[Matt Wiser]

And it goes on...and time for the Russians and Cubans is running out:


0720 Hours: Brownsville-South Padre Island International Airport.

General Lukin watched as some forty men, designated as specialists, got aboard the An-26. Most were officers from special branches such as communications, air-defense, missile officers, and so on. Others were now planeless pilots or navigators from the Air Force, and there was even a naval officer. Some were also acting as couriers, from various headquarters, and he counted himself among those. Finally, several walking wounded whose injuries would not heal sufficiently to return to duty came aboard: a number had two broken arms, while others had lost hands or feet due to injuries. When the last had come aboard, Lukin went to the cockpit to talk to the pilot. “We're headed for Mexico City?”

“Not yet. Monterrey first: they're not flying near that field-the air defense is too strong from their viewpoint, or so we've been told,” the pilot said.

“Was there any fighter activity on the way in?” Lukin asked.

“Not at all. No F-4s, F-15s, F-16s, or F-20s. They may still have been at breakfast,” the Major said.

“That's good enough. Let's go.” Lukin said, strapping himself in to a jumpseat behind the pilot. “You're the pilot, I'm just a passenger.”

Nodding, the pilot radioed for takeoff clearance. When the green light flashed, the copilot pushed the throttles forward, and the Antonov rolled down the runway and into the air. Staying low, the pilot made a 180 turn and headed southwest. Lukin nodded his approval, and put on a headset. “Low level all the way?”

“That's right, Comrade General. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” the Major said.

General Lukin looked out the navigator's port side window. He watched a second An-26 follow them, and an An-12 lifted off and headed east as well. Then he saw in horror as a missile, what kind he didn't know, came in from the east and slammed into the An-12, blowing the cockpit apart, and sending the big transport spiraling down into the ground in flames, exploding in a fireball on impact.


0750 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville

Marshal Alekseyev went into his private washroom. He had found out when he inherited the office after Marshal Kribov's death that it had belonged to the University's president, and the man had wanted a private washroom. Despite the lack of power in the city, the headquarters was still running on a generator, and he was able to wash and shave. When he was finished, he came into his office. Colonel Sergetov was there, waiting. “Comrade Marshal,” he nodded.

“Good morning, Ivan Mikhailovich,” Alekseyev acknowledged his aide. “What do we have at this moment?”

“The Americans are pressing the Cuban 2nd Army, again. And Suraykin reports that the counterattack at the Rio Grande Valley International Airport has failed. He's ordered the division that conducted it to assume a hasty defense, though they're not falling back as yet. The 105th Guards Airborne is still holding the junction, though they're beginning to run short on everything: airdrops have been requested but refused: the drop zones are too close to enemy lines.” Sergetov reported.

“And our other forces?” Alekseyev asked.

“General Malinsky reports that 28th Army's counterattack with the Rogachev Guards has also failed, and the division has been severely handled. As with Suraykin's counterattack, the division has assumed a hasty defense pending further orders. Eighth Guards, Third Shock, and Cuban First Armies continue to hold, even if they're barely holding on,” said the Colonel.

“Hm. And at sea?”

“The landing at Brazos Island, you know about; our coastal-defense troops south of there report the Americans have finished mopping up. General Dudorov reports that two landings-one at South Padre Island, and the other at Boca Chica-that's the east end of Highway 4-are now a distinct possibility. He suggests ignoring the former: that's more likely to be a diversion from the main assault at Boca Chica. If the Americans pull off an amphibious assault with an airborne drop-as was done so many times in Europe during the last war, we'll be finished-and soon.”

“I see,” Marshal Alekseyev replied. “And the airlift?”

“General Petrov reports it has resumed, though the aircraft landing so far are coming from Mexico City. Aircraft from Cuba should be arriving by now.” Sergetov reported.

“We'll know soon enough, as to how many are arriving,” Alekseyev commented.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said. “The ambassador to the Hall government wishes to see you as soon as possible: he's got a list of people in that government that are supposed to leave.”

“That's just great. How many, besides Hall and his cabinet?”

“About two hundred and fifty,” Sergetov said.

“I'll see him at 1000. Now, there's two people I'd like to see as soon as possible. Get Major Sorokin here one last time; make sure he's got everything he needs.”

“That has already been taken care of, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said. “And the second?”

“I'd like to talk to our guest over breakfast, Ivan Mikhailovich. Have a meal ready at 0830, and bring her here. See to it personally.” Alekesyev said.

“Of course, Comrade General. Is this between the two of you, or do you want service for four?”

“Yes, Colonel. Yourself, and General Dudorov.” Alekseyev nodded. “Anything else?”

Sergetov hesitated, then he pulled out a folded message form and handed it to Alekseyev. “This came in not long ago. General Chibisov felt it wasn't worth waking you.”

Alekseyev took the form. He read it, and began to crumple it as he did so. “Of all the....More nonsense from that Chekist bastard! More Party blather. It's the same kind of bombast Hitler gave just before our final offensive against Berlin.”

“That was General Chibisov's view, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said.

“Good. Don't bother passing that message down the chain of command. Our commanders have more important things to worry about.”


0810 Hours: Port of Brownsville, Texas.

General Andreyev watched as the vans carrying the nuclear warheads arrived at the port. Thirty-six warheads in all, that he and his regiment had “liberated” from the KGB....and now, those warheads would get ready for their final voyage. Now, he was looking for a naval officer: Marshal Alekseyev had told him that a naval officer would be taking the Cherepovets out, but he couldn't leave until the warheads were actually in the freighter and it had cast off. “Comrade General?” he heard a voice say.

“Yes?” Andreyev turned to see a naval officer saluting him.

“Captain Second Rank Romonov, at your service, Comrade General. I'm to take the freighter out for her final trip.” the navy man said.

Andreyev returned the salute. “I see. You've been told what your mission is?”

“Yes, Comrade General. By Admiral Gordikov himself,” Romonov replied.

“Then let's get to it.” Andreyev said.

The navy man nodded. “Of course, Comrade General.”

Andreyev waved his right hand, and the warhead vans drove up to the dock. They were still guarded by paratroopers from the 234th Guards Air Assault Regiment, and would remain so until the ship sailed. “I'm told that these vans must be loaded into the ship. It's that important.” said the General.

“So I've been informed, Comrade General.” Romonov said as the dock hands-all Soviets-began rigging the vans to be loaded aboard. “It'll take three or four hours, Comrade General, but he will be loaded by noon.”

“Good. Because I'd like to rejoin my division. But Marshal Alekseyev's orders were precise: Until you sail, that cargo is my responsibility.” Andreyev reminded the naval officer.

“May I ask what the cargo is? The Cherepovets won't be going far, but I've been told that the cargo must be denied to the enemy.” Romonov asked.

“You may not, Captain.” Andreyev said.

“I see,” Romonov said. “There's something else, and you'd be surprised to see it.”

“What?”

“Have a look at the other side of the waterway. It's been happening off and on since yesterday. Small groups of men-some ours, some Cubans, have been building small rafts and trying to get down the waterway to the ocean, and make a run for Mexico,” Romonov said. “Some were caught by the Commandant's Service, but others....they made it into the waterway.”

“And what happens when they reach the open ocean?” Andreyev asked.

“I imagine the Americans find them. Either that, or they face a lonely, lingering death out on the open sea.” Romonov commented.

Andreyev wasn't surprised: there had been a small trickle of deserters trying to get into Mexico ever since the pocket had been formed. Now some were willing to take their chances on the water-and try to make a run for the Mexican coast. If the Americans picked them up, well...a trip to an American POW compound meant they were going to live. If not....well, he'd rather face his adversaries one final time in battle, than take his chances on the open ocean. “As a sailor, what would you do?” asked the General.

“If I had a choice?” Romonov asked, seeing the General nod. I'd rather find a fighting ship: even a corvette or a patrol boat, and face the U.S. Navy one final time, than try a homemade raft on the open water. At least I'd die a sailor's death, and not have to worry about sharks, exposure, the sun, thirst....and so on.”

0825 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, Santa Maria, Texas.

Colonel Herrera was actually pleased. He'd forced the approaching Americans to deploy, and form up for an attack, instead of trying to take the town off the march. He'd used the time to get his most exposed units back into the town, and the Soviet air-assault troopers had prepared some positions in the town proper, though a stand was not on their agenda. Herrera had emphasized the need to delay the Americans, and not make a stand, unless they found themselves surrounded, and his battalion commanders understood it.

Now, his Third Battalion had fallen back to just east of the town, while Second Battalion had done so along the river. First Battalion had also pulled back to the center of town, along with his motor-rifle troops and the Soviet airborne. Major Murayev had come to him with an idea, and after having it explained, Herrera was all in favor of it. “Comrade Colonel,” his chief of staff said, “Everyone's ready.”

“Good. Tell the artillery to fire one final volley, then displace. Is Major Murayev ready?”

The chief nodded. “Yes, Comrade General, he's ready. And that artillery mission will fire immediately.”

Herrera saw his 122-mm guns fire one final salvo, then the 2S1s and their ammo carriers displaced. As they did so, Major Murayev came to him. “Comrade Colonel, we're all in position.”

Herrera looked at him. “You do know that standing and fighting isn't an option?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Colonel.” Murayev said. “What we've done is steal something from the Americans: something they did in 1986. See for yourself, when it happens.”

Colonel Herrera nodded. His battalion commanders were reporting that American armor was closing in again, a mixed battalion of tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles. And it was likely that the brigade that battalion belonged to would not be far behind. He called his armor: pull back to their third line. And the Cuban armor did so.

In her command Bradley, Captain Kozak watched the Cubans pull back. Strange. They didn't usually pull back without a serious fight, and she suspected a trap. Her battalion commander didn't agree, and ordered his units forward. As her company team advanced, she told her platoon leaders to be on the alert. And soon, she was proved right.

Major Murayev watched the M-60A4s and Bradley vehicles come into the town from two directions. One company from the west along 281, the other from the north. His air-assault troopers had studied this tactic after being on the receiving end of it in the Ozarks in 1986, and had returned the favor several times since. Murayev knew that the two companies would expect to close a pincer, but there was nothing in the presumed pocket to be trapped. His men were all on the east side of town. He turned to a trooper with a Metis (AT-7 Saxhorn) missile launcher. “Watch for a command vehicle, then fire. Don't wait for my order.”

“Yes, Comrade Major,” the trooper replied.

Kozak watched as Team Bravo came in. Two Bradley Platoons and a Tank platoon. She knew Team Bravo's commander, who rode in his Bradley, as did the Exec. As she came up, the man waved at her. Then she saw it. “Missile! Missile! Missile!” she yelled over the radio as she saw a missile heading for her counterpart's Bradley. And her gunner began firing 25-mm HE rounds back at the missile operator. But it was too late, as the Metis missile slammed into the Bradley, and it fireballed, killing everyone inside. Then a second missile tracked another Bravo Bradley, and it, too, exploded.

Murayev ducked as 25-mm rounds exploded around him. The missile operator died when a 25-mm round struck him in the chest, and another trooper was also killed by the 25-mm fire. Then machine-gun rounds began splattering all around him and his men. Murayev grabbed the guidance unit from the dead man, and two soldiers grabbed the reload missiles, and they worked their way out of the building, where two captured pickup trucks were waiting. Other air-assault troops were also getting out the same way, and by the time the Americans realized what had happened, Murayev's men were already gone.