Semi-OT: Red Dawn fan fic

[Matt Wiser]

And the battle continues:


0515 Hours:177th Independent Reconnaissance Battalion, 38th Tank Division, Harlingen, Texas.


Captain Pankov watched through his binoculars, and bent forward to look through his night sight. Even though the first light of dawn was breaking, there they were: American tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles, moving towards the airport, and using the wrecked Soviet vehicles as cover. He could see as tank and Bradley turrets swiveled back and forth, searching for targets. So far, not a shot had been fired, but that wouldn't last long. He called his two remaining companies, ordering them to fall back, and then he contacted division. And it was the division's intelligence officer who answered.

“You're certain about that, Panther?” the intelligence officer replied, giving Pankov's call sign.

“Rapier, this is Panther,” Pankov replied. “They're coming. Estimate two brigade strength.”

“Panther, this is Rapier Ten,” a new voice came in over the radio. “No heroics. Fall back and pass through friendly lines.” Pankov recognized the voice: it was General Nikonov, the divisional commander.

“Understood, Rapier Ten. Pulling off now.” And Pankov then relayed the order to pull out. Then he saw it: his two heavy companies taking both Bradley and tank fire. BRDMs and BMPs exploded, and the T-64Bs assigned to the tank platoons returned fire. One or two Bradleys took hits and were disabled, but the big M-60A4-120s turned their attention onto the T-64s, and within moments, all of the Soviet tanks were ablaze. And then Pankov saw a sight that chilled him: an M-60A4 laying its gun on him. He swiveled the BTR-70's turret around, and opened fire with the 14.5-mm gun, but it was way too little, and too late. The 120-mm gun spoke, and the BTR exploded. Pankov's last sensation was of incredible heat, then the fuel tanks blew.

All along the front line of 38th Tank Division, the American 7th Armored Division crashed into the Soviets, and a vicious tank battle began. It was soon obvious that the T-64Bs of the 38th were no match for the big M-60A4s and their 120-mm guns. Slowly but surely, the 38th began to give way.


0550 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.


The whop-whop of helicopters startled General Petrov. At first, he thought it was an American helicopter-borne assault, but then he saw that the helicopters were Mi-26s. He slapped the back of his deputy, then went over to where the first helicopter was dropping its sling load. After it dropped its load, the big helicopter came in to land. Nodding his approval, he told his deputy to get the cargo sorted and distributed at once. Then he went over to thank the pilot. “Where did you come from?” Petrov asked, yelling over the engine noise.

“Major Sabin, Comrade General. From Villa Hermosa.” the pilot said.

“Good. How many can you take aboard?” Petrov asked.

“Eighty-five to ninety, Comrade General,” Sabin replied. “Less if you want me to rig for stretcher cases.”

“Don't worry about that, you won't be taking any,” Petrov said. He waved over the first group of specialists-a mix of planeless MiG or Sukhoi pilots, some intelligence personnel, and even a couple of Navy officers. “Specialists only for you heavy lift boys.”

Sabin nodded. “We can keep this up all day, Comrade General,” he said as the passengers got in. “How close to the front do you want us?”

“The Mi-26s? This is as far as you go. The Mi-8s need to get up close-there's an airborne division in Harlingen, and they need everything. Get them up there as soon as you can.” Petrov ordered.

“I'll relay the order, Comrade General,” Sabin said. And he did so, speaking into his helmet microphone. “The -8s are headed that way, Comrade General.”

“All right,” Petrov said. And he noticed Sabin's crew chief giving the thumbs-up sign. The big helicopter was loaded. “Get back down south, then back here as soon as you can.”

“I'll do that, Comrade General,” Sabin said. “Get clear!”

Petrov backed away from the big helicopter's rotor blades, and watched as the Mi-26 lifted off. It didn't take long to make the turn and head south, back into Mexico. And he watched as two more Mi-26s came in. “Get those loads, and then get the helicopters loaded,” Petrov shouted at his deputy. “Move!”


0605 Hours: 398th Coastal-Defense Missile Battalion, Boca Chica Beach area, Texas.


Captain Kokorev scanned the eastern horizon from his command bunker. It was getting more and more light out, though the sun was not yet above the horizon. He cursed again whoever had put his unit on alert, and did it loud and long. And so far, there had been no sign of an American landing, let alone any American ships. “Another wasted night,” he said to his deputy.

“Shall I order the men to stand down, Comrade Commander?” replied the deputy. He, too, was grumpy about pulling another all-night alert.

“Not yet. I'll scan the horizon again,” Kokorev said. He put his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. “Nothing. Nothing so far. Not a.....My God!”

“Comrade Commander?” the deputy asked.

“Get this off to Naval Headquarters: 'American ships off Boca Chica Beach. Three battleships, with several destroyers. Amphibious ships not yet spotted.' GO!” Kokarev yelled.

The deputy nodded, and went to the communications bunker to send the message. Kokarev watched the ships come closer. He yelled at the officer-in-charge of the missile battery. “Get those missiles ready for firing, but do not turn on the radar.”

“Right away, Comrade Commander!” And the four P-20M missile launchers began to elevate and traverse. But would it be in time?

Then Kokarev saw a sight that chilled him. The battleships began to make a run broadside to the beach. And there could only be one reason for that. “Take cover!”

Just as Kokarev yelled for the men to take cover, the battleships opened fire. He watched as flame erupted from the ships, and then came the scream of shells as they came in, followed by the explosions. The beach defenses-those penal troops on the beach and just off it, were clearly getting the worst of it. And it was clear that those forty-centimeter shells were doing a job on the beach, as bunkers either collapsed or blew sky-high, gun positions disappeared in clouds of flame and debris, and the few heavy weapons sites met a similar fate. He turned to his deputy. “Power up the radar, and fire as soon as you get a lock-on. Then get the missile crews to cover!”

“Yes, Comrade Commander!” the man shouted. And very quickly, the missile radar had a lock, and the four P-20M missiles shot off their launchers and headed towards the ships. Kokarev watched as the missiles headed for one of the big ships, and then missile trails came up to meet his own. Three of the P-20Ms exploded, while the last one must have been overcome by jamming, for it staggered away and never found a target. And one of the battleships must have noticed where the missiles came from, for shells began dropping around and on the battalion's positions.


0615 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Independent Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.


Major Butakov and Colonel Chesnikov watched as the Mi-8 helicopter came in and dropped its sling load. Then the helicopter came into a vacant field and landed. The pilot got out, noticed the officers watching, and came over to them. “Captain Reiter, 315th Helicopter Regiment. Those supplies are yours, Comrades.”

“Glad to see you!” Chesnikov said. “Anything for the airborne boys?”

“Comrade Colonel, everything we brought is for the airborne: small-arms ammunition, some RPG-22s, plus some rations and medical supplies.” Reiter said.

“Can you take wounded out? Butakov asked.

“We can't rig for stretcher cases, but we can get walking wounded,” the pilot replied.

Chesnikov nodded, and turned to his regimental surgeon. “Get two dozen walking wounded to that chopper. Now, Doctor.”

The surgeon nodded, and got the cases together: half were members of the 41st, and half were airborne. After the casualties were loaded, Reiter said, “I'll be back as soon as I can-if the American fighters don't get me.”

Both officers shook hands with the pilot, who then remounted his helicopter and took off. As the Mi-8 disappeared to the south, a familiar whine was heard. Incoming. “Take cover!” Chesnikov yelled.

As the Soviets took shelter, 155-mm shells landed in the field. Clearly, someone had seen the helicopter landing, and had called for fire. Chesnikov and Butakov crawled over to where the 41st's air force controller was crouched down, talking into a radio. “Well?”

“Comrade Colonel, we'll get a few more helicopter sorties-but that applies to the whole division. There's only a few choppers, and too many requests to go around.” the air force officer replied.

The artillery fire lifted, and the two officers stood up. “Comrade Colonel, I'd better get back to my men,” Butakov said. “Things are likely coming to a head.”

Chesnikov nodded, and Butakov got back to his command post. Just before he did so, a rifle shot rang out, and he went down, clutching his shoulder. Butakov tried to get up, but as he did, there was another shot, but this time, he didn't get up again. His deputy crawled to his body, and found that the sniper's bullet had gone through the major's skull. The deputy tried to get the major's body to cover, but he, too, took a bullet to the head, and fell alongside his regimental commander.