy said.

“Something else....an air attack to take us out...” said Kokarev. “Get the men to cover. Now!”

As the Soviets went for their bomb shelters, Kokarev remained in his command bunker It wasn't an air attack that came in, but something almost as bad: helicopters coming in from the sea, and landing on Brazos Island. He watched as CH-46 and CH-53 helicopters landed on the island, and U.S. Marines spilled out onto the island. He was an interested spectator as a battalion-sized force of Marines quickly and efficiently cleared the island, and within a half-hour, it was over. Kokarev picked up his field phone and called this in.

0240 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev was in his office with General Andreyev. Now that his special mission was completed, the Marshal had a new task for the General.

“Once the warheads are on the freighter, Andreyev, you'll have a new assignment.” Alekseyev said.

“How may I serve the Marshal?” Andreyev asked.

“You'll be in command of a grouping consisting of not just your division, but the 47th Tank Brigade. The 76th Guards Air Assault Division and the 47th are the only full-strength units left,” Alekseyev said, pointing at the map.

“And my task is?”

“You'll be my personal reserve. Not Malinsky's. Where and when you go into battle, is my responsibility, no one else's.” Alekseyev said.

“I see, Comrade Marshal.” Andreyev replied. “Do we back up Malinsky, or guard against an airborne attack?”

“Both, and one additional mission,” Alekseyev said. He pointed at the end of Highway 4 on the map. “There, Andreyev, the U.S. Marines may land, either today or tomorrow. If they do, you're our only hope of delaying them. Rest assured, I will not split your force, and your paratroopers will go into combat with armored support.”

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal,” Andreyev said.

“One other thing. Moscow issued a whole raft of promotions along with mine. Your name was on the list. Congratulations, Lieutenant-General Andreyev.” Alekseyev said.

“Right now, Comrade Marshal, I don't know whether to thank someone or curse someone. This was Moscow's idea?” Andreyev asked.

“It was.”

“Then, Comrade Marshal, someone in the Kremlin has read about Hitler and Paulus. And not only did the failed artist promote Paulus, he promoted a whole slew of senior officers one grade,” Andreyev said, remembering his history courses at Ryazan's Airborne Academy.

“True, General. Quite true. And the sense of deja vu does come up,” Alekseyev commented. “Do you wish to refuse the promotion?”

“No, Comrade General, I won't. But I'll take your congratulations over Moscow's any day of the week.” Andreyev said.

There was a knock on the door. It was Colonel Sergetov. “Comrade Marshal, I'm sorry to disturb you.”

“What is it, Colonel?” Alekseyev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, the Americans have bombarded Brazos Island, and have landed Marines there.” Sergetov reported.

“Situation?” Alekseyev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, neither the beach defenses, nor the air-defense radar there, answer radio calls. Our coastal-defense troops along Highway 4 report that the battle has been decided. Two battleships and a heavy cruiser shelled the island, then helicopter-borne Marines landed. They appear to be mopping up at the moment.” Sergetov said.

“I guess I'd better get back to my division, Comrade Marshal.” Andreyev said.

“Go, then. Wait for my orders to move,” Alekseyev said.

Andreyev saluted and left the office. “Comrade Marshal, there's one other thing.” Sergetov said.

“And that is?”

“General Chibisov ordered me to see you to bed. As he pointed out, tired generals make mistakes. A few hours' sleep is what you need, “ Sergetov reminded his Marshal.

“As always, Chibisov is correct. And tell him to get some sleep himself-and you, too.” Alekseyev said.

“Of course, Comrade Marshal.”

“I don't think the Americans will land this morning, anyway. That was just a prelude. This afternoon, though...” Alekseyev said as he laid down on his office couch, “Still, notify Admiral Gordikov and have him get the Cherepovets ready for her final voyage.”