[Matt Wiser]

The clock keeps ticking for the Russians and Cubans...


0430 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, U.S. Highway 281, west of Santa Maria, Texas.


Colonel Carlos Herrera scanned the horizon with his night-vision sight. He commanded the 214th Tank Regiment, and found it unusual that he now had two short battalions' worth of Soviet air-assault troops under his command, but in these times, nothing should have surprised him. Colonel Herrera had looked at his orders again, and he knew that this time, last stands were not in the cards-unless the Americans forced him into one. General Perez had been most specific on that. And he knew that coming down 281 was at least a battalion, with the rest of that battalion's brigade on its left. Delay, delay, delay, those were the orders of the day. He turned to Major Pavel Murayev, the commander of the Soviet air assault group. “Can your men give us some warning?”

“No problem, Comrade Colonel,” Murayev said. “I'll have them fire off a flare, then fall back to the main defense line. Like you, I'm not ready for a last stand just yet.”

Herrera nodded. “Excellent. As for the civilians in Santa Maria....” He turned to his chief of staff. “Who's in charge of the town?”

The chief consulted his notes. “Some rear-area troops, Comrade Colonel. Mostly ours, but a company's worth of Nicaraguans as well. The vast majority are unfit for front-line service.”

“Tell the town commander to order all civilians to take shelter. Anyone seen outside will be shot.” Herrera said.

“Immediately, Comrade Colonel.” the chief replied.

“What else is in the town?” Herrera asked.

“A Soviet S-75 SAM site, Comrade Colonel.” the chief responded.

“Is the site operational?” asked the Colonel.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel, it is.”

Herrera paused for a moment. “Raoul, tell the site commander to be prepared to destroy his radar, communications equipment, and all secret documents. No, tell him to do it now.”

“Comrade Colonel?”

“If we can't hold here, we fall back. And the site commander won't have time to destroy what needs to be denied the enemy. Tell him to do it-fast.” Herrera said.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” said the chief, who went off to issue the orders.

Herrera nodded as the chief left. He looked around, and saw the shapes of T-72G tanks taking up positions. He had two battalions of T-72s, the last Cuban T-72s left in Texas, and one battalion of T-55s delivered in a convoy in June, before the Americans turned the Gulf of Mexico into a shooting gallery. His regiment also had 24 2S1 122-mm guns, and a motor-rifle battalion with BMP-1s, and the late arrival of the Soviet airborne troopers was a welcome addition. However, he could not count on the town garrison: when his chief mentioned “unfit for front-line service,” he meant it. Reservists out of uniform for twenty years or more, and Nicaraguans, though motivated, had castoffs from the 1950s in terms of heavy equipment and heavy weapons. If we can delay for an hour or so, then we'll fall back, and do it again, he thought. But Colonel Herrera also knew that the end was only a matter of time.


0450 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

General Petrov looked around. The last American attack had been two hours earlier, when two aircraft, type unknown, had swept over the field and left two dozen Mark-82 bombs in their wake. Three valuable aircraft-two Il-62s and an Tu-154, had been destroyed, and another hangar blasted apart. This time, though that hit had been costly, for many wounded men had been sheltered there, hoping for a place on a flight out. And another bomb had wrecked a nearby fuel storage tank, sending up a large fireball as the jet fuel inside exploded. His engineering officer came up to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade General, we've gotten the wrecks cleared. The runways are being double-checked right now, as we speak. If there are no....complications, I'll declare the field ready by 0530.”

“Good, Comrade Colonel. You've moved the bodies from that hangar?” Petrov asked.

“That is underway, Comrade General.” the Colonel said.

“Good. It's an hour until first light. We should have airdrops beginning then. Make sure the drop zones are marked.”

“Absolutely, Comrade General.”

“Good. Carry on, Colonel.”

The engineering colonel went off to his tasks, while Petrov went back to the hangar where he and Lukin had their work space. He found Lukin on the satellite phone to Havana. “Well?”

“First aircraft were wheels up at 0430 our time. An hour and a half away.” Lukin reported as he hung up.

“That's a start. Airdrops first?”

“Just as yesterday, Comrade General.” Lukin said.

“A drop in the bucket, Lukin,” Petrov spat. “Whose bright idea was it to try a resupply operation like this by air?”

“Someone who didn't read about the Stalingrad airlift,” Lukin replied.

“You have no argument from me on that,” Petrov said. “And when do they expect landings?”

Lukin looked at the wall clock. “0700, Comrade General. No sooner than that.”

“Lukin, you've got a son and daughter-in-law in Leningrad, with a grandchild on the way. I'm divorced. Today, you're leaving on one of the aircraft.”

“Comrade General! My duty....” Lukin said.

“I have something to send to friends at Air Force Headquarters and in the VTA. Something that has to go by courier. You're it. Pack and be ready to go sometime in the afternoon. Cuba if at all possible, but Mexico City in a pinch. And that's an order.” Petrov said firmly.

“I...I understand, Comrade General.” Lukin said. “I'll take letters from those on the staff who are staying.”

“Thank you, Lukin.”


0515 Hours: K-236, the Gulf of Mexico.


“Captain to CCP!” the intercom barked.

Captain Padorin jumped out of his bunk and into his shoes. A minute later, he was racing for the Central Command Post. “What is it?”

Captain Lieutenant Yevgeni Milstein turned to face the Captain. “Comrade Captain, we have a sonar contact, surface, bearing zero-nine-five relative, range about 15,000 meters.”

“Any identification?” Padorin asked.

“Not yet, Comrade Captain.” Milstein replied. He was a young officer, only a year out of the Academy, and this was only his second cruise. Combat was a lot different than what the lecturers there had told him it would be, but his eagerness was still evident in his tone.

Padorin went into the sonar compartment. The senior operator was on watch again, and he was listening. “Many ships on that bearing, Comrade Captain,” he said.

“It's the outer perimeter of the amphibious group?” Padorin wondered out loud.

“I think so, Comrade Captain,” the operator replied.

Padorin turned to Milstein. “Battle Stations. Silently, if you please.”

Milstein nodded. “Battle Stations, aye, Comrade Captain,” and the lights turned red, and the alarm buzzed. Officers and crew raced to their stations, as Padorin took over the con.

The weapons officer came in and checked the tube status. “Comrade Captain, we've got two Type-65s left, and four Klub missiles. Full load of standard torpedoes as well.”

“Very well,” Padorin said. He turned to the navigator. “How far are we from South Padre Island? That's our secondary pickup point.”

“At ten knots? About fifteen hours, Comrade Captain.” replied the navigator.

Padorin looked at both his Starpom and Shelpin. “We still have that potential rendezvous on shore: that is our first responsibility.” He turned to the helm: “Come right: course three-five-zero. Maintain ten knots, and make your depth two hundred meters.”

“Someone is playing with us back home,” the Starpom said. Padorin looked at him, and saw Shelpin nod.

“Not just that, it's the Americans,” Padorin said. “If they keep this up, there's no way we can make the pickup point-either the main one at Brazos Santiago Pass, or the backup at South Padre Island.”

“Mother of...” the Starpom said. “And if they're landing at South Padre Island....”

Even Shelpin, the KGB officer, knew it. “If that's the case, then forget about the pickup. Whoever we were supposed to get out is going to be out of luck.”

“Exactly. I'm not risking this boat just to save a few Party types-or American collaborators-from the end there.” Padorin said. He turned to the navigator: “Plot a course around that amphibious group. Then we'll make a run west. If, of course, the Americans will allow us.”


0540 Hours: 8th Guards Tank Regiment, 20th GTD, south of Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Texas.

Captain Popov watched from his command vehicle as tanks and BMP-2s from the 144th Motor-Rifle Regiment moved forward past his depleted regiment's positions. So far, he'd watched as the 120th GMRD on his right got shot to pieces, and the 356th MRR from the 120th, which had been on their flank had came back-what was left of it. He'd talked with that unit's senior surviving officer, a captain like himself, and it had been the same story: move forward until contact, but it had been the Americans who'd initiated the action, and that was that. Tanks, Bradley IFVs, and attack helicopters had come down on the entire 120th, just as they'd done with his division, and now....he'd be lucky to hold what he had.

Now, seeing the fresh regiment come up, maybe they might push the Yankees back. But Popov was surprised to see them halt just as they reached the northern edge of the airport boundary, and the motor-rifle troops stopped and began to dig in. This isn't an attack, now, he realized. Hasty defense. And they'll be coming. Soon, he knew, as he looked to the east as the faint light of dawn began to break. His thoughts were interrupted by the Zampolit, who was now his deputy commander-and not just for political affairs, deputy period. “Are the men ready?” Popov asked.

“As ready as they can be, after what happened last night,” Grushin said.

“The Americans saw us coming; how they did, I have no idea, but they were waiting for us, and shot us to hell. There's no way around that.” Popov said.

Grushin nodded sympathetically. He'd been a popular Zampolit, acting as morale officer when not engaged with military duties, and he knew many of the men personally. “No arguing there, Comrade Captain.”

“Get the men fed: who knows when they'll have their next meal,” Popov told his Zampolit. “And after that, have them stand to. The Americans will be back,” he said, motioning to the north.

“Right away, Comrade Captain.”

“And Grushin,” Popov said.

“Yes, Comrade Captain?”

“If you have to, destroy your identification papers that show you're a Political Officer. The Americans may not like that, if you get caught. Wouldn't want you dragged behind a motorcycle by those maniacs in the 13th Cavalry, and then left for the ants.”

Grushin laughed. “If I have to, I'll just throw them in a burning vehicle. I imagine there'll be plenty of those about.”

“Good.” Popov said. Then his chief of staff came up. “Yes?”

“Comrade Captain, division has told all units to hold at their present positions. We're to let the Americans come to us instead.” the chief replied.

“Hasty defense. Just as I thought,” Popov said as he turned north and saw the 144th MRR digging in. He turned back to the chief. “How long until they get here?”

“No word on that, Comrade Captain.”