[Matt Wiser]

Things keep going.....downhill for the Russians and Cubans:


1025 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev watched the smoke billowing up from the Coast Guard station, south of his headquarters. The remaining ships that hadn't sailed on their final operation had been scuttled, and the fuel tanks at the Coast Guard station had also been blown up, sending oily, black smoke up into the sky. And they'd also blown up the communications station there, putting the radio antenna into the bay. So now he had about five hundred navy personnel, mostly Soviets, but a few Cubans as well, to form yet another provisional infantry battalion. Just like the destroyer crew, he thought. Oh well, if the Americans do land, all they have to do is shoot straight. And die. His deputy came to him. “Comrade Major,”

“What is it?” Lazarev asked. It had already been a long morning.

“American ships approaching, Kamarov reports.” the deputy said.

Lazarev turned and went inside to the stairway. Five floors up, then he found the observation point that the destroyer men had established when their original vantage point-the roof, had been made unsafe due to an American naval bombardment. He found Captain Lieutenant Kamarov sitting at his glasses, and consulting a ship-recognition manual. “Well, Kamarov?”

“It's not four battleships, but one. And the cruiser Des Moines, Comrade Major,” Kamarov reported.

One battleship was enough for Lazarev. The ghastly thought of four such ships bombarding his positions had made him very queasy. “Just one? What happened to the other three?”

Kamarov turned to the naval infantry officer. “You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?” Lazarev replied.

“They're down south, at Boca Chica beach. Three battleships, and they bombarded the beach defenses, and there's now two brigades of Marines coming ashore.”

“Lovely,” Lazarev said. “So what are they doing here? Just reminding us of what they can do?”

“No. The battleship there looks like it's North Carolina, and she's turning broadside to us. I suggest we all take cover in the basement.” Kamarov very calmly said to Lazarev.

“A sensible idea,” Lazarev agreed. “Everyone to the shelters.”

Just as the Soviets reached their shelters, both American heavy ships opened fire. The shells sounded like freight trains as they came overhead, and there were loud explosions that followed. Smaller explosions were soon heard, and that mean the secondary guns from both ships were now in action. The shelling lasted for twenty minutes, before the two ships ceased fire. Lazarev and Kamarov went back up to the observation point, and found it still intact, to their surprise. But the building next door had taken several heavy-caliber shells, and what had been an eight-story resort condominium was now a burning shell that would soon collapse. Kamarov peered through the glasses. “They're departing, Major. Headed back south.”

“Fire support for their Marines?” Lazarev asked.

“No doubt. I'm glad we're not facing that firepower. But someone's going to be in a world of hurt.”


1050 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College.


General Malinsky frowned as he read the message form. “Unless reinforced and resupplied, 4th Guards Tank Army cannot hold more than a few hours.” Though Malinsky was frowning, it was what he,and everyone at headquarters, expected to hear from Suraykin. The only thing was, they had expected it to be the following day at least. Malinsky looked up from the message form at the situation map. The 4th GTA had been split from 28th Army, and the Cuban 1st Army was being split apart itself. Both XVIII Airborne Corps and II MAF were pressing forward, and there wasn't much that could be done about it.

On his left, both 8th Guards and 3rd Shock Armies were giving ground, grudgingly, but they were still giving way to both XII Corps and VIII Corps. And the Cuban 2nd Army was also giving way, in some areas, it was very porous, but in others, the Cubans only pulled back when the air was turned to lead. But with American air activity at an all-time high, pulling back, if not done properly, could result in a massacre. It had happened before, Malinsky knew, and he'd seen it as an Army commander first-hand, in 1987 and 1988, and he knew that it could easily happen again. Major General Konstantin Durnov, Isakov's deputy Chief of Staff, came up to the Front Commander. “Comrade General,”

“Durnov, what is it now?”

“We've received the order to assemble all female service personnel for evacuation. The Assembly Point is the elementary school at Rancho Viejo.” Durnov reported.

“Very well. See to it, Durnov.” Malinsky said. “How much longer, until Suraykin either pulls back, or is destroyed?”

“That's hard to say, Comrade General. It all depends on what XVIII Airborne Corps has in mind. They can pin Suraykin's forces up against the units to their front, and wipe them out, or simply envelop them in a cauldron battle, by linking up with XII Corps.” Durnov said, waving at the map.

“Just as we did, in 1985-86,” Malinsky commented. “More than once.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Durnov agreed. “There's one area that both General Isakov and I have been worried about: that's Cuban 2nd Army's left flank.”

“I've noticed. That one regiment holding along Highway 281 is hanging on for dear life. Then again, just about every unit here is hanging on for dear life.”Malinsky observed.

“Ah, yes, Comrade General,” Durnov said. “However, if that one regiment gives way, that opens up Highway 281, and there's nothing between that Cuban regiment and Brownsville itself.”

Malinsky looked at the map again. He saw where a staff officer had marked the Cubans, along with the American unit opposite them. And he saw which unit it was. “They're facing the 49th Armored?”

Durnov looked at his commander with downcast eyes. “I'm afraid so, Comrade General.”

Malinsky nodded. “There are three American units that are the most dangerous, and two of them are here,” he noted. “There's those New Yorkers from the 42nd Mechanized Infantry, who've sworn vengeance for the destruction of Manhattan, and the Texans from the 49th, who've preached revenge for what happened to their home state, and not only have they preached revenge, they practice it.”

“That they do, Comrade General.” Durnov agreed. “At least we haven't seen the 13th Armored Cavalry Regiment.....”

Malinsky thundered, “Those lunatics! Only in America could one recruit a military unit out of an outlaw motorcycle gang, and yet they did! The Americans gleefully point out that the unit uses less ammunition than any unit of comparable size, and produces more corpses than a similar-sized formation.”

“Comrade General...”

“Just because they haven't been identified yet doesn't mean they're not here!” Malinsky roared.

“That is so, Comrade General.” Durnov said.

Malinsky calmed down. “All right, proceed with that evacuation. Now, we've got some front-level troops who are no longer useful, correct? I'm talking chemical defense, our air defense missile brigade, some redundant artillerymen, and nonessential personnel in some of our signals and communications units-that is, people who do not have access to secret information or equipment?”

“That's so, Comrade General.”

Malinsky looked at the map again. “Remind them that they have rifles as well as whatever equipment they usually handle. Put them here, across the 77-83 freeway, at the northern edge of San Benito. And gather up any excess air force personnel at the San Benito Airport, and have them defend the airport.”


1110 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas.


Colonel Herrera watched as his men dug in at their new position. They'd had some American air activity, including an attack by a pair of A-7s, but had gotten off relatively scot-free. However, those using the ribbon bridge nearby were not so fortunate, as the American planes were concentrating on the bridge traffic. Though a few vehicles came north, most traffic using the bridge was headed south into Mexico, and the aircraft swarmed all over them. He also looked to the north, along Highway 281, and knew that the American force he'd been fighting for the last two days was coming his way, and he'd best be prepared. Already, some of his engineers were out in front, laying a few mines, and being conspicuous in putting out warning signs in areas that were not mined as well. Any trick that he could think of to delay the Americans, he'd do his level best to employ. But he also knew that the Americans wouldn't fall for the same trick twice, and so he had to be innovative. Then Major Murayev, the Soviet air-assault officer who commanded the two battalions of air-assault troops attached to his regiment, came to him. “Major, what brings you here?”

“Comrade Colonel,” Murayev said. “I was wondering if you were planning on using the bridges. If so, my men and I would be pleased to be your rearguard.”

“No, Comrade Major, that's not what I have in mind. Have one of your battalions at the intersection proper: there's a few ruined buildings there that can provide some protection,” Herrera said. He went on, adding, I want the other battalion with the motor-rifle troops; they're pretty shaky at the moment, and could use a good shot in the arm with your boys around.”

Murayev nodded. A delaying action once again, but still...”What about the bridge, Comrade Colonel?”

“Have your men inform those engineers in charge of the bridge. Have it prepared for demolition, and do it fast. We won't have much time.” Herrera said.

Murayev glanced upwards. “The Americans may solve that problem for us, Comrade Colonel. Aircraft alarm!”

The Cubans Soviets took cover as four A-7s came in again, and once more, their target was the bridge.
Two of the A-7s fired Maverick missiles at the bridge proper, blowing sections of it apart, while the other two Corsairs dropped cluster bombs on the vehicles lined up waiting to cross. Trucks and buses-many filled with those being evacuated south, went up in flames as the submunitions exploded the soft-skinned vehicles. Then all four aircraft came around to strafe with their 20-mm cannon, and more vehicles exploded. As they pulled out and away, two Strela (SA-7) missiles were fired by Herrera's motor-rifle troops, but missed. After the aircraft departed, the two officers picked themselves up, and surveyed the scene at the bridge. A wrecked ribbon bridge, plus two or three dozen wrecked vehicles, and numerous casualties. Murayev shook his head, and then turned to Colonel Herrera. “Comrade Colonel, I believe that the order about the bridge is now irrevelant.”

Herrera nodded. “So it is, Major. So it is. All right. Get your men in position and ready. Again, no heroics.”

The air-assault officer nodded, and went off to inform his commanders. Herrera's deputy then came to him. “Comrade Colonel, we've a message from the provisional battalion left as a rearguard.”

“And?” Herrera wanted to know.

“They are in the process of being overrun, Comrade Colonel, then the radio went dead.” said the deputy.


To the north, Captain Kozak's team was busy blasting the Cuban provisionals out of their position. Some had taken up positions in a abandoned farmhouse, while others had dug in beside the road. They may have been chemical defense or rear-echelon troops, but they fought, regardless. To crush their resistance, Kozak got an artillery mission onto the farmhouse, and another one on the positions along the highway, along with an air strike by A-7s. The Cubans gave up when they were first blasted, then overrun, by both tank platoons. She asked one Cuban prisoner why they kept fighting when it was hopeless, and the man said that their commander, who was also a political officer, shot several men who tried to run, and they remained in their positions out of fear of the man. One of them finally showed Kozak the political officer's body, torn apart by an artillery blast, and she nodded understanding. After securing the area, and sending the prisoners to the rear, she contacted her battalion comander and informed him of this development. He understood, and ordered her team to continue forward once it was ready. Ten minutes later, the team continued on ahead, having been told about a ribbon bridge at the next intersection, and that it had been wrecked by air attack. But the pilots had reported enemy armor nearby, so Kozak and Team Bravo were warned to be careful, and if armor was found in strength, to call in aircraft-it appeared things were moving fast elsewhere, and that today might be the last day, so the adage “ammunition is cheaper than human life” was being employed with a vengeance by not only Division, but all over the front.


1125 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Texas Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev could see things clearly for himself, and he knew full well that the U.S. Marines were coming. His own divisional reconnaissance had reported LAV-25s and infantry pushing forward, and there were Marine helicopters and Harriers prowling overhead. Already, some of his positions had been struck by air attack, and it was clear that battle would soon be joined. He'd also heard from the 47th Tank Brigade, and they were also under air attack, and that first, their own air defense assets had been systematically destroyed, and only then did American aircraft attack the brigade directly. Carrier-based aircraft were now paying attention to the tank brigade, and especially the 135 T-72A tanks, that posed the main threat to the Marine landing. Not only that, but F-111s had paid visits as well, in flights of four to eight, making level bomb runs a la B-52s.

Now, as he surveyed the terrain ahead of him, he knew that the Marines would soon be getting close. And if this was to be the last battle the 76th Guards would fight, then so much the better: the elite of the Soviet Army against the elite U.S. Marines. And his division would be able to end its proud history, in battle with troops who were just as proud of their heritage as his men were of theirs. His operations officer came to him. “Comrade General,”

“What is it, Viktor?”

“Comrade General, our forward outposts are reporting the Americans closing on their positions. And there's more: naval gunfire is falling among them.” the operations man said.

Andreyev turned to face the man. “What? I thought our positions were out of range of that. Even the battleship guns.”

“Evidently not, Comrade General. The shell craters are very big, they say. And that means..”

“Battleship guns-those forty-centimeter guns. And if they're in range, so are we.” Andreyev said. He turned to the division's engineer officer. “Get more shelters dug for troops, weapons, supplies. And do it now!”

“Right away, Comrade General!” the man said, going off to get his men to work

Then his deputy came to Andreyev with a message. “Comrade General, the 235th is taking fire. Not small-arms or mortar fire, but heavy-caliber fire.”

“Marine artillery? They could have landed their guns by now.” Andreyev said.

“No, Comrade General. It's the heavy stuff. Battleship guns.”

Andreyev went to have a look for himself. On the roof of the command bunker, he scanned the horizon with his binoculars. Sure enough, he could see the outline of ships, with flashes of gunfire coming from them. And then the shells landed on his positions, with huge fountains of dirt and debris coming up. He went back into the command bunker, and roared at his intelligence officer. “Who prepared the range tables for the naval gunfire?”

“That would be Admiral Gordikov, Comrade General.” the intelligence officer replied.

Andreyev fumed at the Navy, but held his temper. “Inform the Admiral that his range estimates were incorrect. We're taking battleship-caliber gunfire.”