[Matt Wiser]

A little bit of everything: ground, air, and naval action....


1925 Hours: Soviet Coastal Forces HQ: South Padre Island Coast Guard Station, Texas.

Captain 2nd Rank Vassily Tupolev sat at his desk in the former base commander's office. He had commanded the Soviet and Cuban naval forces based at South Padre Island for two years, and had seen his command steadily whittled down. No matter how hard the effort had been, nor the sacrifices made, the coastal forces had gone out to confront the U.S. Navy at both Houston and Corpus Christi, and had been battered as a result. He'd watched as missile and torpedo craft, along with frigates and corvettes, sailed out to confront the Americans, and had been lucky to get one or two back, usually heavily damaged. Carrier-based aircraft, and helicopters from other warships, had made life for the coastal forces exciting but usually short, and there was no doubt about that. Now, there was an American amphibious force off the coast somewhere, and there was not only a three-carrier task force, but also four battleships as well, to face his handful of missile craft, a couple of old Riga-class frigates, and a couple of ex-USCG patrol craft. Better to be sunk on a final sortie than either scuttling, or worse, handing the ships over to the Americans when it was over, Tupolev thought. A knock on the door, and the question, “Comrade Captain?” brought him back out of his reverie. “Yes?”

It was Captain 3rd Rank Yegor Shatalin came in. Shatalin was his deputy-a real deputy, not a Zampolit. And for that, Tupolev was grateful, for the Zampolit had been killed two weeks earlier in an air raid. “Comrade Captain, do you wish to sail at first light?”

Shatalin knew full well what Tupolev was planning. This was it: a final sortie against the mighty U.S. Navy, and both officers knew full well that it wasn't likely that any of them-or their men, would be coming back from this one aboard a ship. If they did return, they'd be swimming. Captain Tupolev nodded, “Yes, first light will do. Who can sortie, and who will be left here?” The unspoken phrase was “to be scuttled.”

“Comrade Captain, both Rigas can sail. Then three of the corvettes: two Grishas and a Poti can make it as well. Of our missile craft, two Cuban Osas and one of our Nanchukas can sail. No torpedo craft, I'm afraid, are in shape to go out.” Shatalin reported.

“I take it the remainder will be left to scuttle?” Tupolev asked.

“That is correct, Comrade Captain.”

“Very well. Ask for volunteers among the crews of those who have to scuttle, if they wish to accompany those going out,” Tupolev ordered.

“Certainly, Comrade Captain.”

“Also, make sure there are demolition charges on the fuel storage tanks and the communications center. We'll blow them before we sail,” Tupolev said.

“That has been taken care of, Comrade Captain. And what time do you wish to sail?”

Tupolev thought a minute. The best time to start an amphibious operation was at dawn. And he knew that there was a chance that the Americans had mined the channels through the Soviets' own minefields. “We'll need some daylight. Make our sailing at 0700.”

“Yes, Comrade Captain,” Shatalin said.


1945 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, Along U.S. Highway 281.


Colonel Herrera knew that the Americans would have some advantages now. The sun had just about set, and with their night vision devices, they could see in the dark better than he could, or any of his men. With those Thermal sights on the M-60A4 and the Bradley, the Americans could see just as well at night as they could in the daytime, and pick his vehicles off before they knew what was happening. But there was one advantage he had now: the rest of the Army had pulled back, and General Perez had informed him that the 22nd Motor-Rifle Division was on his right, and that Herrera could call on their division artillery if necessary-with all the army-level assets either committed or destroyed, it was the best that could be done.

Now, Colonel Herrera decided to stir things up a little. Third Battalion, now down to fourteen T-55s, would draw American attention, while First and Second maneuvered as if preparing for a counterattack. Maybe, just maybe, that would force the Americans to halt and assume a hasty defensive position. And if they did that, he'd call down artillery on them, and in the confusion, he'd pull back to the next defensive position. There was one major problem: the Americans might not do so, and things would develop into a meeting engagement, and that was the last thing Herrera wanted. For those M-60A4s, even these with the 105-mm gun, could deal decisively with his armor in such an encounter, and he didn't want that to happen. The other problem: none of his antitank missiles-either the Konkurs (AT-5) on his BMPs, nor the Metis (AT-7) that the Soviet air assault troopers had, could deal with the American tanks unless one shot out the treads, or waited and took a shot at the rear, much as one did with a German Tiger forty-plus years earlier. And that option was not conducive to a long lifespan for the missile gunner in any event. Still, with things the way they were, everything had to be tried, no matter how low the odds of success were. He turned to his chief of staff. “Major, inform Third Battalion: Proceed as directed. No heavy contact, however. Just draw the Americans' attention.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.” the chief replied, going off to relay the order.

Major Murayev came up; he was the senior Soviet air-assault officer and was in command of the two battalions attached to the 214th. “You wanted to see me, Comrade Colonel?”

Herrera nodded. “Yes, Major. There's a couple of abandoned farms about five hundred meters in front of us. Can you put an anti-tank ambush in each?”

“That shouldn't be a problem, Comrade Colonel. I won't risk any more missile teams, but a squad in each-with RPGs and BG-15 grenade launchers should do.” Murayev replied.

“How many missiles do you have left, though?” Herrera wanted to know.

“I've three launchers, and a dozen missiles left. When they're gone, that's it.” Murayev said. “I'd like to conserve them: wait until we get into more favorable terrain for using the missiles.”

“I understand, Major. No heroics from your men tonight. If a situation develops unfavorably, fall back. No last stands unless there's no other option. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly, Comrade Colonel,” Murayev replied. “If you'll excuse me, I'll go brief my men.”

Herrera nodded as the air assault officer left. He'd worked with Cuban air assault troops in Angola, but Murayev and his men were a cut above the Cubans. Some of the Cuban airborne knew when to get into a fight, but not when to get out of one. Murayev, though, did. Maybe because there would be no more replacements coming, perhaps? He turned again to his chief of staff. “Get First and Second Battalions moving. Again, demonstration only, and no heavy contact. Fall back if they get into a serious fight.”

“Right away, Comrade Colonel.”

To the north, Captain Nancy Kozak's company team was pushing south alongside the highway. They'd found a few Mexican stragglers, most of whom had quickly surrendered. Those who did not, died with weapons in hand. That last fight had been a strange one: the Mexicans had been rolled over, and most of them had fought until their battalion had been ripped apart, and then the survivors had surrendered. Then someone had shot a couple of antitank missiles at her company, damaging a tank and killing her FIST track-and everyone in it. Her Second Mech Platoon had checked out where the missiles had come from, and found several dead Russians. And to everyone's surprise, they were wearing air assault uniforms. First Cubans, then some Mexicans, then Russians. Maybe the Russians were “stiffening” the Mexicans? It had taken an hour to get the damaged tank repaired and back into the fight, regardless, and she'd have to call for fire herself, until a replacement FIST track and crew could be made available.
Then her Third Platoon-which had armor, called it in: Tanks to the front. T-55s by the look of them. “Take 'em!” she called.

Colonel Herrera watched in horror as his Third battalion came under American tank fire. The American gunnery was accurate and deadly, for four T-55s exploded almost at once. Herrera ordered the battalion to pull back immediately, and called down his own artillery, but this time, the 122-mm fire fell short. Two more T-55s exploded before the Cuban tanks pulled back under cover of their artillery, and what remained of Third Battalion was now a short company. Herrera swore-and swore loudly. He called for a flare mission, and saw American armor was approaching the two farms: maybe this ambush might come off.

Kozak's Fourth Platoon-her other tank platoon, spotted some movement among the abandoned farms. They'd had thermal contacts around the farmhouse and the barn in both instances, and the platoon leader smelled an ambush. He requested artillery fire, or at the very least, battalion mortars. Then her ETAC came on the line: he'd been talking to some Apaches, and a two-ship wanted to come in. She agreed, and the two Apaches unloaded their 2.75-inch rockets on the farmsteads, ripping up the farmhouses and barns, and setting them ablaze. The two helicopters then raked the area with their 30-mm cannon, killing anything they saw moving. A couple of secondary explosions in both houses convinced Fourth Platoon's leader that there had been an ambush, and as the Team advanced, Bradley-mounted troops dismounted to check. Sure enough, there were several bodies of Soviet air-assault troopers, with RPGs. After the farmsteads were secured, artillery fire came down on them.

“Blast it!” Colonel Herrera shouted. Someone on the other side had smelled an ambush-a not unreasonable suspicion, given the events of the previous few hours, and had called in a pair of AH-64s. Herrera called in a brief artillery concentration, and ordered his regiment to fall back to the next position.

Kozak's people had either gotten back into their Bradleys, or had taken cover. But still, someone on the other side was being very smart. And she wanted to push through that someone, nail his ass to the wall, and get into Brownsville. And do it before either the airborne prima donnas in XVIII Airborne Corps, or those Jarheads waiting off the coast.



2000 Hours: K-236: The Gulf of Mexico

Captain Padorin came into the CCP. So far, everything was going all right: his boat was on the patrol pattern just off the coast: right at the continental shelf. Close enough to the coast to make a high-speed dash to pick up whoever he was supposed to retrieve, and then make another dash for deep water. And, if things didn't work out, he'd be a short distance from deep water and a run below the layer-if there was one-to get away. And the most recent message from Caribbean Squadron had told him not to initiate contact with the enemy: the pickup came first. He shook his head at that: either the mission was a go, and he'd do his best to get in and make the pickup, or cancel it and he could get out. And with all those American ships about, the ASW environment would get pretty nasty in a short while. Especially so if the Americans decided to land on the Texas-or Mexican-coast.

He noticed Shelpin, the Security Officer, taking his turn again as Officer of the Watch. Even though the man was KGB, he had proven his abilities as a submariner time and again. Shelpin's reasoning was that if he was assigned to a sub as Security Officer, he'd better learn to be a submariner first, and had gone to sub school and not only qualified, but qualified as a watch officer. And he took his turn at that duty. In so doing, he'd earned the respect of not only the Captain, but every other officer and warrant officer on the boat. “Shelpin, status, please.”

“Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. “We are maintaining our patrol station. Depth is steady at two hundred meters, speed ten knots. No thermal layer detected as yet, though.”

“It may be too deep for us, given where we are and the time of year,” Padorin said. He went to the chart. “Any change in our friends up there?” He asked.

“No, Comrade Captain, no change. The Amphibious Group is to our south, and they presumably have the battleships with them, as they haven't been picked up in the past few hours. And the carriers are to the north,” Shelpin said.

“Any signs of an ASW group?” Padorin wanted to know.

“No, none of that, either. They may be closer in to shore, though.”

Padorin stroked his chin. “And no submerged contacts?”

“No, Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. “If there were...”

“If there were, I would have been notified at once,” Padorin finished. “Carry on.”

Shelpin nodded as Padorin went to the sonar room. “Any change?” he asked the sonar officer.

“No, Comrade Captain,” the sonar officer replied. He pointed to a display. “To the north, here's the carrier group-or at least, one of the carriers. He's been tentatively identified as John F. Kennedy, though we've also picked up a Nimitz-class ship, but too far to get anything positive as to who he is.”

“Any sign of a third carrier?” Padorin asked. His latest report from Caribbean Squadron mentioned three carriers.

“Not yet, Comrade Captain. He may be to the north. That may be why we haven't picked him up.”

Padorin nodded. “And this here, to the south, is the amphibious force?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain. They keep going back and forth on an west to east pattern. And there's a probable ASW group here, between us and the coast,” the sonar officer said.

Then the communications officer came in. “Comrade Captain, we have an ELF message.”

That meant there was a more detailed message waiting for K-236. Padorin went back into the CCP. “Officer of the Watch, make your depth thirty meters. Slow to five knots.”

Shelpin nodded, and gave the necessary orders. Soon, the boat was at thirty meters. “Raise the antennae.”

Just as the antennae were raised, the message came in. It was quickly decoded and passed to the Captain. And as Padorin read it, he let out a huge sigh of relief. “Well, that ends that.”

“What is it, Comrade Captain?” The starpom asked. He'd just come into the CCP.

“Our date with someone on the Texas coast is off. For good. We've been relieved.” Padorin said.

Heads nodded around the CCP. “Do we have new orders?” Shelpin asked.

“Just maintain patrol position. Further orders to follow.” Padorin said, nodding. “Reel in the antennae, and take us down. Back to two hundred meters. Maintain speed.”


2015 Hours: 8th Fighter Aviation Regiment, over Brownsville.

Major Yuri Shavarov maintained his racetrack patrol pattern over the city. His squadron of Su-27s had made the trip from San Julian in Cuba, and so far, things had been uneventful. But the flight in had been-or so he saw just to their north, as American fighters had savaged some transports-some going in, some going out. And the bitter pill he'd had to swallow was that he didn't have the fuel to intervene. His mission was clear: protect the last group of aircraft as they unloaded their cargo, took on passengers, and took off again. Right now, he was wondering, what was taking them so long? Then his radio crackled. “Mace One, the hens are getting airborne. Watch for crows.” Crows meant enemy fighters.

“Copy. Good luck down there.”

“Roger, Mace One. Do you have the hens in sight?”

Shavarov checked his radar. “Got them.”

The Su-27s formed up on the transports and headed east. To his surprise, in the fading light, he could see what they were: An-12s. Wonderful. They'd have to criss-cross back and forth to maintain their position. Shavarov called one of his flight leaders. “Hammer One, this is Mace One. Go on ahead, and see if any crows are waiting.”

“Hammer One, Roger.” the flight leader called. Then he called in, “SAM radars at One! Repeat: SAM Radars at One O'Clock!”

That would be the American ships, Shavarov knew. Though he couldn't see them, he knew they were down there. And with this long a trip back, he couldn't go in low to avoid radar: If combat developed, his Su-27s had only fuel for fifteen minutes' combat time, before they'd have to break off and head for Cuba. And sure enough, there were crows out there. Shavarov picked them up on radar, just as Hammer One called them in. “Crows at Eleven O' Clock! Engaging!”

The four Su-27s shot toward the unseen American fighters-and then Shavarov himself picked them up-just as his radar screen turned to snow. An unseen EA-6B Prowler was jamming his radar. Up ahead, he saw explosions just below his flight level, and two aircraft falling out of the sky in flames. His own threat receiver was quiet. Shavarov called the transport leader: “Get down on the deck. We'll cover you.” And without waiting for a reply, he led his own flight in, after telling his remaining flight to stay with the transports.

Mace Three then made a call: “Crows at Ten O'Clock!”

Major Shavarov looked in that direction. Four F-14s were coming in on the Su-27s. And not only did his threat receiver light up, he saw them: Sparrow missiles being fired. “Mace Flight, break!”

The four Su-27s broke as the Tomcats dove on them. A night fight was more dangerous, he knew, but then, so did the Americans, as both the F-14 and Su-27 had the same twin rudder configuration. Finding out who was friend or foe visually was next to impossible. And the Americans scored first, as Mace Three, his second element leader, and Mace Four, both took Sparrow hits and exploded. In the darkness, he didn't see any parachutes.

Shavarov cursed as he swung his plane around. He saw a missile trail pass him by, then another just right over his head. Then a fireball erupted behind his plane, and a scream came over the radio. His wingman had just died. Shavarov looked back, and saw the Su-27 tumbling out of the sky, and then explode as the flames touched off the fuel and ordnance. Right now, he ought to try and break off the fight, and get away, he knew, but that wasn't on his mind. Shavarov saw an F-14 and he turned toward it, hoping to get a lock for his R-73 (AA-11 Archer) missiles. Just as he did, his own threat receiver lit up again. Shavarov ignored it, and fired two missiles. The R-73s left the rails just as a pair of Sparrows slammed into his aircraft, and the plane simply blew apart. He never saw the attacker, nor did he see one of the R-73s miss the F-14. The other missile closed, but a shower of flares from the Tomcat decoyed it away: the missile did explode, and damaged the port engine. That Tomcat crew would have to divert to Corpus Christi, as a night landing on one engine was not advised. But Shavarov would never know. For he never bailed out of his aircraft.