[Matt Wiser]

And it continues:

1205 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Major Sorokin knocked on the door of Marshal Alekseyev's office. “Come in,” he heard. Entering, he found the Marshal having lunch. Alekseyev was having some soup-likely from a can, and some canned fruit. “Major, come and have a seat. Have you eaten?”

“Thank you, Marshal,” Sorokin replied as he sat down. “I suppose this is my last meal in America-or maybe, if I don't get out of here, my last meal, period.”

“Don't worry about the latter. You're going to Mexico instead of Cuba, first,” Alekseyev said. “General Chibisov has arranged transport from Monterrey to Mexico City for you. Just get on a plane for Monterrey.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. That, you don't have to worry about,” Sorokin said.

“Good. Now, you do know your mission, once you arrive in Moscow?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. First, to brief Minister Sergetov, and the other candidate members of the Politburo. Especially Gorbachev and Yeltsin. After that, Marshal Akrohmayev, and both the Chief of the General Staff, General Grachev, and his deputy, General Moisyev.”Sorokin replied.

“Very good, Major,” Alekseyev said. “If the two generals so enable you, also brief the commanders of both the Moscow and Leningrad Military Districts. There's been quite a few officers getting reassigned to Leningrad because the climate in Moscow....has, shall we say, gotten unhealthy.”

“Shall I mention those two officers to General Grachev?” Sorokin asked.

“Use your own judgment, Major.” Alekseyev said. “But when you brief the candidate Politburo members, emphasize that we were promised full support, and have gotten very little. And show those photographs and videotapes to them. I imagine, from what Marshal Akrohmayev has said to me, that the Defense Council isn't going to be interested, though some of the full members of the Politburo may be.”

Sorokin checked his briefcase. Yes, everything was there. Including the private letters that staff officers had entrusted to him. “Do you have anything for your family, Comrade Marshal?”

Alekseyev smiled. He pulled out a letter to his wife, and separate letters for his daughters. “Just these. All are in Leningrad: my wife is visiting her sister, and both daughters are in university there.”

Sorokin put those in the briefcase. He looked at the wall clock. “Comrade Marshal, if I'm to leave today....”

Marshal Alekseyev stood up. “Go, then. When you get to Moscow, I don't care how, but you must show that we could have ended this a year ago, and ended this war with our honor intact-though not much else. And who knows how many would still be alive if we had done so?”

Major Sorokin got up to leave. “I will, Comrade Marshal. And may I say, it has been an honor to be under your command.” And he saluted the Marshal for the last time.

Alekseyev returned it. “Good luck, Major. And give my regards to the Rodina.”


1220 Hours: 159th IAP, over the Gulf of Mexico.


Major Dimitri Volkov scanned his radar, then scanned visually to his left and right. His wingman was in position, as was the other element. His flight of four Su-27s had left San Antonio de Los Banos in Cuba, escorting several Il-62s and Il-76s into the Brownsville pocket. And from his past escort flights, he knew the Americans were waiting for him. Every mission, the Americans had been out in force: land-based F-15s, and carrier-based F-14s and F/A-18s. And more often than not, the escorts had been diverted from their charges, and the American fighters had gotten into the transport stream, and wreaked havoc. In one fight, he'd been distracted by a pack of F-15s only a hundred kilometers from the coast, only to have four Tomcats get in behind him, and knock down four transports and another pair of escorting fighters. And to add insult to injury, not only did the F-14s get away, but the F-15s had played with him enough that he'd never managed to get a shot off.

Now, the group of transports and their escorts were still an hour away from Brownsville, though they'd passed the halfway mark. Due to the range limit, the Su-27s could only carry six AAMs: four R-27 missiles (two each radar and heat-seeking) and two R-73s on the wingtips. And, in a touch of irony, he'd been advised that he only had fuel for fifteen minutes' combat, before he'd have to break off and head back to Cuba, or make a one-way down to either Monterrey or Victoria in Mexico. His intelligence officer had even noted that the Americans might have had that pattern identified, and force the Soviet fighters into combat early, then force them to break off, and then go for the transports.

So far, the flight across the Gulf had been uneventful. On some days, it had gone exactly that, but on others....he and his fellow fighter pilots had been fighting for their lives, and had been helpless to protect the transports. Then a “bing-bing” sounded in his headset, while his RWR display noted a radar at his one o'clock position.

Falcon leader, this is Falcon three. Radar at one o'clock.” his second element leader reported.

“Copy three, I see it.” Volkov replied. “Either an E-2 or E-3. They know we're here now.”

The Soviet flight continued on ahead. With no A-50 AWACS in-theater to give them the big picture-the only two left in North America were in Cuba, providing air defense coverage for the island-they'd have to use their own radars to pick up threats. And soon enough, there were: eight targets on the scope. “Falcon flight, Falcon leader: Crows at twelve o'clock!” (crows: Soviet slang for enemy fighters). Then his RWR lit up with a missile lock. That meant F-14s and Phoenix missiles! “Break!”

The Su-27s broke away, and both Volkov and his wingman were able to evade. Three and Four, though, were not so lucky: Three took a Phoenix missile that blew his tail apart, and the big Sukhoi tumbled across the sky in flames. There was no parachute. Four, though, didn't have the chance to evade: another Phoenix struck him nearly head-on, and blew the cockpit apart. His plane, too, tumbled out of the sky.

“Two, are you with me?” Volkov called as he pulled out of the maneuver.

“Leader, I'm right with you!” his wingman called.

“Follow me in, Two,” Volkov replied. And both Su-27s charged ahead to meet the incoming American fighters. As they did so, Volkov looked back: two Il-62s suddenly blew apart-with missile trails betraying their killers. More F-14s had taken Phoenix shots, and had scored. Then Volkov saw a sight that surprised him. As the Su-27s closed with the Tomcats, he saw two small fighters fly right past his Sukhoi. Volkov thought his eyes were playing tricks, but his wingman called it as well.

“Leader, Two. Those were F-8s!”

Crusaders? Where did those antiques come from? Then he remembered the intelligence briefing: an older American carrier from the Vietnam era had been reactivated, along with F-8s from storage, and that ship was now believed to be in the Gulf of Mexico. Now, seeing those F-8s verified that. Then Volkov's threat receiver lit up again. “Break!”

Two Phoenix missiles came in, and they barely missed his Su-27. Two, though, was not so fortunate, for another pair of Phoenixes blew his aircraft to pieces. Don't grieve, that comes later. If there is a later, Volkov knew. Then a cry came from the transports: “Fighters in the transport stream!”

Volkov finished his turn, and saw the F-8s had gotten into the transports. One, then two, Il-76s took Sidewinder shots and fell out of the sky, burning. Enraged, he tried to lock up one of the Crusaders, but ignored his RWR again as it buzzed in his headset. Only when a missile flew past him did he respond, and saw two F-14s on his tail. He tried turning inside and to the left, but it was too late: another missile-probably a Sparrow-was fired, and tracked to his Sukhoi. The explosion blew the left wing off, and by reflex, Volkov fired his K-36D ejection seat.

Major Volkov was hanging in his parachute, and he had a seat to the massacre. Of eight transports in this group, six of them fell to American fighters. Only a pair of Il-76s made it. And as he descended to the water, his life raft dangling below him, he wondered if someone would find him before the sharks did.


1245 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, U.S. 281, east of Santa Maria, Texas.


Colonel Herrera watched as the Americans deployed to attack his previous position. Only a few Soviet air-assault troops waited at the small bridge, and as the lead American vehicles approached, they blew the bridge. He watched as the Soviets tried to get away in their captured pickup trucks, but a hail of fire from the Americans cut down the Soviets and blew the two trucks apart. But he'd accomplished his mission, for the Americans stopped, and a few minutes later, watched as engineers came up to check the bridge foundations for booby traps, and began checking for mines. The colonel smiled. That would delay the Americans, since they wanted this road, for an hour or so. He picked up his radio. “Sparrow, this is Vulture. Target the bridge.”

His artillery battalion responded. Though they'd lost a couple of their 2S1s to an American helicopter attack, the 214th still had twenty-two of the guns left. And a battery of those guns began hurling shells at the bridge. Shells dropped near the Americans, and they took cover. A couple minutes' worth of firing was all that was needed, and that suit his purposes perfectly. Herrera called the artillery off, and they began to pull back-if that American brigade was alert, their Firefinder radars would be tracking the Cuban shells, and American counter-battery fire would be coming in short order. And sure enough, 155 shells began falling. Most of the Cuban artillerymen and their vehicles got away, but one ammo truck took a direct hit, and its cargo detonated. The truck disintegrated, along with its crew, in a cloud of smoke and flame. And a 2S1 took a near miss and threw a track. The crew got out, hopped another vehicle, and picked up a ride out of there.

Colonel Herrera watched as the Americans picked themselves up, and tended their wounded, while others got back to work. Still, it would take a while to make sure the area was safe before a bridging vehicle arrived, and that was enough. He turned to his deputy. “Fall back to Position Delta.”


1310 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division, Harlingen, Texas.

General Gordonov and his chief of staff looked out the window of their latest headquarters. It had been, of all places, a auto-service center before the war, and it offered a view down Highways 77-83. That, and the fact that it was right next to the freeway, a convenient escape route, should that be necessary, had appealed to the General. But something else was on his mind: where are the tanks? General Suraykin had promised him reinforcements by noon, and now, it was after 1300. “Get on the phone to Army headquarters, and find out where those dammed tanks are!” he thundered.

“Right away, Comrade General,” the chief replied. But before the chief could make the call, a shout came from outside. “Tanks to the south!”

Gordonov went to one of the open garage bays. Yes, he could see tanks approaching. And a sigh of relief came from him as they revealed themselves as T-80s. He turned to the chief of staff. “Inform Army headquarters that the reinforcements have arrived.”

“Yes, Comrade General!” the chief responded. The lead tank rolled up to the building, and an armor Colonel got out.

“I'm looking for General Gordonov,” the tanker said.

“You've found him,” Gordonov said as he came out. His battle dress was dusty and greasy, as was his blue beret. And an AKSU-74 carbine hung by his side. “You must be 38th Tanks?”

“No, Colonel Arkady Chesnikov, 41st Independent Tank Regiment.” the tanker replied.

“Where's 38th Tanks?” Gordonov asked.

“Comrade General, don't ask me. All I know was that I was to move in support of your division.” Chesnikov said.

“Comrade General, I have Army Headquarters on the line,” the chief of staff said.

“Wait here, please,” Gordonov asked. “I have to speak with Army on this.”

The tanker nodded as Gordonov went to the phone. Before could speak, he heard General Suraykin's voice. “Gordonov, glad to hear you're still fighting.”

“Comrade General, so am I. The lead regiment of reinforcements has arrived: when can I count on 38th Tanks arriving?”

“You can't.” Suraykin replied. “Get to your map, Gordonov. I need to tell you this in this way.”

Gordonov walked over to the operations map. “Yes, Comrade General?”

“All right. The 20th Tanks got chewed up at the Rio Grande Valley Airport to your northeast,” Suraykin said. “And I mean chewed up. They're no longer responding, and I fear they have done their full measure of duty.”

Gordonov gulped involuntarily. He knew full well what that meant. The 20th Tanks had been effectively destroyed. And that meant a hole in the Army's right flank. “I see, Comrade General.”

“I'm glad you do. I've had to send 38th Tanks to fill the gap. The 41st Tank Regiment and some engineering troops-who can fight as infantry if needed-are all you're able to get, Gordonov.” Suraykin told the airborne general.

“It may not be enough, Comrade General,” Gordonov replied.

“I know, and I don't like it any more than you do,” Suraykin said. “But that's the way it is.”

“Understood, Comrade General.”

“There's some good news, though: the 41st has brought some supplies to you. And you can use the supply trucks to evacuate your wounded.” Suraykin said.

“Glad to hear that, Comrade General.”

“Good. Do the best you can, and Front Headquarters is working to get additional air force action in support of you. And be aggressive with the 41st: they're under your command, as of now.” said the Army commander.

Gordonov looked at the armor colonel. “Thank you, Comrade General.”

“Good luck,” and then Suraykin hung up.

The airborne general looked at the tanker. “General Suraykin says your regiment is now under my command. Push north up the highway, to the 77-83 junction, and just crash into the Americans.”

“We'll give them a pasting, you can bet on that,” Colonel Chesnikov replied. “Where do you want your supplies?”

“Take one-third to the regiment holding the junction. The rest, turn it over to my supply officer.”

“We'll do that.” And the armor officer went out, mounted his tank, and led his regiment forward. And he did surprise the Americans, and pushed the 29th Division back a kilometer or so. And the 41st gave the 105th Guards some breathing room.