[Matt Wiser]

And the next...


1010 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas.

General Suraykin climbed out of a BMP-2 infantry carrier. He'd gone forward, to see the battle for himself, and had seen a lot. Both 24th and 52nd Tanks were holding, but just barely. And both division commanders were pleading for reinforcements. Or, at the very least, the 105th Guards Air Assault Division to actually defend the highway junction. He'd thought about their requests on the way back to headquarters, and right now, he was inclined to at least partially grant the request. First, though, he wanted to talk with his Chief of Staff and get his thoughts.

“Welcome back, Comrade General,” Golvoko said.

“Speeches are for victory celebrations, Golvoko,” Suraykin said. “What's happened in my absence?”

“Nothing new, Comrade General,” Golvoko reported. “Though the Air Force has some very bad news.”

“Let me guess: air support is no longer available.”

“That is essentially it. The helicopters have either been shot from the sky or destroyed on the ground, and the one ground-attack regiment available to us is down to only two flyable aircraft,” said Golvoko.

“Can we get anything from Mexico?” Suraykin asked.

Golvoko turned to the Air Force liaison. “Some, Comrade General, but not much. Half of the time, they're forced to jettison their ordnance loads when they're jumped by enemy fighters. And the ones who do get here have to run a gauntlet of more fighters, SAMs, and antiaircraft fire. All I can say is that the pilots and crews are doing the best job they can.”

“Get them to try harder. I don't care how, just do it!” Suraykin said.

“We'll do our best, but I won't promise any more than I can deliver,” the aviator replied.

“Good enough,” Suraykin responded. “Now, Golvoko, I'm sending a regiment from the 105th Guards Airborne to the 77-83 highway junction. Both 24th and 52nd Tanks have their defenses hinging on that, and if it goes, it's not only a straight run south, but both divisions could be turned, despite the urban environment.”

“I understand, Comrade General. Do you want me to call the 105th and relay the order?”

“No, Golvoko. Put me through. That's the kind of order I issue myself. Because most of those airborne troops are going to die. And I'm the only one I trust to issue that kind of order. Because those paratroops are going to be sacrificed. Not just that regiment, but most of that division, before this is over,” Suraykin said.

Golvoko nodded. “Understood, Comrade General.”

Suraykin went to the Operations Map. “Put them here, right at that junction. And in a few hours, it's almost certain that the rest of the 105th Guards will be there as well.”

“Right away, Comrade General.” And Golvoko hurried off to issue the orders.

General Suraykin looked at the map again. Time to let the Front Commander know. He turned to his operations officer. “Get me General Malinsky.”


1025 Hours: 377th Ground Attack Regiment


Captain Gorovets and Senior Lieutenant Morozik were in their element. They'd lifted off from San Benito Airport, in their unit's last two flyable Su-25s. They had been told just before takeoff that another aircraft belonging to the 377th had been shot down and the pilot killed, so they knew they were the last aircraft flying. This time, they didn't bother with call signs or anything like that, just last name only. And Gorovets knew this might be his last flight. Before takeoff he'd written a quick note to his parents in Gorky, asking one of the other pilots to deliver it, should he be evacuated.

“Morozik, there, armor at eleven o'clock.” Gorovets radioed, pointing out a concentration of American tanks and fighting vehicles.

“Roger. I'm right behind you.”

Gorovets quickly scanned the sky. So far, no sign of American fighters, though helicopters were in abundance. On any other day, he'd take the time to kill a couple, but not today. Every bomb, every rocket, ever cannon shell, had to go to support the troops on the ground. But his radar warning gear was going beserk: there were radars on all over the place. “One pass: I've got the rockets. You've got the clusters.”

“Copy.” Morozik radioed. Then he got all serious: “Break right! F-15s coming down!”

Gorovets looked to his left. Sure enough, two F-15s were coming down on him. Not today. He went ahead with his attack run, despite the yells on the radio to abort. He triggered his rocket pods, and 80-mm rockets shot out towards the American tanks. As he pulled up, Gorovets saw one or two burning, and he smiled. Then the world exploded around him as a pair of Sparrow missiles connected with his Su-25, blowing it, and him, out of the sky in a fireball.

Morozik watched in horror. No time to grieve; the F-15s were pulling up and coming around. He remembered Gorovets' instructions: if it got too hairy, abort. He hadn't even started his run when he turned around, then his radar warning came on. One Sparrow missile flew right by him, so he turned to the left. And he never saw the second missile smash into his tail. Morozik lost control, and fired his K-36 ejection seat by reflex. He was soon hanging in his parachute, and saw his plane smash into the ground and explode in a ball of flame. Well, that's it, he thought. Time to join the infantry.


1040 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas

Major Lazarev and his brigade staff were hunkered down in the condominium's storm cellar. The place was built to withstand hurricanes, and was perfect as a headquarters. Now, it was a man-made storm out there, as an American cruiser was bombarding the coastline, and probably other ships, as well, for some of the explosions sounded like twelve-point seven shells from destroyers. He turned to his brigade's chief of staff. “Any reports on casualties?”

“No, not yet, Comrade Major.” the chief replied. “We're dug in pretty well here.”

“Any sign of a landing further up the island?” Lazarev asked.

“Not yet.”

Lazarev thought for a moment. Though the tides weren't right, helicopter-borne troops could land anywhere. “Order all commanders. Keep a sharp watch for any signs of helicopter landings.”

“Yes, Comrade Major.”

Captain Lieutenant Kamarov came into the cellar. He'd seen to his crewmen getting to shelter, and then came into the brigade HQ. “I can tell you what's shooting at us, Major.”

“Oh, besides the cruiser?” Lazarev asked.

“Yes, besides the cruiser. There's four destroyers. Two of them are Forrest Sherman class, one is a Charles F. Adams class, and one's a modern Spruance class ship. That's nine one-two-seven guns added to the cruiser's guns.” Kamarov said, reminding the naval infantrymen of what kind of shells were coming their way.

“They must be planning a landing here, later today.” the chief of staff mused.

“Perhaps. Anything from the Coastal-Defense troops?” Lazarev asked.

“Not yet. Some of the phone lines are down; probably due to the bombardment.” the Chief replied.

Just as the Chief said that, two whooshing sounds were heard, flying past the headquarters building. The Coastal Defense troops had managed to fire two P-20M (SS-C-3 Styx) missiles at the ships, and the two missiles headed out towards the ships.

Unknown to those in the storm cellar, the one Adams-class destroyer had opened fire with its own Standard-1MR missiles, and exploded one of the P-20s, while another was overwhelmed by American jamming, and flew out to sea. And the American ships had spotted where the two missiles had come from, then the cruiser Des Moines began throwing eight-inch shells at the missile battery.

“They're getting close.” Kamarov said.

Then the building shook as a pair of eight-inch shells tore into the fifth floor, and then several five-inch shells did the same. But the cellar withstood the punishment. “Too close,” Lazarev observed.

Just behind the condominium, the missile battery had been silenced, and the one remaining surface-search radar knocked out. Several artillery sites had also been taken out, and both wrecks along the shoreline had been shelled again for good measure. And just as it had started, the bombardment lifted.

Kamarov and Lazarev went to the beach side of the building. They saw the ships leaving, and were disappointed that none appeared to be damaged. Looking around, the two officers saw the two wrecked ships afire again, and they also noticed the damage to the headquarters building. “It could've been worse,” observed Kamarov.

Lazarev looked at the destroyer man. Clearly, he'd never been under fire like this. But he was right. “Any bombardment you can walk away from is a good thing.”

“True, but Major, there's one other thing.” Kamarov said.

“And that one thing is?” Lazarev asked.

“They'll be landing someplace. If not here, where?”



1110 Hours: The Junction of U.S. Routes 77 and 83, Harlingen, Texas.

Lieutenant Colonel Valery Romanenko watched as his airborne regiment took up its positions. Logically, he should be at the old restaurant a couple of kilometers away where his staff was setting up, but he wanted to be here, first, with his men. He'd been with this regiment from the old days in Afghanistan, when they'd been disbanded shortly after that invasion, back to the Ukraine, before the 105th Guards had been reactivated in early 1985. He'd been a Captain then, and wondered why his troops were getting foreign-language training, in both English and Spanish. Only a few days prior to the invasion had they been told what their mission was, and though the soldiers and junior officers were enthusiastic, many of the senior officers had deep misgivings. They knew they'd be fighting far from home, against an enemy that could (and did) organize a guerrilla resistance very quickly, and where the population, with a very few exceptions, was uniformly hostile to the Soviets. Romanenko had seen the atrocities committed by the KGB, DGI, and even regular Soviet units, and he knew from Afghanistan experience that such things only made the population more hostile, and not only more likely to support the guerrillas, but more would also take to the hills to join them.

It had been that disastrous Midland-Odessa offensive that put him in command: his division had not jumped there, due to the shortage of aircraft, but had gone in on the ground as light mechanized infantry. And they didn't face the Americans then, but their South Korean allies-who had quickly shot his division to pieces. His regiment's senior officers had been killed, and he was now the senior battalion commander alive, so he'd taken command. And he'd led his regiment through everything that had followed since, and that had led them here.

Romanenko's chief of staff came up. “Comrade Colonel, I think you should be at the regimental headquarters.”

“In a few minutes,” he replied. Looking towards the north, the sights and sounds of combat were very clear, and it was obvious the regiment would be in combat before too long. “If this is our last battle, Vassily Stepanovich, I want to see the ground first.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel. It's built up, but that won't be an obstacle to the enemy,” the chief of staff observed.”

“Do we have a line established to Army headquarters? Because it won't be long before we'll be needing reinforcements.”

“We do, Comrade Colonel. And if we do make that call, the rest of the division will be here.”

“Good. Now, we're to deny this intersection to the enemy for as long as possible. And let's see about doing just that.” Romanenko said. “And one other thing.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel?” the chief asked.

“When the time comes, I'll lead the final counterattack personally.”