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.

[Matt Wiser]

And more:


0630 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas.

Colonel Herrera was on the radio to 2nd Army Headquarters. And he did not like what he was hearing. The Americans had launched what was likely to be their final assault, but so far, had only hit selected areas of the front. General Perez told him that there had been a major attack at the junction of the Army and 3rd Shock Army, and that both the Cubans and Russians were giving way. “How long can you continue to delay?” Perez had asked. And Herrera replied, “Most of the day, Comrade General. If you want me to make a stand, however....there's nothing between us and Brownsville.”

“That's what I was afraid of, Colonel. Continue to delay. And keep at it as long as possible. There's several ribbon bridges between you and Brownsville, and right now, all traffic is headed south. Keep delaying the Americans as long as you can.” Perez said.

“We'll do just that, Comrade General.” Herrera replied.

“What's your supply situation?” Perez asked.

“Adequate at the moment, and we've even helped ourselves to the contents of a few wrecked supply convoys. The only thing we're short of is any kind of air-defense assets.” Herrera told the General.

“Keep it up, Colonel, and let us know if your position becomes untenable. Out.”

Herrera put down the radio and went over to the map. He turned to his deputy. “Fernando, we're in for it. This position is good, but we'll be falling back before too long.”

The deputy looked at the map. The intelligence officer had finally noted the identity of the American unit they'd been facing: it was part of the 49th Armored Division, and the Cubans knew that this division, having been rebuilt since its mauling during the initial invasion in 1985, was out for blood. “With what we know about this American unit, Comrade Colonel, we certainly are in for it.”

Herrera paused. “What's the unit?”

The deputy looked at the map,then at Colonel Herrera. “The 49th Armored Division, Comrade Colonel.”

Herrera noted that. “I see, well..... We're to continue this delaying action as long as we possibly can. Tell Major Murayev to have the outposts he's put out fully alerted.”

“Right away, Comrade Colonel,” the deputy replied.

Herrera looked at the map again. From what General Perez had told him, the Army was beginning to fall back-and it might soon be in need of a rearguard. Nothing different than what he'd been doing the last couple of days, he knew. “Get our regimental reconnaissance out between our positions and Murayev's outposts. And make sure they're doing things blatantly: I want the Americans to see them, and call down fire. As the fire drops, they're to pull back. And have our own guns ready to fire. Three rounds per gun, then get moving before that Firefinder radar zeroes in on us. We'll pull back to position Foxtrot on my order. Is that clear?”

Heads nodded. “Yes, Comrade Colonel!” the chief of staff said.


To the north, Captain Nancy Kozak's people had been up for over an hour. Her people had had a breakfast of MREs, and were now ready to move. But her company team had no orders as yet, and her battalion commander was still waiting on brigade. One of her tank platoon leaders, though, had noticed something: some activity around a burned-out house on the east side of the road, and more movement near a bridge on a local road that intersected the highway. When she received the report, Kozak suspected another ambush, and requested artillery fire on the suspect locations. That request was not granted, and soon, she found out why. F-111s came over, four of them, at medium altitude, and each plane unloaded two dozen bombs on the Cuban position to her front.

Colonel Herrera and his regiment only had a minute's warning of the incoming raid, and the order to take cover had been given. Unfortunately for the Cubans, they had no remaining heavy air-defense weapons, and the F-111s had a free ride, each dropping two dozen five hundred-pound bombs on the Cuban positions. Several tanks and APCs were hit, along with two more of his 2S1 122-mm howitzers, and his motor-rifle battalion took many casualties. Picking himself up after the raid, Herrera turned to his chief of staff. “It could've been a lot worse.”

“How so, Comrade Colonel?” the man asked.

“We're still in shape to fight. Four F-111s? Not enough. If they'd hit us with B-52s, though....Get the men ready to fight, and have Murayev get one of his battalions in alongside our motor-rifle battalion, quickly!” Herrera said.


0650 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, San Benito Community College.


General Malinsky looked at his map, and his operations officer was changing dispositions in front of his eyes. The Americans had struck all along the front, striking hard at selected points. The Cuban 1st Army had been hit by II MAF, and had been forced to give ground-almost to the F.M. 106 road and the Laguna Atascosa, and 28th Army had to do the same: they'd been hit at the boundary between their army and 4th Guards Tank Army-by elements of XVIII Airborne Corps, and had to fall back to avoid being outflanked. Suraykin's Army had been hit again at the Rio Grande Valley Airport, and the 38th Tank Division was in its own fight for survival.

As a staff officer came up with a message form, Malinsky took a look at 8th Guards Army: they had been hit at the junction with 3rd Shock-and 3rd Shock and the Cuban 2nd Army had also been hit hard. The Americans had unleashed both VIII and XII Corps, and Malinsky's left flank was now in trouble. And he had no reserves left, simple as that. He'd told his commanders just that-and they'd have to scrape together whatever could be found to fill that role. Then the staffer came up. “Yes?” Malinsky asked.

“Comrade General, the Americans have landed Marines on the coast.”

“Show me,” Malinsky ordered.

The staffer pointed to the eastern terminus of Highway 4. “Right here, Comrade General.”

Malinsky nodded. “The most likely beach, and there's not much we can do about it.”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General. Marshal Alekseyev's reserve is moving to contest the landing-out of range of naval gunfire-it should be noted.”

Malinsky nodded. “I'd rather we had that tank brigade, but that's not likely. All right: be prepared to withdraw, but not until I've spoken with Marshal Alekseyev.” He turned to Isakov, his chief of staff. “Send that advance party to the Rancho Viejo High School at once, and get a new headquarters ready.”

Isakov looked at the map, then at his Front Commander. “At once, Comrade General.”


0705 Hours: 369th Coastal-Defense Missile Battalion, Boca Chica Beach, Texas.

Captain Kokarev peered out the observation slit of his bunker. What he saw both amazed and dismayed him. The Americans had put Marines ashore, and they were busy cleaning out the remnants of the penal battalion that had garrisoned the beach. Of the guard company, they were nowhere to be seen, and had either taken to their heels, or had been caught by the naval gunfire and wiped out.

Now, the Americans were landing follow-on waves of Marines and their heavy equipment, even as the remnants of the penal battalion were cleaned up. And those Marines were moving inland. Kokarev turned to his deputy, whose left arm was in a sling-he'd been wounded during the bombardment of the battalion's positions. “How many do we have who are fit to fight?” Kokarev asked.

“About two hundred, Comrade Captain,” the deputy responded. “Not counting some wounded who can still hold a rifle.”

“Any heavy weapons left?” Kokarev wanted to know.

“Nothing. Just our rifles and some hand grenades. That's it.”

“That's it, then. We haven't been relieved, and our orders are clear in the event of a landing: fight as infantry if our missile launchers are knocked out.” Kokarev reminded his deputy.

“Fight with what?” the deputy asked. “A couple hundred rifles and some grenades aren't going to hold the Americans for very long.”

“We'll do our duty, that's what we'll do. Enough of this defeatist talk. Get to the men, and I'll be right behind you.” Kokarev ordered.

The deputy turned to leave the bunker, then he turned and faced Kokarev again. “I'm not dying on this beach. If you have any sense, you'd come to that realization.”

“You are talking treason. I remind you of your duty.” Kokarev sneered.

“My duty now is to these men. And you know what that means.” the deputy shot back.

Kokarev went for his AKM rifle, but the deputy was quicker with his pistol. The man stood over the corpse and spat on Kokarev's body, before picking up some white cloth that a medic had used to get his arm in the sling. Returning to the men, he threw his pistol away, and they waited for the Marines to come. Shortly thereafter, the first Marines did arrive, and the deputy formally surrendered the 369th to a very astonished platoon leader, whose company commander had told his men to expect a tough fight on the beach.


0715 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


Marshal Alekseyev frowned as he studied the operations map. Clearly, this was it, Powell's final assault, and the Americans weren't holding anything back. And as expected, there had been a Marine landing, and all contact with the coastal defenses had been lost. Three battleships had been bombarding the beach defenses, and though a penal unit along with some provisional infantry units drawn from engineers, chemical defense, and air defense troops, had been holding the beach, they had been overwhelmed by the bombardment and then by the Marine landing. Now, it was up to Andreyev's grouping to try and contain the landing, before the terrain permitted a Marine breakout inland. What was now also possible was a helicopter assault not only on the Brownsville airport, but also at Port Isabel, to seal off South Padre Island.

Now, he'd just gotten off the phone with Malinsky, and had authorized the Front Commander to begin pulling back his more exposed units. That included both 28th Army and the Cuban 1st Army on the right, and 8th Guards and 3rd Shock on the left. The Cuban 2nd Army was still hanging on, but soon, they'd be pulling back as well. And Malinsky had already begun to set up a final headquarters in the town of Rancho Viejo, just north of Brownsville proper. Alekseyev knew that very soon, Suraykin's 4th Guards Tank Army was going to be cut off, if that thrust coming down from the Rio Grande Valley Airport wasn't held, and things would go from not only bad to worse, but to downright catastrophic. He noticed General Chibisov coming next to him. “Pavel Pavlovitich?”

“Comrade Marshal, this just in from General Petrov. An-124s have made their supply drops. Four aircraft. First aircraft now in. Twelve scheduled, seven arrived.” Chibisov reported.

“I see. Does Petrov have a schedule for getting the Hall government out?” Alekseyev asked. “The Ambassador has been on me twice this morning, asking for their evacuation.”

“Petrov says their aircraft-An-74s and Il-62s, will be here around 1300. He also wants to know if you have those who need to get out from your own headquarters right away. Mi-26s can land here, and can fly out Dudorov's people, for example.” Chibisov said.

“Good, Chibisov. Have the Mi-26s get here as soon as they can. Dudorov and his key personnel are first on the priority list.” Alekseyev decided.

“Speaking of Dudorov, he's identified the Marine unit that's landed. The 24th Marine Regiment, Fourth Marine Division.” Chibisov noted.

“I see. Not the first time they've done this-I believe that division did land during their Gulf Offensive last year. So I'm not surprised.” Alekseyev commented. “It's nearly time.”

“Comrade Marshal?” Chibisov asked.

Alekseyev turned to Colonel Sergetov. “Issue the order: all female service personnel to be evacuated. Gather them up as soon as possible. The headquarters guard battalion can spare a company to protect them, correct?”

“That is so, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov replied. “Shall I issue that order as well?”

“Do so, Colonel. And have my table set for breakfast. I'll have our prisoner as my guest for the meal, and inform her of what I'd like her to do. Either way, she returns to her own lines today.” said Alekseyev.

“General Dudorov has prepared the safe-conduct pass, as you know, Comrade Marshal. I'll get it from him, with your permission.” Sergetov replied.

“Do so, Colonel. I'll sign it in her presence. Now, once the women leave, I'll inform Moscow. Like it or not, the Defense Council is going to know that this is very likely to be the last day. Unless Major Sorokin has managed to brief any members besides Marshal Akhromayev.” Alekseyev said.

“Unfortunately, Comrade Marshal, I have not heard from the Minister. I believe he is quite busy.” Sergetov said.

“One other thing-for both of you: Chibisov and Sergetov; both of you speak fluent English, correct?”

The two officers looked at each other, then nodded. “Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov responded.

“Good. This afternoon, you'll both be putting that to use.” Alekseyev said.

[rcaf_777]

Love the Story, I am wondering what would have happened to the USS Texas (BB-35) a New Class Battleship which is permently morred at San Jacinto Battleground State Historic Site in La Porte Tx which is within the Bay Area of Houston Tx

Maybe the Soviet Navy used it as HQ?

[Matt Wiser]

She was towed away to avoid capture. Spent the war in Mobile, AL.

[Matt Wiser]

And the clock keeps ticking....and the last stand of the Soviet surface navy in Texas....


0740 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.


General Petrov glanced at the message form an aide had just handed to him. So, he thought, those American friends of the Chekists are getting out of here? Better they should stay and face the wrath of their countrymen, and let those who really deserve a ride out of here have their seats, he felt. But orders were orders, and he was enough of a professional to carry them out. At least they won't be leaving until noon or just after. The more wounded and specialists who got out in the meantime, the better.

He looked out the window of his office, and saw two more An-74s coming in. If only these had been committed earlier, he thought, getting into the smaller airports, maybe we would've had a decent chance of pulling this off. Now, the An-74s could get in, especially when there was damage to runways that precluded landing larger aircraft. Then the whine of turboprop engines got his attention: an An-22 was taxiing in, having air-dropped its cargo, and now came in to take on its human cargo. The big cargo plane was the largest plane that Petrov-and Lukin when he was there-would allow to land, because no one wanted to see an An-124 caught on the ground and block a runway for hours while the wreckage was cleared. He went over to his operations officer. “How many so far?” Petrov asked.

“Right now, Comrade General, it's about half.” the man replied. “American fighter activity over the Gulf is heavy: both Air Force and Navy fighters have gotten into the transport stream.”

“How about from Mexico?” Petrov asked.

“The same, Comrade General. American fighters have been going into the transports there-one An-26 pilot said it was like a wolf in a hen house when two F-16s got into the transports-they got four each.”

Petrov shook his head. And Moscow still wanted to go on with this madness? “All right. Tell the Frontal Aviation people that we need more escorts. If they have to pull fighters from Northern Mexico's air defense, so be it.”

“Comrade General, the Americans are also hitting targets all over northern Mexico-from the Amistad reservoir all the way to the Gulf Coast.” the man replied.

“Right now, I don't care. Get those fighters to cover the transports, or nobody's leaving here today.” Petrov ordered.

“Immediately, Comrade General,” the ops officer said, going to the communications center to send the order.

Petrov then went outside. The An-22 had already been loaded with its human cargo. He waved a staff officer over. “Where's that An-22 headed?”

“Cuba, Comrade General,”

“Not anymore. Tell the pilot he's headed to Monterrey on my orders. And relay this to any additional An-22s coming in: land in Brownsville, then after loading passengers, they go to Monterrey. Then come back to get more out.” Petrov ordered.

“Yes, Comrade General.”


0755 Hours: Coastal Forces HQ, South Padre Island, Texas.


Captain Tupolev stepped aboard the only remaining Nanchuka-class missile corvette left in Texas. The corvette's captain, a Captain Lieutenant, saluted as Tupolev came aboard. “Comrade Commander,” the captain said. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Captain,” he replied. Tupolev looked over at his deputy, Captain Shatalin, who boarded the Riga-class frigate SKR-58, one of the two Rigas left. The other, SKR-61, was raising anchor, and the remaining ships-two Grishas, a Poti, and a pair of Cuban Osas-were ready to leave as well. The rest, including a damaged destroyer, several other corvettes, and another Riga, would be scuttled. “Now, Captain. We have an appointment east of Brazos Santiago Pass.”

The captain nodded, and the Nanchuka got underway, with the other ships falling into line. The navigator checked the chart, and noted the safe-passage lane through the Soviets' own minefields, and remembered what had happened to the Grisha MPK-40, which had set off an American mine right in the safe passage lane. But the minesweepers-and there were two T-43s available-were short of fuel. And they would have been exposed to air attack, so they had not sortied. They, too, would be scuttled. Tupolev scanned the eastern horizon with his binoculars: the sun was fully up, and it promised to be a beautiful day. For those who survived, he thought. Then there was an explosion behind the Nanchuka: one of the two Grishas had set off a mine, and there was a cloud of smoke, flame, and debris mixed in with the waterspout. It was obvious there were no survivors. Tupolev picked up the TBS (Talk Between Ships) radio and ordered, “Continue the sortie.”

The little fleet continued on east, and Tupolev ordered the radars turned on: the Nanchuka and both Osas needed to search for targets to launch missiles. Unfortunately, they were picked up by American ESM gear, and a lookout noticed a plane approaching. It was a P-3 Orion, and it stayed well clear of SAM range. Then two flashes came from underneath the aircraft: inbound missiles.

Two Harpoon missiles had been launched, and both searched out targets. One of the Harpoons found a Cuban Osa, obliterating it in a fiery blast, while the second Osa found the single Poti, blowing it apart as well. Then SKR-61 radioed a warning: aircraft inbound from the east.

The P-3's contact report had been received aboard the carrier Eisenhower, and four F/A-18A Hornets from that ship, and four A-4E Skyhawks from the carrier Oriskany, were launched to attack the Soviet/Cuban squadron. They didn't take long to arrive, and one of the Hornets picked up the Osa-2M missile radar (SA-N-4) from the remaining Grisha, and fired a HARM antiradar missile at the frigate. The weapon struck, shredding not only the radar, but the superstructure as well, while a second HARM destroyed the air-search radar on SKR-61. Then the rest of the strike aircraft came in.

One thing that aided the attackers was the fact that as the A-4s had been reactivated from storage, they had been upgraded with not only improved radar warning equipment, but had been fitted to carry weapons not originally fitted to the Skyhawk. These A-4s were able to carry the AGM-65 Maverick missile, and two of the Skyhawks were so fitted this day. Both picked out targets and fired: one firing its two missiles at SKR-61, and the second Skyhawk targeting the remaining Cuban Osa with one missile, and the damaged Grisha, MPK-40, with the other Maverick. SKR-61 took two hits, and was crippled at the outset: one hit wrecked the after deckhouse and 100-mm gun, while the second ripped into the superstructure, wrecking the bridge and combat control center. The Cuban Osa was hit by its missile and obliterated, while MPK-40 was finished off by its weapon.

SKR-58 and the Nanchuka-Uragan, kept going, only to have the Hornets and two remaining Skyhawks fall upon them. Two Skyhawks set upon the Nanchuka, spraying her with Zuni rockets and 20-mm cannon fire, before dropping Rockeye cluster bombs on her. Uragan's Osa-2M operator never had a chance to fire his missiles to defend the ship, for as the radar came up, a HARM missile came back down, shredding the superstructure and the radar. And Rockeyes exploded the P-120 missile launchers (SS-N-9), which blasted Uragan to pieces.

The Hornets then came in on the crippled SKR-61, and her sister, SKR-58. Both ships could still fire, and they put up heavy antiaircraft fire as the Hornets came in. SKR-58, though, was wrecked by two Hornets, each dropping four Mark-82 500-pound bombs, and her sister was set upon by the other two F/A-18s, also receiving four Mark-82s from the pair of Hornets. Both Soviet ships were left dead in the water, and as the strike aircraft returned to their carriers, the cruiser Des Moines was diverted from a bombardment mission against South Padre Island to deal with the two cripples.

When the cruiser arrived, she found that the Soviet crews were in the process of abandoning ship. Her captain ordered ship's boats launched to pick up survivors, and the cruiser spent an hour picking up survivors. When the last of the Soviets had been fished out of the water, the two crippled ships were finished off with eight-inch and five-inch gunfire. Neither Captain Tupolev or Captain Shatalin were among the survivors.


0810 Hours: 105th Guards Airborne Division/41st Independent Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.

General Gordonov checked his own map, and he knew things were coming to a head today. He'd found out that one regiment's commander and deputy had been killed by sniper fire, and he'd had to put that regiment under the 41st's commander as a result. American aircraft and attack helicopters were very active, and the latter were systematically looking for the 41st's tanks and infantry vehicles, and destroying them. To top it off, the 38th Tank Division to his northeast was fighting for its life, and when they went, not only would 24th Tank Division to his right be cut off, but his own division as well. He turned to his chief of staff. “It was only a matter of time, and we both knew it.”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General. We've got the ammunition from several helicopter lifts, and they've taken wounded out, but it's not going to be enough. Either we'll have to fall back, or be cut off and pocketed.” the chief replied.

Gordonov nodded. “Get me the 41st Tank Regiment-phone or radio,whichever works.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the chief responded. After a minute, he handed a radio to Gordonov. “Colonel Chesnikov, Comrade General.”

“Chesnikov, this is Gordonov at Division. What's your situation?”

An explosion sounded in the background. “Sorry about that, Comrade General, but we're under some artillery fire right now. The helicopter lifts have come in-we've had three, but there's so few helicopters...” Chesnikov said, his voice trailing off.

“I know. We've gotten a few here as well. Listen. There's a very good chance we'll either be outflanked, or get caught in a cauldron battle. If it looks like either one is going to happen, be prepared to withdraw. You'll have to spearhead any breakout, and leave those airborne troops to fight a delaying action.”

Chesnikov digested the news. He'd been preoccupied with events to his front and immediate left and right, he'd paid only minimal attention to the “big picture.” “How bad is it, Comrade General?”

“Bad enough. Army headquarters says that 38th Tanks is fighting for its life, and 24th Tanks may be doing the same before too long.”

“Very well, Comrade General. If you want me to lead a breakout, I'll be ready. Be advised I'm down to forty-five tanks and a company's worth of motor-rifle troops, and half of my regimental artillery,” Chesnikov reported.

Gordonov looked at the map again. He noticed a staff officer updating it. The 24th Tank Division was beginning to give way. He nodded, and told Chesnikov, “Be ready to move. On my order. And I believe it may not be very long.”


0825 Hours: Soviet 38th Tank Division, near Rio Grande Valley International Airport, Harlingen, Texas.


General Nikonov no longer needed a map to follow the progress of the battle: he could see it very easily from his command vehicle. Tanks and APCs were erupting in fireballs as they were hit, artillery fire screamed back and forth, and aircraft and helicopter gunships roamed over the battlefield, searching out prey. One of his regiments was gone-after having taken heavy punishment, its commander had gone on one final attack-and been engulfed by the advancing Americans. Another regiment was being pinned to its position while the 376th Motor-Rifle Regiment was being methodically ground down. It was time. Nikonov turned to his chief of staff. “Send in the 465th Tank Regiment. They're the division's counterattack. Fill the gap left by the destruction of the 140th on the left.”

The chief nodded, “Immediately, Comrade General.” And he went off to relay the order. Nikonov watched as the full regiment moved out, moving to confront a brigade from the American 7th Armored Division. And as the regiment advanced, A-10s and attack helicopters swarmed over the regiment, knocking out tanks and combat vehicles with near impunity. American air attack and artillery fire had neutralized his division-level air defense Kub (SA-6) missiles, and the Strela-1Ms (SA-9) were among the first targets of American attack aircraft. As the 465th advanced, it was reduced to two battalions' worth of tanks and two companies from its motor-rifle battalion, and was hammered at once by American tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles. T-64Bs blew apart when hit by 120-mm rounds, while BMP-1Ms were no match for Bradleys, with their TOW missiles and 25-mm fire. Soon, 465th TR joined its sister regiment in the junkyard of burning tanks and vehicles, and dead or maimed men, on the south side of the airport. The survivors of both units tried to pull back, even though they had no order to do so, but they were methodically picked off by American tank fire or by attack helicopters overhead, and the issue was soon decided. Niknonov's chief of staff came up. “Comrade General, the 376th is asking for orders, and the 225th is asking for instructions as well.”

“Pull back. Now. A fighting withdrawal. We'll try and regroup here, at the intersection of Loop 499 and the F.M. 106. Issue the order, and do it fast.” Niknonov said, with an urgent tone in his voice.

“If they can, Comrade General,” the chief said as he went to relay the orders.

Nikonov nodded, He knew that his division was being methodically destroyed, just as the two divisions had earlier, and there was no stopping it. Now, he had to save what remained of his division, and he watched as the two remaining regiments pulled back under fire. He went over to the chief of staff again. “Get the chemical-defense, SAM, Luna (FROG-7) and excess supply and maintenance troops, and form them into ad hoc infantry. Give them whatever heavy weapons-I don't care what they have, but we need a rearguard, and they're it. And no, there's no choice. Just do it!”

The chief nodded gravely. That order meant that most of those soldiers in the mentioned units were going to die. But if that sacrifice meant saving the division to fight again in a few hours....”Yes, Comrade General.”

General Nikonov then found his division artillery chief, “Listen, the regimental guns from the two destroyed regiments; the 465th's guns go to divisional artillery-what remains of it. Leave the 140th's guns to engage the enemy with direct fire.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the man replied, then he issued the order.

The chief of staff came back. “Comrade General, the 376th has broken contact, and the 225th has left a battalion to fight a rearguard action; most of the surviving regiment has broken off contact. Your orders?”

“Fall back to that junction: we'll be almost in the rear of 24th Tanks. Maintain what contact with 28th Army that you can. And put that ad hoc unit up as divisional rearguard.”

[Matt Wiser]

And it continues:


0850 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev sat in his office, waiting for his special “breakfast companion” to arrive. Colonel Sergetov was there as well, and both had noted the feverish activity in the intelligence spaces, as Dudorov's people were gathering up their classified materials and taking them down below, where burn barrels had been set up, and the documents thrown onto the flames. Other offices were doing the same, but Alekseyev noted that the Political Directorate was not. He'd sent General Chibisov to find out, and relay a direct order from the Marshal to destroy all sensitive materials at once. For certain, if the Americans found the materials in the Political Directorate, there would be hell to pay-and not just from the Americans, who promised “stern and swift justice” to war criminals, but from the KGB and the GRU. Then there was a knock on the office door. It was Major Kokorev, from the headquarters guard.
“Comrade Marshal, I have the prisoner.”

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Commander Carlisle came in. She noticed that the Marshal and his aide were in their best uniforms, and she had a feeling that not only was this for her benefit, but that they fully expected to be needing them later in the day-perhaps at a surrender ceremony. Still, she thought that it was best to remain polite, since one way or another, she'd be back in American territory before the day was out. “Marshal, Colonel,” she said, saluting both, as the Geneva Convention required.

“Commander,” Alekseyev said, returning her salute. “Won't you please be seated?”

She sat down, and then the two Soviet officers did so as well. Strange, for normally it was a senior who sat first, then junior officers. “I take it things are not going that well from your perspective, Marshal.”

“Very perceptive, Commander. First, before we discuss that, breakfast?”

Carlisle nodded, and Alekseyev's orderly served the meal: bread, some sausage, cheese, and a boiled egg each, with Cuban coffee. As they ate, there was some polite conversation, even between enemies. Both felt that family was more important at a time like this, since it was almost certain that Commander Carlisle would be seeing hers before either Alekseyev or Sergetov would. “So, Marshal, you're lucky. You have daughters. And your side doesn't allow them to serve in combat units.”

“Quite so, Commander. We thought that our use of women in the Great Patriotic War...excuse me, the Second World War, was a necessary wartime expedient, though some of them did serve into the 1950s.” Alekseyev said. “We underestimated your people, just as Hitler underestimated ours.”

“And yet, after four years of war, you're still surprised at seeing a female pilot or a tank officer, I understand. We've got enough Soviet prisoners who've said that they were shocked at seeing a female tank commander, or finding out the pilot that shot him down was a woman.” Carlisle pointed out.

“Quite so, Commander. Quite so. I imagine your father was surprised when you told him what you would be doing?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, he was. He's a retired Rear Admiral, living at some cottage on the Maine seashore. He offered to return to the Navy, but they had so many retired officers come back to offer their services, the Navy was able to pick and choose who they wanted back in uniform.”

Both Soviet officers nodded. “Just as we had Tsarist veterans volunteer to come back to the colors when Hitler invaded,” Alekseyev said. “I imagine the late Party ideologist is spinning in his Kremlin grave at the moment: he is reported to have said that when our forces attacked, 'all we have to do is kick in the door, and the whole rotten structure will come down.'”

A remark in a history course at Annapolis came back to Carlisle's mind. “I believe Hitler said the same thing about you, back in 1941.”

“He did,” Alekseyev said. “Now, to our business here. As I mentioned earlier, I'm evacuating all of my servicewomen to Mexico. The international bridges here in Brownsville are down-no thanks to your air strikes-and I have to send them north to some ribbon bridges over the Rio Grande You will accompany them until they get to a bridge. The officer in charge will then let you go, and direct you towards your own lines.”

“And I'm to be what, a human shield?” Carlisle asked. They'd been through this earlier.

“Not necessarily. If the lines to the north collapse, it's very possible that you may run into your own troops before getting to the bridge site. Like I said earlier: I don't want those women to fall into the hands of those maniacs in the 13th Armored Cavalry, or the New Yorkers from the 42nd Infantry, not to mention the 49th Armored.”

Carlisle looked at Alekseyev. “So, you want me to vouch for the women if this convoy encounters American troops?”

“Precisely, Commander,” Alekseyev said. “If you don't, you'll be released then and there at the bridge site, on the American side. The pass-which is English, Russian, and Spanish, identifies you as a released prisoner of war, and are to be directed to American lines. It will be under my signature, and the cover letter-which is also in all three languages, says that if there is any doubt, to contact this headquarters for verification. Either way, Commander, by day's end, you'll be back with your own forces.”


0915 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas.


Colonel Herrera watched as the Americans renewed their drive forward, and this time, he knew they really meant business. There had been a second F-111 strike, which had knocked out most of a battery of 2S1s, and had made a mess of some of his regiment's support services, but his men were still in shape to fight. But Third battalion's T-55s now numbered four, and he decided to keep them as a reserve, along with one of the Soviet air-assault battalions. He'd also taken his remaining chemical-defense, nonessential signals, and some other odds and ends, and formed them into a provisional infantry unit. And to command them, he sent his political officer.

Now, he watched as the Americans-a reinforced battalion task force by all appearances, moved forward. They had dropped artillery fire on the locations where the Soviets had put some air-assault troops out as forward outposts, and had cleaned them up rather quickly afterwards. Colonel Herrera turned to his deputy and his chief of staff. “I want artillery called in on them, once they reach that creek bed. Tanks and infantry to take long-range shots, then we'll fall back.”

Both nodded. “And the provisional unit?” Asked the chief of staff.

“They're going to be the rearguard. I know, I wanted the Soviets to perform that, but we're going to need them later today-more than once, so the provisionals are going to have to be sacrificed.” Herrera said, seeing his chief of staff nod. And it gets rid of the political officer, which is an added bonus, the colonel thought.

“And our next fallback position?” his deputy asked.

“The junction of 281 and F.M. 1479. That's position Golf. Get the essential elements-including one artillery battery, going there right away,” Herrera said.

“Right away, Comrade Colonel,” the deputy said, moving off to issue the orders.

The chief looked through his own set of binoculars. The Americans were getting close to the creek bed. “It's almost time, Comrade Colonel.”

Herrera took a look for himself. The lead tanks and Bradley vehicles were now at the creek bed, and at the small bridge on 281. “Now.”

In her Bradley, Captain Nancy Kozak was in her element. They'd jumped off at 0700, and had encountered no opposition, until they'd reached where one of her tank platoon leaders had spotted movement on both sides of 281. After the F-111 strikes, the battalion had advanced cautiously, as several bodies found the previous day were Soviet airborne, and everyone knew if those guys in the blue berets were encountered in strength, it could be a vicious fight developing. If anyone wanted to verify that, all they had to do was look at Harlingen, where a Soviet airborne division was said to be hanging on to the city by its fingernails, and yet was still resisting. They hardly gave up, and often had to be blasted out of wherever they were fighting from. So, to deal with the suspected enemy, her tank platoons asked for battalion mortars, if no artillery was available. And the suspected ambush sites were mortared heavily. Sure enough, several bodies were clearly Soviet airborne, and after a fusillade of small-arms fire and some RPG-22s directed at the tanks, several more Soviet paratroopers had tried to pull back-obviously a rearguard. And they'd been blasted by tank and Bradley fire.

Now, the Team had come across a creek bed and a small bridge on 281. Since it could be wired, Kozak ordered her platoons not to use the bridge, and to cross the creek bed on either side of the bridge. As they did so, artillery fire came down on them, and tanks opened up in the distance. “Tanks front!” came the call on the radio.

Kozak responded instantly, ordering her two tank platoons to open fire, and the Bradleys to do the same, if they were in TOW range. If not, they were to push beyond the creek bed, and get out of the artillery fire.

Herrera watched as the Americans opened fire, and their gunnery, as he found out quickly, was very accurate. Three T-72s from First Battalion took hits and exploded, as did two from Second Battalion. And several APCs did so as well. Remembering his orders not to get caught in a last stand if he could avoid it, Herrera gave the order to pull back.

“They're pulling back, Six!” the call came over Kozak's platoon net.

“Don't stop! Keep moving! The sooner we run over these guys, the sooner we're in Brownsville!” Kozak radioed back, even as more Cuban artillery-including some 122-mm rockets, landed around her Team. No one was hit, but the barrage served its purpose: everyone had to button up.


0935 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army, Harlingen, Texas.


Generals Suraykin and Golikov looked at their situation map. And neither general was surprised at what they saw. The 28th Army to their right had been forced back, giving up the town of Rio Hondo, while to their left, 8th Guards Army was pulling back south of Palm Valley, hoping to set up a line from Highways 77-83 to the town of Rangerville. Unfortunately, Trimenko's decision to do just that had put his left flank wide open. Both knew that General Malinsky had approved the decision, but that didn't mean they approved of it themselves. And Golikov spoke first.

“Comrade General, both our flanks are exposed. There's no way around it.”

“I know. And right now, 38th Tanks is fighting for its life south of the airport. If they go, that gives 7th Armored Division a clear route all the way to the 77-83 freeway, and a straight run into Brownsville.” Suraykin noted.

“I'm afraid I have to agree with you on that, Comrade General. The 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle are being ground down, as is the 105th Guards Air Assault Division at the highway junction.” Golikov pointed out.

Suraykin nodded. “It won't be long, Golikov. By noon, I expect, we'll be either forced to withdraw, or get caught in a cauldron battle. If the latter happens, we'll have to send that final message to Alekseyev directly.”

“Understood, Comrade General,” Golikov said. “We have the order to evacuate all of the female personnel: they're to go to Rancho Viejo to meet with the others, before going over the border to Mexico.”

“How many do we have?” Suraykin asked. “Not that many, I assume.”

“Just about a hundred or so, Comrade General. Mostly medical, but some from field kitchens, clerical staff, and a few English-language specialists from our Radio Intercept section.” Golikov reported.

“Then get them moving where Alekseyev wants them.” Suraykin ordered.


1005 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

General Petrov watched as two Il-76s came in to land, one after the other. There had been four scheduled, and two had gotten in. About what he expected. On his requests, aircraft coming in from Cuba had air-dropped their cargoes, and then came in to land-and he'd watched twice as transports-one Il-76 and an An-74, had taken SAM fire-where from he had no idea, and exploded in midair. Not what one expected to see, especially those hoping to get out. And another plane had astonished him: that Libyan C-130 was still at it, on its third trip of the morning. Obviously, it had gone to Mexico, and had unloaded its passengers, taken on cargo, and come back in. Impressed, Petrov went to see the C-130 crew. He was surprised to see that only one of them-the pilot-was Libyan. “Where are you from? He asked the copilot, who didn't look at all Libyan.

“I'm Iranian Air Force, on detached duty with the Libyans, the copilot replied. “The navigator's the same, while the flight engineer and loadmaster are both Vietnamese.”

“Let me guess: both air forces still fly the C-130s left over from the previous governments?” Petrov asked.

“That's right, General.” the Iranian pilot said. There's one good thing about this duty, though.”

“What's that?” Petrov asked. How could doing an impossible job have anything good about it, other than getting those who needed to get away out?

“The Libyans are paying us in hard currency,” the Iranian replied. “Apart from that, this is a real mess, no two ways about it.”

Petrov nodded. “You're quite right on that.” But one thing puzzled the General. “How do you communicate between each other?”

“The ultimate irony, General. Everyone speaks fluent English.” The Iranian said, seeing his navigator nod.

The Vietnamese Air Force loadmaster came up. The plane was loaded. Ninety-two passengers in the seats, plus a number of stretcher cases on the cargo floor. “Time to go, General,” the Iranian copilot said.

Petrov nodded and backed away from the C-130. The crew fired up the engines, then taxied straight into its takeoff run. And the C-130 made it into the air, made a bank to the right, and headed south. Petrov watched it disappear in the distance, as two An-2s came up from Mexico, as did a pair of An-26s. Then Petrov saw a sight that chilled him. A big An-22 came in to make its supply drop, and as it did so, it had to fly straight and level. That made the big plane an easy target, and to Petrov's horror, two fighters, almost certainly F-16s, got in and one of them fired two missiles at the big transport. Both hit the starboard engines, and the resulting explosion tore the wing off the aircraft. The transport trailed fire, then rolled over and crashed just north of the field. And the F-16s weren't finished, for as they turned north, two MiG-23s came in to try and avenge the downed transport. The two F-16s broke, turned into their attackers, and shot both of them down. Only then did the two American fighters head north again.

[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.”

[Matt Wiser]

And more:


1145 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

General Petrov shook his head in amazement. That Libyan C-130 was back, and a small menagerie of various transports followed it in from Mexico. Three An-26s, two An-12s, two Il-76s, a Tu-154, and an Il-62 with North Korean markings had all come in from the south, while the Cuba run was becoming a life-or-death experience. Half of the planes from Cuba that were scheduled in hadn't made it, while most of those from Mexico had gotten in. Petrov smiled, and turned to his deputy. “Get those aircraft offloaded immediately. See if we can't get more wounded in those aircraft, if at all possible.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” the man replied.

Petrov then went to the map. Those pilots who had made it in from Cuba were reporting U.S. Navy fighters from a point about three hundred kilometers west of Havana, all the way to the halfway point of the flight. Then it appeared the U.S. Air Force was taking over interdiction, with more F-15s and F-16s being reported. And the escort fighters were simply being overwhelmed by the number of American fighters swarming the transports. While they were inflicting losses on the Americans, their own casualties had been horrendous to say the least. Now he knew full well what the German commanders like Gen. Wolfram von Richthofen had felt on the Stalingrad lift. His operations officer came to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade General, it's Marshal Alekseyev on the phone for you.”

Petrov went to the phone in the operations room. “I'll take it here.” Picking it up, he said. “Yes, Comrade Marshal?”

“Petrov, how's it going?”

“Comrade Marshal, about what I expected, though the lift from Mexico has been a surprising thing: more of them are getting through, though I fear this won't last long.” Petrov said.

“And the planes coming in to take the Hall government out?” Andreyev asked.

“They'll be in at 1300, Comrade Marshal.”

“I see...All right. Petrov, you've done all you can. The Rodina will need your services elsewhere. Turn things over to your deputy, and get yourself out of there. That's an order.” Alekseyev said firmly.

“Comrade Marshal-”

“I know, you've got Air Force personnel there who won't have a chance of getting out. But you are an airlift specialist, and your talents are needed.” Alekseyev reminded the general.

And Petrov knew it. But he still felt a sense of loyalty to his men. “Let the record show that I obey the orders of my commander-in-chief.”

“Good. Put your deputy in charge, and get yourself on the next plane out. Cuba or Mexico, it doesn't matter.”


1200 Hours: Headquarters, 4th Guards Tank Army, Harlingen, Texas.

General Suraykin took the list from his supply officer. The man had brought him a list of what had either been air-dropped or brought in by helicopter, and they both knew that it wasn't enough. It might let them last a day, but the problem now was getting the supplies to those who needed it. And with American aircraft and attack helicopters roaming the sky.....

“Comrade General?” Isakov asked.

“Golikov. What is it?” Suraykin replied.

The Chief of Staff handed him the phone. “It's General Nikonov at 38th Tanks.”

Suraykin took the receiver. “Nikonov? What's your situation?”

“Comrade General, my situation, for want of a better word, is catastrophic. I'm only in communications with one regiment, and the Americans have simply engulfed the others. There's no contact at all with 24th Tanks, nor any unit from 28th Army, and couriers I've sent to both have not returned-nor are they likely to.” Nikonov reported.

“Save whatever you can, Nikonov. Get back to Army Headquarters if at all possible.” Suraykin ordered. “Get here as fast as you can.”

“If we don't make it, it's because we're dead,” Nikonov observed dryly. “We'll try, Comrade General.”

Then the line went dead. “A one-in-ten chance he makes it,” Suraykin commented.

“Yes, Comrade General. There's this from 52nd Tanks and 6th GMRD. They're being split from the 105th Guards. The 24th Tanks is being pocketed as well.”

Suraykin nodded. He had one last look at the map. “We were close, Golikov. We were close.” He took out a piece of paper and wrote down a message. “Send this to Marshal Alekseyev. Do it fast, and when you come back, begin destroying all secret materials.”

Golikov looked at the paper. “Didn't they say this in the arenas, two thousand years ago?”

“I think so, but it does describe our predicament. Get it off at once.” Suraykin ordered.


1205 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


Marshal Alekseyev had ordered all the female staff evacuated, and though they could have gone out by helicopter-the Mi-26s were still going in and out, evacuation of the intelligence sections and high-priority personnel such as signals intelligence, took priority. Several captured buses were made available, and the buses were soon parked outside the headquarters. As the female staff got onto the buses, and some were saying goodbye to boyfriends, Major Kokorev came down with Commander Carlisle. “Comrade Marshal,” Kokarev said.

“Major. And Commander,” Alekseyev said, nodding. “Major, I trust you understand your orders fully?”

“I do, Comrade Marshal. She is to be given her safe-conduct pass, and once we reach an intact ribbon bridge, Commander Carlisle is to be released, and directed towards American lines,” said the Major.

“Excellent, Kokarev,” Alekseyev said. “Commander, when you do reach your lines, I do hope you'll report that your treatment was exemplary?”

“I'll say that it was better than I expected, but not surprised, given the circumstances.”

“Fair enough,” Alekseyev said. He then signed both the pass and the cover letter, and gave it to Colonel Sergetov, who countersigned it. Then it was handed to Commander Carlisle. “Again, Commander, I want you to know that not all of us are barbarians, and that our past conduct certainly reflects on our image. And as I said earlier, we cannot change the past, no matter what we wish.”

She nodded. “I'll report that as well. A pity, Marshal, that your predecessors didn't have your attitude.”

“Quite true. Now, Major, please escort her to the first bus, and then get to the Assembly point in Rancho Viejo. Once you've gotten all who've made the rendezvous, head to one of the ribbon bridges over the Rio Grande. And get the women to safety.” Alekseyev said.

Kokarev nodded gravely. “I will fulfill my mission, Comrade Marshal.”

Major Kokarev escorted the American to the lead bus, then he mounted his own vehicle, a BTR-70. Another BTR-70, along with two BRDMs, escorted the buses as they drove north to the rendezvous point. And not only Alekseyev, but many of the staff, waved as they left. Then General Dudorov came to him. “Comrade Marshal, it's time for me to go.”

“Dudorov, I wish you good luck. I know you had to leave a few of your staff behind to finish destroying documents...” Alekseyev said.

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal. Those staffers do have a means of making sure their true identities and assignments remain hidden: false papers.” Dudorov said.

“Good. Here, these are for my daughters,” Alekseyev said, handing a packet to Dudorov. “I have no idea if Major Sorokin made it to Moscow. You have everything Sorokin had in that packet, and some extra material.”

“I will deliver them personally, Comrade Marshal.” Dudorov replied. “And Colonel, do you have anything for your father, the Minister?”

Sergetov nodded, and handed him a letter as well.

The Mi-26 pilot came over. “Comrade General, it's time.”

Dudorov nodded as the pilot saluted the Marshal, then went back to his helicopter. He saluted Alekseyev one last time. “It's been an honor to serve with you, Comrade Marshal.”

Alekseyev returned the salute, and the intelligence chief scrambled aboard the Mi-26. It lifted off, and headed into Mexico. After the helicopter left, Alekseyev and Sergetov returned to the headquarters, where staffers were feverishly destroying documents and other classified items. They went back into the operations room, where Chibisov stood, regarding the operations map. “Pavel Pavlovitch,”

“Comrade Marshal, this came for you from General Suraykin.” Chibisov said, handing him a message form.

Alekseyev read the message. He handed it to Colonel Sergetov. “That's it, then.”

Sergetov read it himself. “Those who are about to die salute you.” read the message. “Comrade Marshal, the old gladiators' phrase.”

“Yes. And it perfectly describes Suraykin's situation.” He turned to Chibisov. “There's still communications with Moscow?”

“Of course, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov said.

“Good. Send this to Marshal Ahkromayev: 'Final collapse no more than twenty-four hours away. This command has done its full duty to the Rodina.' Get that off at once.”

Chibisov nodded, just as a staffer came up with another message. “Comrade Marshal, President Hall wants to see you before he leaves. At the airport.”

Alekseyev scowled at that. Seeing Hall was the last thing he wanted, given that he felt that the whole “Liberation Government” was a mistake-among many-that the Soviets had made. But there were still those who might have their own channels to Moscow.....and would report that he hadn't seen Hall off. “Very well. Get my vehicle and driver. It's distasteful, but getting him out of here will certainly help.”


1220 Hours: Cuban 214th Tank Regiment, along U.S. 281, near Rangerville, Texas.

Colonel Herrera looked north along the highway, just as he'd done often the last few days. Now, he waited for the Americans to come again, and hopefully, be delayed again. Now, his location was about two kilometers north of the intersection of 281 and F.M. 2520, where there was another ribbon bridge, and a lot of southbound traffic. He now had sixteen T-72s in First Battalion, and fourteen in Second. Third battalion's T-55s were now gone, and the motor-rifle battalion was down to a weak company, and his artillery was down by half-the air attacks had had an effect, no doubt about it. But now, he thought, this position is good. A couple of small irrigation canals would help in hindering the Americans, while he'd put his tanks in position to cover the canals. And the Soviet air-assault troopers were in position as well: they felt that they had a chance to use their remaining Metis (AT-7) antitank missiles. But Herrera's order remained the same: no heroic last stands. Delay as long as possible. And his deputy came up to him. “Fernando, what is it?”

“Comrade Colonel, we've lost contact with Army Headquarters. Enemy Jamming is very intense.”

“To be expected,” Herrera said. What was the last message from Headquarters?”

The deputy replied, “To continue as long as possible.”

Herrera looked at him. “Good. And we'll do just that.”


Unfortunately for Colonel Herrera, his dispositions were now known to the Americans. An OH-58 scout helicopter had spotted the Cuban and Soviet positions, and had reported that back to 49th Armored Division headquarters. The division had just been given a battalion of AH-64A Apaches from Corps to use, and the division's aviation brigade was now making full use of the deadly Apaches. A company of the helicopter gunships was sent to support 3rd Brigade, and those helicopters went after the 214th. And as had happened so many times in the past, the first indication that the Cubans were under attack was when armored vehicles began blowing up.

“Take cover!” Herrera yelled as Hellfire missiles began raining down on his regiment. He could see that they were standing off, out of range of his air defenses, though apart from a few Strela-M missiles (SA-14) he had no real air defense left. And the American helicopters went about their business in a methodical manner, destroying tanks, then artillery, then APCs. Eight Apaches came in, and in the space of fifteen minutes, had destroyed all but eight of his tanks, and left him with exactly four 2S1s to give artillery support. They had then come in with rockets to plaster his motor-rifle troops and the Soviet air-assault troopers, and had wrecked a few more vehicles with their 30-mm cannon. And after the Apaches left, a rain of artillery-both HE and ICM rounds, came in.

To the north, Captain Nancy Kozak and her Team watched it all from a distance. Fireballs signaled the death of armored vehicles, while smaller explosions marked rocket fire finding its mark. After the Apaches had left, the battalion commander called in an artillery mission, and plastered the area worked by the helicopter gunships. Three volleys of HE and ICM rained down on the Cubans, and then all was suddenly quiet. It was time. She called up her platoon leaders and gave the command to move out.

Colonel Herrera stood up from his foxhole as the Apaches left. He looked around and saw that his regiment was now mostly a collection of wrecked vehicles and dead and maimed men. His deputy came over from a hole next to the wrecked command vehicles, and just shook his head. “Comrade Colonel, now what?'

“We do the best we can. There's no way we can fight a delaying action and get away with it,” said the Colonel.

The deputy nodded. Both men went over to find the chief of staff, but he had been in one of the command vehicles, and it had taken a Hellfire missile. Herrera saw that his remaining tanks and artillery pieces were moving up, along with an intact BMP. He turned to the deputy. “Fernando, gather those with weapons and set up a position the best you can. I'm going forward.”

Before the deputy could reply, Herrera went to the BMP and told its surprised commander that he was relieved. The sergeant got off in favor of his colonel, and Herrera ordered the remaining vehicles forward. As he did so, he saw the Soviet air-assault troopers stand up and follow his lead. One final attack on the enemy, that was what he wanted, and he was sure, the Soviets wanted as well.

“Six, They're coming at us,” one of the mech platoon leaders said over Kozak's radio.

So much the better, Kozak thought. It beats this delaying crap, and it sure beats digging them out of their holes. “Let them close, then fire on my order.”

The platoons acknowledged, while Kozak called for battalion mortars to fire on the advancing enemy. As the mortars rained down, she told the gunner to raise the TOW missile launcher up, and find a target. “Got a BMP at twelve, Cap'n.” was his reply.

“When I say fire, take him.” Kozak said.

Herrera peered through the commander's sight on the BMP. The American armor was closing, and soon, they'd be in range. He ordered the four remaining artillery pieces to pull off, then set up to fire, while the T-72s and BMP closed with the Americans. One of the tanks used its laser rangefinder to get a range: 2900 meters. Not quite yet.

“Six, this is Three-One. Range now 2800.” Third Platoon called. Close enough. It was time. She called over the platoon net, “Take 'em!” And to her gunner Kozak calmly said, “Send it.”

The Team opened fire at once. Five of the eight T-72s took hits from tank fire and exploded at once. And Kozak's TOW missile flew straight and true to the BMP, exploding it. Then the other three tanks, along with the four SO-122s, took tank fire and exploded. Then the Team blasted both the advancing Soviet troops and the Cuban position with tank and Bradley fire, finishing what the battalion mortars had started. Within minutes, she was in the Cuban position so recently devastated by the Apaches, and a Cuban major stood up with a white flag, and she called a cease-fire. Kozak got down from the Bradley, took off her CVC helmet, drew her .45, and went over to the Cuban officer.

“Major Fernando Sotomayor, 214th Tank Regiment. I surrender my troops to you.”

“Tell your men to drop their weapons, gather your wounded, and start walking north along the highway, Major. I don't have time to take your men, but there's others following us, and they will take care of you.” He nodded as she called over to her First Sergeant. “First Sergeant! Give these men some water, some MREs, and point them north. We're headed for Brownsville, and there's nothing in our way.”

“Yes, Ma'am!”

[Matt Wiser]

The clock is winding down on the Soviets and their Cuban lackeys...and the road to Brownsville is wide open (well, one of them, anyway)...



1240 Hours: Cuban 2nd Army Headquarters, Rangerville, Texas.


General Perez knew it before his chief of staff came to him with the official word. The 214th had been annihilated. The last radio message had reported an Apache attack, and that American armor was fast approaching, before the sender went off the air-suddenly, and Perez presumed, violently. He turned to the map as the chief of staff came up. “That's it, then, for the 214th?”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade General. No further word from them,” the chief said.

“Don't bother trying to reach them. Right now, the only thing stopping the Americans from charging down Highway 281 is their own fuel supply. If they're running low....otherwise, they'll be in Brownsville by evening,” Perez noted.

The chief looked at the map. “Those ribbon bridges are in our sector, Comrade General. Shall I...”

Perez looked at him, then again at the map. “By all means, warn them. Have them ready to destroy the bridges when the enemy approaches.”

The chief nodded and went to send the message. “And one other thing: notify Front Headquarters: tell them 281 is now undefended.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

Perez looked at the map again. Though his Army was still cohesive, he had nothing left to put on Highway 281. He'd had to send some provisional units to his front, to bolster two remaining divisions, but nothing left to send against the Americans on the highway. Unless General Malinsky, the Front Commander, has something, that's it, he realized. The General went over to his Political Officer.

“Comrade General?” the man asked.

“Destroy any sensitive materials, if you haven't done so already. And there's still a chance for you and some of your people to get out via one of the ribbon bridges, if you choose.”

“Thank you, Comrade General. The....sensitive material will be destroyed, immediately.” the Political Officer replied.

Perez nodded. “Do you still wish to leave?”

“Given that the Americans consider many political officers to be war criminals, I would like to do so, Comrade General.”

“All right, then. Get ready to leave by 1400. And the Chief of staff will be with you. I want the Army's war diary to get out, and him with it, so that a personal report can be made.” Perez said.

“Of course, Comrade General.”

1300 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

Marshal Alekseyev, Colonel Sergetov, and General Petrov waited by the hangar that served as Petrov's office and specialist holding area. There were still several hundred men, all priority cases, who needed to leave. And it disgusted all three that two aircraft that could be used to evacuate them were being misused to get the Hall Government out to Cuba. Now, they were waiting on the collaborationists to arrive, and get them out of the pocket. It was very clear, even to the most die-hard Party member or Political Officer, that there wasn't much time left. And the soldiers of the Commandant's Service were taking some severe means to maintain order. Line-jumpers were immediately taken out and shot, while those that tried to rush aircraft were similarly dealt with. While waiting for Hall and his entourage to arrive, Alekseyev turned to Petrov, with an angry tone in his voice. “I thought I ordered you out.”

“I'm going, Comrade General, on the next Mi-26. Even if the pocket goes today, we'll still have forces in Mexico, and who knows when the Americans will come charging over the Rio Grande, intending to settle with the Mexicans. I can get things organized on the aviation side of things,” Petrov said.

Alekseyev nodded his approval. “I take it you're not that certain about running the gauntlet to Havana?”

“No, Comrade General. The Americans have been feasting on transports the whole day so far. Right now, it's one in four that's getting in,” reported Petrov.

A staff officer came over to the three senior officers. “Comrade Marshal, the planes for President Hall are on approach. And there's two Mi-26s coming in as well. A Libyan C-130 is on short final, along with two An-2s, an An-12, and three Il-76s.”

Alekseyev nodded, while Sergetov was amazed. “A Libyan C-130?”

“I was surprised too, Colonel,” Petrov said. “The Libyan government bought the aircraft before their estrangement with the Americans. The command pilot is Libyan, the copilot and navigator are Iranian, while the flight engineer and loadmaster are Vietnamese. And the common language they all use is English. I do appreciate the irony.”

The Libyan C-130 came in and landed. It was followed by an An-74 and an Il-62, the latter with Cubana markings, then a Tu-154 with North Korean insignia. The C-130 taxied over to the hangar, while the other aircraft taxied over to the terminal building. As the C-130 dropped its ramp, supply pallets were rolled off, and a Soviet ground crew quickly used forklifts to get the supplies out of the way. Then a group of specialists, ninety men, were ushered to the C-130, which hadn't even shut down its engines. Once the men were aboard, the plane quickly taxied to the runway, gunned its engines, and made a quick takeoff. After it took off, an Mi-26 came in and landed near the hangar, and taxied in. The pilot got out and came to the trio. He looked nervous as he saw Marshal Alekseyev, but managed to keep his cool. “Comrade Marshal...we've two Mi-26s and two Mi-8s left. One of the latter is taking out more headquarters personnel, as is one of the former. General Malinsky asked for the use of the remaining Mi-8 to get his intelligence officer and some of that staff component out.”

Alekseyev nodded approval, turning to Petrov. “You're getting on that helicopter. Now. And give my regards to the Rodina: you will see it before I will.”

Petrov came to full attention, just like in his cadet days. “Comrade Marshal, It has been an honor to serve with, and under, you.”

“It's not the Air Force's fault, Petrov,” Alekseyev said. “It's those who failed to get us out of this mess that are responsible. When you do see Marshal Akhromayev, as you most likely will, emphasize that in your report.”

Petrov looked at his Theater Commander with a grave look in his eyes. “I will, Comrade Marshal.”

“Now go. But before you see the Defense Minister, see your family. Many here will not have that opportunity ever again,” Alekseyev said, saluting Petrov.

Petrov returned the salute, then grabbed a small bag and went onto the MI-26. Alekseyev and Sergetov dropped back as the big helicopter taxied and did a rolling takeoff, kicking up dust as it did so, before pulling up and away. Within two minutes, it was clearly over Mexico, and headed to safety-though with American aircraft roaming the sky over northern Mexico almost at will, that was a relative term.

“Well, let's tend to Hall and his clique. Then, Sergetov, you and General Chibisov will have an important meeting to prepare for.” Alekseyev said.

Colonel Sergetov nodded, knowing full well what that meant.


1310 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, east of Brownsville, Texas.


The bombardment from the American battleships and cruiser had stopped. For General Andreyev, it was about time, and he went up to the roof of the command bunker to have a look for himself. He did a full 360-degree scan with his binoculars, and he saw defensive positions torn apart by heavy-caliber shells, BMD infantry carriers and other vehicles tossed around like toys, and artillery positions ripped to pieces. The 47th Tank Brigade had also taken some of the battleships' fire, and two battalions of tanks had been especially hard hit. Not to mention the fact that American aircraft had been overhead before the bombardment, striking armor and artillery positions. Now, he knew the Marines would be coming, and coming hard, to strike his position. His chief of staff came to him, and Andreyev regarded him. “Yes, Anatoly?”

“Comrade General, Colonel Suslov reports he's taken about thirty percent casualties from the shelling. The other regiments haven't reported in yet, but they're likely to be worse off.”

“Our defense was based on being out of range of naval guns, Anatoly,” Andreyev commented. “How close to shore were they?”

“I've talked with a navy officer, Comrade General. He's estimating that they were about five thousand meters off the shoreline. Maybe a little more. And no extended-range ammunition: all of the shells were likely the usual forty-centimeter high-capacity rounds used for shore bombardment.” the chief replied.

The General nodded. “They don't need to use armor-piercing shells here-and I imagine that their magazines are full of the high-capacity shells.”

“That's very likely, Comrade General.” replied the chief. “The 47th has reported in: two of their tank battalions are combat ineffective, and their motor-rifle battalion has taken about fifty percent losses.”

“Which reduces the power of our counterattack, when it comes,” Andreyev observed. “And now that the bombardment has lifted, that allows their carrier planes to return.”

“I'm afraid it does, Comrade General.”

“And the Marines won't advance further until after another round of air strikes goes in?” asked the General.

“That's practically a given,” the chief said.

Andreyev looked at the situation map. The Americans had hardly moved since the first shells landed on his positions. “If I was commanding those Marines, I'd do the same.”


1320 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.


Marshal Alekseyev looked at the collaborationist leadership with contempt, and despite his strong feelings about the whole thing, managed to hide that contempt from President Hall and his cabinet. Though the Ambassador was still supportive of the whole idea, even he knew that the hopes that there would be those in America still friendly to socialism were dashed-likely for good, and that the Northern Theater would be finished in a a matter of weeks, not months. President Hall, not knowing Alekseyev's strong feelings on him and his government, came over to the Marshal, who did maintain his courtesy. “Comrade President,”

“Marshal. The last I saw you, you were a general,” Hall said. “Things change.”

Alekseyev nodded. “They do, Comrade President. Any regrets? Because this may be the last time you see your native soil, you do realize.”

“I do, Marshal, I do. It's that if only I had fewer ties to Moscow, or that if our propaganda had been done properly, people would have understood the promise that socialism has, and that I was only trying to save America from itself,” Hall said. “Instead of a socialist America, living in peace and harmony with the world, and setting an example for others, now, the country is more reactionary than it ever was. And I, along with all of my cabinet, have prices on our heads.”

Alekseyev surveyed the cabinet members, who were talking with some of the Soviet officers, as well as Ambassador Markarev. He knew full well that the bounties were more than justified, and in fact, if he had his way, these....people would not be flown out, and he'd turn them over to the Americans as part of any cease-fire. And he knew that Marshal Akhromayev in Moscow felt the same way. He took a deep breath, and said, “Knowing that you did as well, to state and national officials, it's not a shock that they return the favor.”

“I know, Marshal. But even though they were issued in my name, and I approved them, it was Vice-President Davis' suggestion,” Hall said, gesturing toward her. And Alekseyev nodded, even though she, more than Hall, was someone he'd gladly turn over to General Powell. Davis had a reputation of being a cold, heartless bitch who had a vicious streak of ruthlessness, and the price on her head matched that.

“Yes, Comrade President. But you did approve the idea, and it was Franklin who implemented-or tried to-the suggestion. And the response was to place those rewards on you and your cabinet-without exception. You reap what you have sown, the saying goes,” Alekseyev reminded Hall.

“That's quite so, Marshal. Now, not only me, but the rest of the cabinet, are regarded by the reactionary government in Philadelphia as the worst traitors in American history, and they are supported by the news media, and it appears, the vast majority of the people. No one wants to hear that we wanted to save America from itself, or build a new America out of the old. No! We are seen as puppets of the KGB and the DGI, and the news media even has so-called commentators calling for our summary execution if caught. Without even a trial,” Hall said, tears welling in his eyes.

Now, Alekseyev's contempt almost came to the surface. But he restrained himself. “Given that the PSD also performed such executions, why does that not surprise you? My intelligence staff has seen those broadcasts, and by no means is that feeling universal.”

“True, but it seems like it's the majority opinion. Hall let out a sigh, almost one of relief. “Now the dream is over. We'll continue the struggle from Havana and Moscow, but I'm not much of an optimist.”

Before Alekseyev could reply, a SAF colonel came in. “Comrades, both aircraft are ready. They've been refueled, and are ready for boarding.”

Ambassador Markarev came over. “It's time, Comrade President.”

Hall nodded, and shook Alekseyev's hand. “We did everything we could, Marshal. It wasn't enough. Thank you, for everything.” He turned to the Ambassador. “And you, too, Comrade Ambassador, for all that you have done.” After that, Hall and his cabinet went out to the aircraft, where they were split into two groups. Hall and half the cabinet boarded an An-74, while the other group, led by Vice-President Davis, boarded the North Korean Tu-154. While most of their staff members went with either group, some additional staff, along with some that Alekseyev recognized as PSD members, got aboard the Cubana Il-62. The planes started their engines, taxied to the runway, and one after the other, took off and headed east, out towards Cuba.

“Well, that's the end of that,” Alekseyev observed. He turned to the Ambassador, “That mistake should never have happened.”

Makarev was astonished; oh, he had heard that the Army had been against the formation of the Hall government, and not only the General Staff, but the GRU as well-arguing that the population of the occupied territories would not consider any such government legitimate, but it would only fan the flames of an already active resistance movement. Those objections had been noted for the record, and overruled. Now, Makarev knew that the Army would use this in the ongoing debate back in Moscow, over whether or not to continue the war. While the Defense Council and most of the Politburo were in favor, there were candidate members of the Politburo, members of the Central Committee, and key generals and admirals who were in favor of a settlement. But his boss, Foreign Minister Tumansky, was still in favor of continuing the war. “Comrade Marshal, the government showed promise: it demonstrated how socialism could work in America-”

“It only demonstrated how it could flourish at the point of our guns!” Alekseyev shouted. “In case you haven't been out of the embassy that much, that government's two main bodies-the ALA and the PSD-created more guerrillas than they managed to eliminate, and engendered not only that much more hatred of us, but it turned anyone who associated themselves with that government into a traitor, and even now, the Americans have been very ruthless in dealing with those who cooperated with us. Those who can't prove they were forced to cooperate at gunpoint have little chance in court: either death on the gallows or a very lengthy prison sentence.”

Makarev was shocked. He'd never had any Army officer-of any senior position-tell this to his face. Then again, the Foreign Ministry was a minor player in the struggle between the Army, the Party, and the KGB. Comrade Marshal, at the time, victory appeared to be only a matter of months-at most a year-away. Creating a government that would show a socialist America as a true partner with the Rodina-”

“Creating a government that is now considered to be the equivalent of the Vichyites in France, you mean. Not even the UN would recognize them-or did that fact ever escape your attention?” Alekseyev thundered. “I thought not. I suggest you get the hell not only out of my sight, but on the next helicopter or aircraft out of here. This area will be back under its previous owners within a day, and the Americans would love to have Hall's chief supervisor-their term, not mine-in custody.” Alekseyev then turned and, with contemptuous ease, walked out on the Ambassador, leaving Makarev babbling in his wake.

As the Marshal and Sergetov left the terminal building, Sergetov turned to his Marshal. “I wonder if he'd ever had anyone tell him that to his face, Comrade Marshal?”

“I doubt it, Colonel. Let's get back to headquarters: you have a meeting to prepare, and I will make my final report to the Defense Council.”

[Matt Wiser]

And it continues:


1355 Hours: Soviet evacuee assembly area, Rancho Viejo, Texas.


Captain Galina Chernova sat outside what had been an elementary school prewar, waiting for a ride south. She and her fellow staff members from the 324th Field Hospital had tearfully left their patients, though Colonel Dherkov had listened to their pleas to remain, he had been firm. All of the women had to leave, without exception. She had said goodbye to her male comrades-the doctors and orderlies who would remain behind, as had her fellow staff members, some of whom were leaving boyfriends behind to an uncertain fate. At least in a few hours, they'd be in Mexico, safe for the moment, and they'd either get transportation to Cuba, or at the very least, be reassigned to a hospital with those forces who'd escaped south earlier.

There were about a couple hundred evacuees waiting to leave: all were from other hospitals, or had served in some capacity in Front-level offices as clerical staff, signals people, or even in field kitchens. But all were glad to be leaving-it beat staying behind and falling into the hands of that lunatic motorcycle gang that had become a cavalry regiment, and being gang-raped before being dragged behind their motorcycles or tanks. Then a shout came: the buses were arriving. And so they did, escorted by two BTRs and two BRDMs. When they stopped, the evacuees noticed that some of the buses already had passengers. An officer came and told everyone to get on the buses-and that there was plenty of room for everyone. Chernova got onto the first bus, and an officer took her name and unit, and cheerfully told her to “find a seat.”

She looked and found a seat in the second row, with a woman wearing an unfamiliar uniform. It looked like a flight suit. Did the Air Force have any female pilots, she wondered. Galina asked if the seat was taken. To her surprise, the woman answered in English. “Not if you don't mind sitting next to a prisoner of war.”

She turned to the officer aboard the bus. He shrugged and said “Go ahead.” And so Galina sat down and nodded to her companion, putting out her hand. The woman-who had to be an American, put out hers. “Captain Galina Chernova, Soviet Army Medical Corps.”

“Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle, United States Navy.”

“What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in a...”

“A POW compound? Maybe. But it's a long story-and I was only shot down three days ago.” Commander Carlisle said.

“We may have enough time, Commander. May I call you that, or simply Valerie?” Chernova asked.

Carlisle shrugged. “Whatever you want. And it looks like we're going,” she observed.

The bus got moving again, and the convoy formed up, and headed west, towards the Rio Grande and the border. As it did so, Carlisle explained what had happened. It wasn't unlike what she had heard about Germans in World War II: sometimes downed Allied pilots were in the same hospital as Luftwaffe crewmen, and the subject often turned to their experiences before being shot down. Chernova-and several of those women around her-were surprised to hear Carlisle's story. And they peppered her with questions-what was it like to be on a carrier? Did she have a boyfriend waiting for her on the ship? And a dozen others. To Commander Carlisle, the atmosphere-at least on this bus-felt more like a school trip than a drive through enemy territory, and she was still technically a POW! The guys back at the squadron are not going to believe this, she thought.

Little did she-or anyone else on the bus-know that Major Kokorev, the officer-in-charge, had told his driver to take what turned out to be a wrong turn. Kokorev didn't catch it until they had reached U.S. 281, and when he realized his mistake, he turned right-leading the convoy north on Highway 281. Soon, he caught up to a convoy of trucks, both military and commandeered civilian vehicles, filled with Soviet and Cuban rear-area troops, hoping to get to a ribbon bridge and safety in Mexico. And when the convoy reached La Paloma, they found the bridge destroyed by air attack. Kokarev decided to bypass the town, and head to another bridge at the 281-F.M. 2520 intersection. There, he knew, they could get across the river and to safety. And release Commander Carlisle to head to her own lines.


1400 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev and Colonel Sergetov went into the Operations Room. There, they saw that things had nearly broken down. Malinsky had moved his headquarters to Rancho Viejo, but things were obviously coming apart. The Cuban 1st Army had been split, and 28th Army only had one effective division still reporting in. Suraykin's forces now had Americans on three sides, and the 8th Guards Army was also splitting apart. Both Third Shock and the Cuban 2nd Army were still hanging on, but just barely, and word had arrived that Highway 281 was now completely open and undefended. It was obviously time to put matters to an end. Before he did so, Alekseyev knew he'd have to poll his staff, and have one final word with the Defense Council. But the latter came first, as General Chibisov came up to him. “Pavel Pavlovitch?”

“Comrade General, the Defense Council is on the line for a conference call.” Chibisov said. “I told them you were at the front, seeing things for yourself.”

Alekseyev nodded. Not the first time Chibisov had to cover for him when he'd been away. “All right. Let's get this over and done with.” Alekseyev went to the phone “Comrade General Secretary, I am now present,”

“Alekseyev, good to hear your voice,” General Secretary Chebrikov said. “How are things at the front? Marshal Ahkromayev has said that things could be better.”

Alekseyev and Chibisov exchanged glances. They knew, once again, that Chebrikov was only hearing what he wanted to hear, not what Ahkromayev or anyone from the Defense Ministry was saying. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary, it could be better, but then again, things could be a lot worse?”

“How much worse?” Chebrikov asked.

“I may not be alive to have this conversation, Comrade General Secretary. American air activity has been heavy all day.”

“Comrade Marshal, this is Chairman Kosov. Has the Hall Government left?”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman, they left this afternoon. We have no word as yet on their safe arrival in Cuba.” Alekseyev reported.

“I imagine that their arrival will be reported to us from our forces in Cuba, Marshal,” Chebrikov said, breaking into the conversation. “Let us worry about that.”

And worry about it you will, Alekseyev thought. Hopefully, none of that abomination will make it to their destination, and do something worthwhile for a change, namely, feed the fish. “Of course, Comrade General Secretary.”

“How much longer can you hold out?” Chebrikov asked.

“If General Malinsky can pull his forces together and form another line....a little bit longer. If not....”

“You will hold out, Marshal. Every day that you do is of paramount importance.” Chebrikov said.

“I understand, Comrade General Secretary,” Alekseyev said. “However, I cannot make any promises as to how long.”

Then the Interior Minister, Pugo, spoke up. “Can't you be more certain?”

“In war, there is not certainty, Comrade Minister.” Alekseyev pointed out.

“Of that, there is no doubt,” Marshal Akhromayev said. “I have received your courier, Marshal. His information was most...enlightening and very useful. He's briefing my staff, and I plan to make full use of him, you may be assured of that.”

Alekseyev let out a sigh of relief. So Major Sorokin had made it to Moscow, and had begun to make his rounds. “I trust the courier's information may be valuable to you, Minister. And to any others so cleared.”

On the other end, Marshal Akhromayev had to restrain himself from grinning. Major Sorokin's information was now in the hands of the General Staff, and certain other senior officers. Not just in Moscow, but elsewhere. As well as a number of other....interested parties. “It will be, that I assure you, Marshal.”

Alekseyev smiled. “Thank you, Comrade Marshal.”

“Marshal, even if you are overwhelmed, your sacrifices will be a rallying cry to our war effort, and come spring, there will be a smashing new offensive out of Canada, and bring about our final triumph. Hold out as long as possible,” Chebrikov said. “Now, your hands are full with your fight, and we won't bother you any longer. I look forward to our next conversation,”

“Of course, Comrade General Secretary,” Alekseyev said.

Then the connection was broken. And Chibisov spoke up. “Well, that went better than I expected, Comrade Marshal.”

“So it did for me as well. I half expected to be relieved, and told to hand over things to Malinsky. He'd take the same course of action I'm going to take, and the only difference would be how many die before that happened.” Alekseyev observed.

“There is that, Comrade Marshal.”

“Indeed. Now, Chibisov, Sergetov. We can't send a radio signal-it may be intercepted by our forces in Mexico. Go up to the 77-83 interchange, or as close as you can. Ask the Americans there to arrange a meeting with General Powell, or his chief of staff.” Alekseyev said.

Chibisov looked at his superior. “Understood, Comrade Marshal.”

And Alekseyev made another decision. “Whatever they insist on, we're in no position to disagree. Where and when I'm to meet with Powell, is all I need at the moment.”


1410 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, East of Brownsville, Texas.

General Andreyev watched the battle develop from his forward command post. And he knew that those Marines coming forward had plenty of firepower that would definitely influence the battle. He'd watched as the 235th Guards Air Assault Regiment had been hit heavily by both naval gunfire and by air attack, and now, Marine infantry, backed up by armor and LAV-25 light combat vehicles, slammed into the regiment, and after a half-hour of fighting, had ripped the regiment to shreds. As that was happening, the 236th Guards had tried to aid its sister regiment, only to have one battalion caught in the open and hammered by naval gunfire-obviously on call from Marine forward artillery spotters.

Now, Andreyev had to decide on a counterattack, and he thought about using some of the 47th, well before he thought he'd have to. But two battalions, though hammered by naval gunfire and air strikes, would have to do. Given the terrain, with sand on one side, and marshland on another, and the Marines using that marshland to get around some of his defenses, it might just hold up the American advance-for an hour or so, anyway. He turned to his chief of staff, “Notify Colonel Glavchenko: he's to send two battalions of tanks-the two that were hit earlier by air attack and naval gunfire, and have them counterattack to relieve the 235th Guards-what's left of it.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” the chief of staff replied.

“Any word from the 235th's regimental command post?” Andreyev asked.

“The last word had the regiment's operations officer, a Captain Chazov, having taken command: he's managed to rally two companies' worth of men, and there are some strongpoints still fighting that we're not in touch with.” replied the chief.

Andreyev nodded. “Have those tanks move to relieve the 235th-now.” He notice the look on the chief of staff's face, “I know, they'll be exposed to air attack, but then again, we all are. Get them moving.”

“Immediately, Comrade General,” the chief said, going off to issue the order.


1435 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen,Texas.

“Comrade General,” General Golikov said to Suraykin, “General Chibisov is here.”

“What?” Suraykin asked, clearly surprised. “This is no time for either a personal inspection or a pep talk, Golikov. By all means, bring him in.”

Golikov nodded, and went to the entrance to the warehouse where the Army's command vehicles had been parked inside. He came back with Marshal Alekseyev's chief of staff and a colonel that Suraykin didn't know. “Comrade General, this is a bad time to have a personal tour,” Suraykin said.

Chibisov nodded. “I know, General. That is not why I'm here with Colonel Sergetov, the Marshal's aide. How close are the Americans?”

Suraykin had an idea as to what Chibisov had in mind, but held it for now. He brought Chibisov to the Operations Map, and showed him. “To the right, what's left of 38th Tanks is holding-but barely, at the intersection of Loop 499 and the Business U.S. 77. They're down to a single regiment, and Nikonov won't be able to hold much longer. The 24th Tanks has been split into three elements, with two of them completely cut off, and the division's motor rifle regiment and one tank regiment still tied in. The rest...”

Chibisov looked at the map. “I know, General. They'll either be destroyed or forced to surrender. Continue.”

Yes, Comrade General. The 105th Guards Air Assault Division is down to about twenty-five percent strength, and the 41st Tank Regiment has barely a battalion of tanks left, and hardly any motor-rifle troops or artillery.”

“But they do hold the 77-83 junction, do they not?” Chibisov asked.

“They still do. Now 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle Division are still fighting to their left, but they're almost finished. A couple of hours,maybe three, and they'll give way.” Suraykin said.

Chibisov looked at the map again, and he turned to Sergetov. “The junction, that's where we'll go.” He turned back to Suraykin. “Notify General Gordonov that we'll be there shortly. This ends today, Suraykin. One way or another.”

[Matt Wiser]

And the day goes on....


1500 Hours: Soviet evacuee convoy, along U.S. 281, north of La Paloma, Texas.


Captain Chernova looked out the window of the bus. Typical desert, she thought: she'd never been in a desert before coming first to Mexico, then to America, way back in 1985. Now, she knew, things were coming full circle. Back to Mexico, and either a new assignment there, or somehow, getting back to the Rodina. And maybe, just maybe, by the time we get home, the war will be over. And back to home to Vyborg, and try and get life going again. She'd said that to Commander Carlisle, who had nodded. She, too had postwar plans-namely, staying in the U.S. Navy and returning to flying status. “My father was an admiral, and he'd be very disappointed in me if I didn't make the Navy a career,” she had said.

Now, there was a good chance the convoy was getting close to a bridge. There looked like vehicles backed up, waiting to cross, and they had also passed a good number of trucks, buses, and even APCs, all caught by air attack as they had moved along the road. “Well, Commander, it looks like you'll be getting off soon,” Chernova said.

“Oh?” Carlisle said. She'd actually closed her eyes and dozed off for a few minutes.

“Yes, there's a convoy held up-and there must be a bridge up ahead.”

Little did anyone know that, just north of the bridge, Captain Nancy Kozak's Team was approaching. With the only aircraft in the air American for the most part, her Team advanced along the highway, occasionally picking off Soviet or Cuban stragglers as they went. A few rounds of machine-gun or 25-mm fire did the job in knocking out trucks and the occasional APC, though tank guns spoke on two occasions, when BMPs had been found. No one was taking any chances, not now. Then she heard over the radio from her Air Force ETAC: a ribbon bridge was still up about three klicks ahead. Though fixed-wing aircraft were busy, a pair of Apaches was called in onto the very attractive target: and the Apaches ripped into the bridge with their Hellfire missiles, while they used their rockets and 30-mm cannon on the vehicles that had been backed up, waiting for their turn to cross.

“Mother of God! What was that?” the guard officer in the bus asked. Those in front could see fireballs erupting as vehicles exploded ahead of them, and then it was obvious: Apache helicopters were working the bridge. Then they watched as the helicopters turned and headed north. The convoy bypassed the shattered bridge, hoping to find a place to turn around. As they did so, it was Commander Carlisle who noticed it. And a small grin came to her face. She turnd to Dr. Chernova, “Galina, I think you people are headed somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look out the side window.”

As Chernova did so, a chill came down her spine. American tanks and fighting vehicles were closing. .


Kozak, in her Bradley, saw the convoy. Five buses, with two BTR-70s and two BRDMs as escort. These had to be high-value evacuees: there was no way Ivan would waste captured school buses on POWs. She got onto the platoon net: “Take the escort vehicles, and fire ahead of the buses. There's probably VIPs on those buses. Let's bring 'em in.”

In his BTR, Major Kokarev was checking his map. They'd have to turn around and go back south. Maybe there was a way across south of the two bridges he'd found destroyed. Then his driver let out a cry, “Enemy tanks to the right!”

“What are you babbling about?” Kokarev asked as he poked his head up and looked in that direction. His eyes became wide as saucers. “Mother of....” He never finished the sentence.

Third Platoon's tanks opened fire on the escort vehicles, destroying each with the first shot, and then machine-gun fire went in ahead of the buses. All of them screeched to a stop, and the Bradleys closed in.

Commander Carlisle peeked up, and saw the Bradleys closing in. She turned to Chernova. “You do have something white, I presume, being a doctor?”

“Yes, my coat. Are those the lunatics?”

“What lunatics are you talking about?” Carlisle asked.

“That maniacal motorcycle gang that became a regiment, that's who!” One of Chernova's fellow doctors said.

The American laughed. “That's not them. They don't use those tanks and APCs. I've seen them on TV enough times. Give me something white, now!”

Chernova opened her bag and gave Commander Carlisle her white coat. Then Chernova looked at the guard officer, who was properly terrified. No doubt he was expecting a trip to a gulag-or worse, if he returned to Russia having allowed those under his protection to be captured. To her shock-and everyone else's, he took out his service pistol, put it to his temple, and fired. Then she watched as Commander Carlisle shoved the driver aside and opened the side door. And she waved the coat out the open door.

“Six, this is Three-One. Somebody's waving something white out of the lead bus,” Third Platoon called to Kozak.

“Hold fire! I'll be right there. Repeat: all units hold fire!” Kozak then ordered her Bradley forward, and it approached the bus, traversing the turret away as she did so. She stopped fifty feet from the bus and yelled. “Come on out, with your hands up!”

Commander Carlisle told Chernova, “I'll go out and vouch for you. When they tell you to come out, do exactly as they say. And tell the other buses to do the same.”

Chernova nodded apprehensively. Even if these weren't the maniacs in the 13th Cavalry, who knew what these Americans would do to them? She watched as Commander Carlisle got out, still waving the white coat.

“That's one of ours, Ma'am!” Kozak's driver called. Sure enough, Kozak watched as a woman in a U.S. Navy flight suit came out of the bus, waving what appeared to be a doctor's white coat. Kozak got out and walked forward. And she saw that whoever that woman was, she outranked Kozak. She saluted, just as if it had been back on the parade ground at West Point. “Ma'am?”

“Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle, United States Navy. These buses are full of Soviet servicewomen, apart from a few guards. All of them will surrender.”

“Begging your pardon Ma'am, but what were you...”

“Doing on the bus, Captain? They could've sent me to a POW compound, but instead...” Carlisle explained for a few minutes, and Kozak was surprised. The Soviet Theater Commander wanted her for this? “Not that I had any choice, Captain. They would've handcuffed me to a seat if I said no.”

“They'll surrender?” Kozak asked.

“Yes, they will.”

Kozak went back to her Bradley and issued orders: She told the First Sergeant to come forward, and get things organized. And she called battalion for instructions. She was told to hold her position, and the Battalion Commander would come and see for himself. And he'd bring some extra female soldiers to handle the prisoners.

The First Sergeant's vehicle arrived. Kozak turned to him. “There's a couple of female troopers in company headquarters; get them on that first bus. Radio Second Platoon to come forward. Only female soldiers board the buses and secure the prisoners. Is that clear, First Sergeant?”

“Yes, Ma'am,”

Commander Carlisle looked at Kozak. “I'll go back and tell them they're going to be OK. They think you guys are from the 13th Cav.”

“Of course, Ma'am,” Kozak said.

Carlisle went back to the bus. She explained to the Soviet women that the Americans were regular Army, and that the unit had women, and they'd be under the supervision of female soldiers for now. “Just get off the bus, hands on your heads, and do as they say.” Chernova and several others translated for those who didn't know English, and heads nodded. “All right, time to get off. And your war's now over.”

Commander Carlisle waited until all of those on the first bus were off. Before she left, she picked up the guard officer's AK-74 as a souvenir. At least I get something else besides that pass-which I never got to use, thank God-to remind me of how crazy this was. She looked to the right, and the occupants of the other buses were coming off-the guards and drivers were segregated from the women, and the Soviet women were, as promised, searched and guarded by Kozak's female troopers. And Kozak herself came up. “Commander, I've got a question: is there anybody I should be worried about coming north?”

“Everybody I saw was doing the same thing: looking for a way across the river. They're licked, and they don't want to be here when things fold up.”


1525 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.


General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov got out of the little UAZ-469 jeep, and entered the headquarters of the 105th Guards Air Assault Division. General Gordinov was there, shouting into a phone. Then he saw his visitors and hung up. “Comrade General, Colonel. General Suraykin told me you were coming.”

“You do know why we're here?” Chibisov asked.

“Yes, Comrade General,” Gordinov said. “I'll escort you to the junction myself. The 351st Guards Air Assault Regiment is there; they've fought like lions, but are down to only three hundred or so effectives, and even some of their wounded have been fighting. Please follow me, Comrades.” Gordinov said, and the two officers went out of the building, and followed Gordinov on foot to the area just south of the junction. There, they found Colonel Chesnikov still leading the 41st Tank Regiment, but he was now down to eighteen tanks, and only a half-dozen artillery pieces, and those were short on ammunition. When Chesnikov saw the party, and what they were going to do, he felt a sense of relief: it meant that he, and his men, would live. Chesnikov ordered his men to hold fire on the area, and the party arrived at the 351st's command post, where Captain Leonid Gaipov had managed to rally what remained of the regiment, but there were dozens of badly wounded men in need of treatment, and ammunition was running very low. Seeing those wounded only reinforced both Chibisov and Sergetov in their mission: it had to end, and very soon. Sergetov reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a carefully folded white sheet. “If someone can find a piece of wood, or a pipe?”

After a few minutes of searching, a sergeant found a broom handle. Fixing the sheet to the handle, Sergetov nodded to the two generals. “Whenever you're ready, Comrade Generals.”

Chibisov nodded, and the party went out towards the interchange, which had been turned to rubble by air and artillery fire, as well as being pockmarked by small-arms and infantry weapons fire. Sergetov waved the flag continuously as the party went forward.


Ahead of them, 1st Lieutenant Jennifer Moore was having a bad day. She'd taken over her company-Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 116th Infantry, 29th Infantry Division, after both the Company Commander and the Executive Officer had been caught in a mortar barrage. Both men had been badly wounded-and the CO had died before he could get a medivac out. She was the next senior officer-having been a 1st Lieutenant all of a week-so she'd turned her platoon over to her platoon sergeant, and had the company all of three hours when someone shouted, “There's three Russians coming under a white flag.”

She grabbed her binoculars-which had belonged to the Captain-and saw for herself. “Hold fire!” She called. And she thought, this might be it. Lieutenant Moore took off her helmet and put on her fatigue cap, and told the First Sergeant to come with her. Then she walked out onto U.S. 77 and went to meet the enemy. As she approached, she could see that one officer was Guards Airborne-that figured-they'd been battling their way against the 105th Guards Airborne for the past three days, while the other two were clearly Ground Forces. Then she saw that one of them was a full General. Turning to the First Sergeant, she said, “When's the last time a General surrendered to a Lieutenant?”

“Maybe in Germany, Ma'am, back in '45.”

Chibisov and the party got close to the two Americans. One, wearing a helmet, was obviously an NCO, while the other was an officer, and despite the short blond hair, was female as well. Chibisov said in Russian to the two other officers, “Well, we clearly can't pick and choose, can we?” Both Gordonov and Sergetov nodded, and the party stopped. And the female officer stepped forward and saluted-as if she was back at an Academy-Chibisov thought.

After she saluted, and the Russians returned it, Moore said, “First Lieutenant Jennifer Moore, United States Army. And you are?”

Chbisov bowed slightly. “I am General Pavel Chibisov, Chief of Staff to Marshal Alekseyev, the Commander of the Soviet and Cuban forces in the Brownsville area. I would like to speak to a superior officer, to arrange a meeting between Marshal Alekseyev and General Powell.”

“Before I notify my superiors, General, they're going to want to know what the subject of the meeting is going to be.” Moore pointed out.

“I understand, Lieutenant. Marshal Alekseyev wishes to arrange for the orderly surrender of the forces remaining in the pocket.”

Moore and her First Sergeant looked at each other. Had they heard right? “General, Did you say 'surrender'?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I did.” Chibisov replied.

Well, Moore thought. They didn't say anything on how to handle something like this at OCS. She nodded. “Very well, if you'll follow me. First Sergeant,”

“Yes, Ma'am. And the Russians came forward, with Moore leading and the First Sergeant following behind the Russians. As they entered the company's positions, her soldiers stood up to watch. Except for a couple of sergeants, none were original members of the 116th-the rest had been killed, wounded, or reassigned during the long war. All were either wartime volunteers or draftees, she explained, and about a quarter of them were women. When the party got to her company CP, she had her radio operator contact battalion, and she informed the battalion commander of the Russians' arrival and purpose. The battalion commander nearly had a coronary, or so she thought, but composed himself, and told her that he'd inform brigade, and then division, but that vehicles would be sent to bring the Russians to Battalion HQ.

“It'll be a few minutes, at least, before they get here,” Moore explained. She turned to the First Sergeant, “Get our guests some bottled water. It's been a hot day, even for Texas.”

The First Sergeant nodded, and went to get the water. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Chibisov said. “I'm surprised, even after all this time, to see women on the front lines.”

“Why shouldn't you, General? You yourselves had women as combat soldiers in World War II,” Moore reminded Chibisov.

Chibisov nodded. That had probably been a wartime necessity, so why shouldn't the Americans have done the same? “How long have you been in the Army?”

“Four years, General. I joined two days after you invaded. Two years in a supply job, then I was sent to Officer School, and then I volunteered for infantry. Been with the 29th ever since.” Moore said.

The First Sergeant came back with the water. The Russians gratefully accepted the liquid, and drank and drank. It was obvious to the Americans that the Soviets in the pocket were short of a lot of things-and potable water was probably high on the list. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Chibisov said.

Just as that happened, a pair of Humvees arrived, with Moore's battalion commander coming out to see for himself. Like her, he was initially surprised, but now knew this was nearly over. And about time. “General, I'll escort you to my battalion headquarters. I've spoken with brigade and division, and they've cleared things. A Blackhawk will pick you up at my headquarters, and you'll be flown to XVIII Airborne Corps to meet with General Powell's Chief of Staff, General McCaffery.”

Chibisov noted the battalion commander was a major. No doubt there because of casualties, he knew. And this battle in Harlingen had been a nasty one at that. “Thank you, Major. I believe General Gordinov here, from the 105th, has a request for your divisional commander?”

Gordinov turned to the American major. “I would like to request a cease-fire between your division and my own. To allow the party to return, so that I may return a number of your wounded to you, and....I have a number of seriously wounded men who need more treatment than my own medical staff can provide.”

The American Major nodded. “If you'll all come with me, everything will be taken care of.”

As the party got into the Humvees, one group of soldiers took notice. A group of intelligence specialists were looking at a wrecked T-80, when one of the soldiers called down to another inside the tank, “Sarge, have a look at this!”

A bespectacled intelligence sergeant stuck his head out the commander's hatch, and saw a four-star Soviet General, a two-star Guards Airborne General, and a colonel-obviously an aide, get into a Humvee with that battalion's commander. And the Humvee drove off, with another Humvee escorting it. “Well, well.”

“What was that, Sarge?” a corporal asked.

“That, Clancy, might be the end of this war. Now get me a Phillips screwdriver, and a socket wrench, so I can get this fire-control gear out of the gunner's station. NOW!”


1540 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev had finished washing up in his office. He was preparing for a meeting that he expected to take place either that evening, or at worst, the next morning. Until he signed whatever papers Powell had, the war was still on, and he knew it. The door to his office opened, after a knock, and Lieutenant General Mikhail Glasov, Chibisov's deputy, came in.

“Comrade Marshal?”

“Yes, Glasov, what is it?” Alekseyev asked.

“A message from Moscow is coming in. It's a list of decorations and promotions.” Glasov said.

Alekseyev put on his uniform jacket. He'd already had a Gold Star from when he'd been an Army commander in 1985, and he knew full well what a second award would mean-and it wasn't about any kind of bravery on the battlefield. “Let's go, Glasov.”

The two went into the operations room, where things were still being updated, as best as could be. The Cuban 1st Army was coming apart at the seams, while 28th Army was being enveloped by both XVIII Airborne Corps and II MAF. Suraykin's Army was still clinging to its holdings, but they would soon be trapped with no way out. Both 8th Guards and 3rd Shock were also in deep trouble, from both XII and VIII Corps, and the Cuban 2nd Army had been outflanked, and Highway 281 was now completely open and undefended. Alekseyev knew that time was up, and that he'd have to do what no Marshal of the Soviet Union had ever done, if any of his men were to see their homeland ever again. Before he took the message, Alekseyev turned to Glasov. “Any word on the evacuee convoy? The women, Glasov.”

“No, Comrade Marshal. We do know that two, maybe three, of the bridges are down. Perhaps they had to hunt for an intact bridge to cross over into Mexico.”

“All right. The message,” Alekseyev ordered.

A communications officer came with the message form. Alekseyev looked at it, then glanced at Glasov. “Every divisional commander is promoted one grade, while all regimental commanders who aren't colonels? Well, they are now.”

“Someone wants a mass suicide of senior officers, it seems,” Glasov observed. “That person will be greatly disappointed.”

“Yes, and I know exactly who,” said Alekseyev.

Another officer came in with a message form. “For you, Comrade Marshal,”

Alekseyev took the form and read it. He then crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the map. “Of all the....! Well, I have no intention of shooting myself for this Chekist bastard who calls himself General Secretary! A lot of good what that message said does now!”

Glasov retrieved the message and managed to read it. The message announced Alekseyev's award of a second Gold Star, the Hero of the Soviet Union. “My congratulations, Comrade Marshal, for whatever they are worth.”

Alekseyev shot him a vicious look. Then he calmed down. “Thank you, Glasov.” He turned to the communications officer: “Destroy all remaining radios and codes-except for one of each, at once. If you can, then get any remaining code personnel on a helicopter. If you have to, get them across the river by walking, but there's not that much time left.”


1540 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, Highway 4, east of Brownsville.


Major Stepanov led his battalion forward. He commanded the Second Battalion, 47th Tank Brigade, and he was in a fury. His battalion had been hit hard by air strikes and the accursed battleship gunfire, and had been reduced from thirty-one tanks down to eighteen, and Third Battalion, right behind his, had gone from thirty-one down to fifteen. Now, he thought, we'll show those Amerikantsky Marines what real Soviet soldiers can do-not those penal scum on the beach, who, he had been told, had either run away or simply put up their hands. No, not today. Even on what may be the last day, we'll show you how real Soviet soldiers fight. Just you see.

General Andreyev watched from his command post as the two tank battalions advanced. The Marines, he could see, were pulling back. With their control of the air, they could see the tanks coming long before the armor could see the Marines. And with that, Andreyev knew, the Marines were bound to have something up their sleeve. Just as the tanks reached where the 235th Guards Air Assault Regiment had been fighting, a hail of antitank rockets and missiles came from the front and both flanks. Did every Marine have a rocket launcher or an antitank missile launcher? It seemed that way to Andreyev. And Marine Cobra helicopters were overhead, taking shots at tanks with their TOW missiles, while Harriers and A-10s were overhead, adding their own bombs, missiles, and gunfire to the proceedings.

Stepanov cursed inside his T-72A. The Marines had lured his battalion into ambush, and had closed the door behind him-and Third Battalion as well. They were stuck on some high ground, while the road behind them was blocked, and there was no way out-not with several wrecked tanks blocking the road. Abandoning the tank and getting away on foot was unthinkable, so he did what naturally came to him: he pressed forward, “All units, advance!” he shouted into the radio. “Advance!” Then he checked his periscopes: a few tanks were following him, but most of the rest were burning, and a few had been abandoned by their crews. I'll deal with them later, if there is a later, he promised.

Up above, a flight of A-10s was circling overhead, waiting to be cleared in by a Marine Forward Air Controller, They had a birds-eye view of the whole thing, and one had to admit, Ivan still had a lot of guts, moving forward, in the face of all that fire. Then the FAC cleared them in hot, and directed the flight on some T-72s that were pressing forward, on that little chunk of high ground just off the north side of Highway 4. The flight leader rolled in, and the rest of his flight came in right behind him, each pilot picking out his or her target.

“Sokol One, this is Verona Three, aircraft coming in from the east!” One of Stepanov's platoon leaders called. He lifted his head out of the tank to see four A-10s coming in, and as he reached down to fire his smoke grenades, missiles came off the A-10s' rails. He barely had time to shout as the Maverick missile tracked his tank and exploded, turning Stepanov and his tank into a ball of flame and debris.

Andreyev let out a howl of rage, then he turned to his chief of staff. “Pull everyone back. At least two kilometers, no, make it three. We've got to get out of range of this naval gunfire.”

The chief looked at him. “Comrade General, with all these aircraft-”

“I know, we're going to lose more people and more vehicles, But if we stay here, we'd be pounded into pulp by both aircraft and those battleships. Have what's left of 235th Guards-if we're still in touch with them-act as the rearguard. And have the 47th move their intact tank battalions up as a screen. The 234th and 236th will fall back behind the tanks.” Andreyev ordered.

“Yes, of course, Comrade General,” the chief said, going off to issue the order.

[Matt Wiser]

And some more...


1550: XVIII Airborne Corps Headquarters, Raymondville, Texas.

General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov looked out the windows on the Blackhawk's sliding door. U.S. Highway 77 was jammed with traffic. American supply convoys and tank transporters headed south, hauling supplies and replacement equipment to the front, and in the northbound lanes, empty convoys returned north. And in the median strip, trudged hundreds of Soviet and Cuban, and presumably Nicaraguan, prisoners, headed north into American captivity. What they saw confirmed what they had been feeling, and what the Marshal himself had been likely feeling for days, that the fighting must come to an end. A pity that it had to be done this way, instead of those stubborn old men in the Kremlin dropping their fantasies of winning the war, and coming to a negotiated settlement that would have enabled the Soviet Union to withdraw from the war with its honor and dignity intact. Now, both knew, there would be not much of either, no matter how cordial the proceedings went. The Soviets had lost, and the Americans would make sure the whole world knew.

Their American escort, a major from 29th Division headquarters, spoke into his headset, then tapped Chibisov on the shoulder. “One minute to landing, General.”

Chibisov nodded. The sooner things got done, the better. They felt a small thump as the Blackhawk landed outside the Corps HQ.. The crew chief got up, and opened the sliding door on the left side. Both Soviet officers and the escort, got out and noticed a group of American officers waiting for them. Ducking to avoid the rotor blades, the party went to meet the Americans. Chibisov pulled himself together, put his service cap on, and, noticing a three-star general leading the American delegation, saluted first. “I am General Pavel Chibisov, Marshal Alekseyev's chief of staff.”

The senior American officer returned the salute. “Lieutenant General Barry McCaffery, General Powell's chief of staff. We've been expecting you, General.”

Both Chibisov and Sergetov recognized the name. McCaffery had been a brigade commander with the 8th Infantry Division at the start of the war, and had led his brigade through First Houston, and the retreat into Louisiana. After that, he'd been in command of the reactivated 30th Mechanized Division, made up of units from Tennessee and the Carolinas, before taking over XVIII Airborne Corps. He'd dropped out of the GRU's picture after that American Summer Offensive in 1988, and it was now clear who had wanted him and why.

The party went into what had been a classroom at the Raymondville High School, where things had been arranged, and before things got going, the Americans noticed the Soviets eying the finger food that had been put out. “Go ahead,” McCaffery said, and the two Soviet officers helped themselves.

After they'd eaten a little, things got underway. “General McCaffery, I have instructions from the Marshal to arrange a meeting with General Powell,” Chibisov said. “I realize that we are in no position to demand anything, except maybe generosity, but I do hope that things will proceed with a bit of respect, even among enemies.”

“Everything will be handled according to International Law, General. Before you bring the Marshal, you can tell him that he and his men will be treated as Prisoners of War, and will be accorded the proper treatment guaranteed under the Geneva Convention. Something, I might add, your own side failed totally in its obligations-not just to prisoners, but to the civilian population.” McCaffery said.

Chibisov sighed. He knew full well what McCaffery meant. “I understand, General. We cannot change the past, no matter what we wish. But I can assure you, that after the surrender, an orderly transition will take place.”

“It had better,” McCaffery growled. “Very well, General. General Powell will meet with the Marshal at 1700. You may return to your lines, and so inform the Marshal. A Blackhawk will be waiting at the headquarters of the 29th Division, and will fly the Marshal to General Powell's headquarters.”

Chibisov nodded. “Is there anything else, General?”

“Yes. I realize you're not used to a free press. So you had better brace yourselves: there's going to be a lot of members of the national-and international-press there,” McCaffery said. “And take my advice: treat the press like you would the proverbial nest of vipers. Some of 'em are decent, but others...they're like sharks at a feeding frenzy.”


1600 Hours: U.S. 281, north of La Paloma, Texas.


Commander Carlisle sat in the First Sergeant's APC, just relieved that it was all over. She had been worried, though, about friendly aircraft shooting up the convoy. Now, the Army was sitting at that bridge site, and she saw Kozak's troops bringing in stragglers. Some of them were obviously wounded, and Kozak's people had allowed some of the Soviet medical personnel to treat them. Now, she was finishing up an MRE-a “Meal Rejected by Everyone”-but the tuna casserole meal the First Sergeant had given her was actually good. Personally, she thought, I'll be glad to be back on the ship. Captain Kozak had fired off a message to her battalion reporting Carlisle's experience, and a request that the ship be notified that Carlisle would be coming back. Then a commotion came up, and she got out to see what was going on-stepping over the Team's mascot, who was fast asleep in the back of the APC. Several trucks were arriving, and a Humvee was coming up to Kozak's Bradley. This might be the battalion commander. He got out, and talked with Kozak. She pointed in Carlisle's direction, and both came to her. “Commander, I'm Major Dan Little, 3-144 Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 49th Armored. Welcome back,” he said, saluting.

She returned the salute. “Thanks, Major. How soon can I get back to my ship?”

“Ma'am, that's gonna have to wait. There's a chopper coming for you.”

Carlisle was stunned. “What for?”

“Commander, we passed your story up the chain of command. This comes from Third Army HQ: General Powell wants to talk to you.” Major Little said.

“About what?”

“Seems he wants to know what kind of a man he's dealing with-Alekseyev, I guess.” Little replied.

The sound of a pair of Blackhawks interrupted things. One had a red cross on its side doors, and was obviously a medievac bird, and the other was a plain A-model UH-60. Both landed, stirring up a lot of dust. “Commander, that vanilla Blackhawk's for you.” Little said.

She looked over at the Soviet prisoners. Most of the women were still sitting in the shade of the buses, though some were helping the Team medics treat the injured. But Commander Carlisle noticed Dr. Chernova taking a break. “Where are they headed?”

“There's an EPW camp for women-the Army reactivated a base outside Salt Lake City, and that's where they send some of the female prisoners, or so I understand. There's another one in upstate New York.” replied the Major.

Carlisle nodded. “All right. There's one I want to say goodbye to: we were seatmates on the bus. Then I'll get on that helo.” She saw both Little and Kozak nod, and then walked over to Dr. Chernova, “Galina.”

“Commander! This is a lot better than we expected, but then again, this is not the 13th Cavalry.” Chernova replied.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, and wish you good luck. Not for your side, you understand, but you, personally.”

“Where will they take us?” Chernova wondered.

“Either Utah, or someplace in Upstate New York. You'll sit out the rest of the war there.” Carlisle replied. “I'm going back to my ship in a day or so.”

Chernova nodded understanding. She hugged Commander Carlisle, and kissed her on the cheeks in the traditional Russian manner. “Thank you again.”

“I have to go, but one day, maybe, we can get together again and share our war stories-it happens after every war.” Carlisle said. “Good luck.”

Chernova nodded as the Commander went back to the two Army officers. “That's that, Major.” She went back to the APC and picked up that AK-74 she wanted to keep. “Thanks again, Captain,” she said to Kozak, shaking her hand. “Major, this could've ended a lot worse. Remember, they're not the KGB or the GRU: they got sent here to do their job, that's all.”

“We know, Ma'am. Let's get you to that chopper.” Little said. And with that, he escorted Commander Carlisle to the Blackhawk, and she got in. The crew chief made sure she was seated and strapped in, then gave her a headset. “Where are we going, exactly?” she asked the pilot.

“Edinburg, Ma'am. General Powell's HQ is there.” the pilot replied as the Blackhawk took off, made a turn, and headed north.


1615 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev peered out to sea once again, and again, there were American ships on the horizon. But this time, they didn't appear to be menacing his defenses, just cruising up and down the coast. From what he'd heard over the radio net, the Americans were pouring ashore, and the Army was having a hard time with American air attacks and naval gunfire. Having been on the receiving end of two bombardments himself, he did not blame anyone for pulling back in the face of fire that could not be countered. But still, there was still a chance that there'd be a landing on this beach, and so he went up to Captain Lieutenant Kamarov's observation point to have a long-range look for himself.

He found Kamarov peering through his long-range glasses and consulting his ship recognition manual. “Well, what do we have now? Lazarev asked.

“So far, not much. I've seen one of the battleships, though. Not sure which one-they're too far away to see the hull number. There's what appears to be a couple of supply ships-and helicopters going back and forth, with sling loads carried underneath.” Kamarov said.

“You've seen that before?”

“Yes, Major. Once, before the war. In the Mediterranean: their Sixth Fleet did something like that, and our ship was there. We saw them fly supplies from the supply ship to the carrier, back and forth, for most of a day.”Kamarov said.

Lazarev peered through the glasses. He did notice something else, though. “What are those other helicopters doing?”

“Too far away exactly to tell what they're up to,” Kamarov replied. “Best guess, though, is they're on antisubmarine patrol.”

Lazarev was surprised at that. “So we still have our comrades in submarines out there?”

“I don't know, Major.” Kamarov admitted. “But they must think so, otherwise, no patrols. I'd still do it, if I was in their place.”

The door to the OP opened, and it was one of Lazarev's staff officers. “Comrade Major, this came in from Admiral Gordikov.”

Nodding, Lazarev replied, “Thank you.” He took the message form and read it. “Mother of God....”

“What is it?” Kamarov asked.

“No, repeat, no demolitions of any kind are permitted from now on. This includes the Queen Isabella Causeway and the Port Isabel oil refinery.” Lazarev read.


Kamarov let out a sigh of relief. “That's that, Major. No demolitions means only one thing: this battle is almost over. And you won't have had to fire a shot.”


1625 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.


General Chibisov and Colonel Sergetov were in the 105th's command post, having recrossed back to their own lines. Their trip had been uneventful, though as they walked through the American lines, both had noticed scores of American soldiers watching them. For many, it had been their first sight of a live Soviet general, and Sergetov had noticed soldiers taking out something that in the Soviet Army, was strictly forbidden: personal cameras, and they were taking pictures. When Sergetov commented about it, Chibisov admitted noticing it was well. Once they got back to the 105th's command post, General Gordonov was waiting. He'd arranged his local cease-fire, and so far, it was holding.

Now, Chibisov was waiting on the phone for Marshal Alekseyev. Then Alekseyev's voice came on the line, “Pavel Pavlovitch, did you accomplish your mission?”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. I was able to speak to General McCaffery, Powell's chief of staff. He has arranged a meeting with you for 1700. Please come to the 105th's command post, and we will cross the American lines, where a helicopter will take us to Powell's headquarters.” Chibisov said.

“Something has come up, Chibisov. Send Colonel Sergetov back, and ask the Americans for a two-hour delay. Some....housecleaning, for want of a better term, needs to be taken care of before the meeting.” Alekseyev said.

Chibisov understood. No doubt the Political Department, along with some KGB and possibly even GRU, had to be dealt with first. A pity Andreyev's paratroopers were busy fighting the U.S. Marines, as they would perform that task splendidly. But the headquarters guard battalion would be able to handle matters, he knew. “I will do so, Comrade Marshal.”

“Good, Chibisov. One other thing: we received a message from Moscow. You have a Gold Star, whether you want one or not.” Alekseyev told his chief of staff.

“Someone not only wants heroes, Comrade Marshal, but also dead ones,” Chibisov observed.

“Yes, and that Chekist who got himself to become General Secretary and start this whole chain of events is likely that someone. He's not going to get what he wants, that I assure you.”

“I have no doubt about that, Comrade Marshal,” said Chibisov. “Shall I inform the Americans of the reason for the delay?”

“By all means, Chibisov. I would like to keep that meeting time, but circumstances require these preliminary matters to be dealt with first. I will be there, however, at 1830.” Alekseyev said, then he hung up.

Chibisov turned to Sergetov, “Colonel, go back and inform the Americans that the Marshal will be delayed, and of the reason for such a delay.”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Sergetov replied. He picked up the white flag and returned to the American lines, where the same female infantry lieutenant received him. She took him into her company command post, and got on the radio with her battalion commander. The message was relayed to General McCaffery, who only had one question: “Is the reason for the delay either KGB or GRU?”

“Please tell the General that though I was not told, it may be either one,or a combination of the two.” Sergetov said.

The female officer did so, and McCaffery replied. “Very well, Colonel. We'll meet at 1900.”

Sergetov thanked the general, and returned to his own lines. As he did so, he saw American medics coming back from the 105th's positions, carrying wounded Americans on stretchers. Gordonov had indicated he had American wounded, and was anxious to return them. Sergetov also noted that some civilians had come out of hiding, hoping that the fighting was over for good. Hopefully, it will be, he thought.

Sergetov returned to the 105th's command post and relayed McCaffery's granting of the request. Chibisov relayed the news to Marshal Alekseyev, who reconfirmed his arrival at 1830.

[Matt Wiser]

Almost time for an event similar to one on 7 May 45....

1655 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo High School, Rancho Viejo, Texas.


Malinsky surveyed the gymnasium at the high school, and noted that under more ideal circumstances, it would make a fine operations area for a headquarters. Now, they'd be there, at most, for a day or two, and everyone knew it. Still, until there was a cease-fire, things went on as usual. And Isakov was giving his Front Commander a status update.

“The Cuban 1st Army's right flank is still holding, as is their center, but the left, Comrade General, has given way. There, the only thing delaying II MAF's forces are prisoners in quantity.” Isakov reported.

“Just like in Colorado, after the American offensive after Wichita,” Malinsky remembered. “It's been said that the only thing holding up the American advance there was the mass of prisoners that clogged the roads.”

“Ah, yes, Comrade General,” Isakov replied. “In 28th Army, they're facing also II MAF, and some of XVIII Airborne Corps still, though they're being cut off by the 7th Armored Division, slowly but surely. Our men are still fighting, but the ammunition...”

“Is the factor. I know, Isakov. And the Americans now control the sky totally. We haven't seen a friendly aircraft since midmorning.” Malinsky said. “Continue.”

“In Suraykin's army, the 24th Tanks has finally been overwhelmed, and what's left of 38th Tanks is still clinging to their positions. If they had the ammunition, they could hold another day,” Isakov said. “On the left, both 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle have been pushed back, almost to the 77-83 freeway, and the Americans there have opened the right flank of 8th Guards Army.

“In that sector, they're pushing VIII Corps forces into 8th Guards as well, and they've annihilated the 276th Motor-Rifle Division almost to the last vehicle: they were holding the juncture with 4th Guards Tank Army. Elements of VIII Corps are also facing 3rd Shock, as is part of XII Corps. The 3rd Shock Army is falling back, still in good order, but again, fuel and ammunition shortages mean that intact tanks and combat vehicles are simply being abandoned. Finally, the Cuban 2nd Army is also teetering, with an open left flank, and a clear Highway 281.” Isakov said, finishing his report.

Malinsky surveyed the map, and simply shook his head. “The amphibious landing?”

“Andreyev's group has taken heavy losses from air strikes and naval gunfire. But they are keeping the Americans from pushing to the Intracoastal Waterway and crossing it. If they do, that whole area north of the waterway is practically undefended. And there's nothing to stop them if they did so.” Isakov commented.

Malinsky let out a sigh. “This has to end. Isakov. It has to. Now, I do know there may be those who want to continue fighting. That would be some KGB, and the PSD, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“I've got my own headquarters battalion left: fully equipped and ready. If Marshal Alekseyev needs them to....clean house, as they say, that battalion's at his disposal.”

Isakov nodded, and went to notify Alekseyev's headquarters. As he was talking to Alekseyev's operations officer, Malinsky's communications officer came to him with a message. “Comrade General, this came direct from Moscow.”

“From Moscow?” Malinsky asked, stunned. “What does it say?”

The man took a deep breath. “It's from the General Secretary. It says that if Marshal Alekseyev attempts to surrender, you are to relieve him of his command and continue resistance as long as possible. 'Every day you fight is of paramount importance.' the message says.”

Malinsky scowled. “Of all the....'paramount importance.' The only thing that's of importance is that bastard Chekist's personal vanity.”

The room went silent at that. Finally, someone had been able to speak what he thought of their leader, who had led the Soviet Union into this war, and had stubbornly refused to find a way out when it was obvious that a battlefield victory was impossible. “Do you have a reply, Comrade General? The message requests acknowledgment.”

“Simply acknowledge receipt of the message. Nothing more.” Malinsky ordered.

The man grinned. “Yes, Comrade General!” he said as he went off to send the message. As he did so, Malinsky addressed the staff. “How many here wish to continue the fight? If there are, then I release you from your duties, and urge you to get across the Rio Grande as soon as possible.”

Isakov, still on the phone, looked around. None of the staff raised their hands, and he smiled. He finished his conversation and hung up. “Comrade General, may I say that it has been an honor to serve with you, and that it is a pleasure to be with you at the end.”

The staff stood up and applauded. Malinsky nodded, then ordered them back to their duties. Isakov came over and informed him, “Marshal Alekseyev has the situation in hand, but that if there are any such elements that you are aware of, you may deal with them at your discretion.”

Malinsky nodded. “We'll do just that. There's a KGB checkpoint at Olmito, just south of here on 77-83, correct?”

“Yes, Comrade General. A company-sized unit, I believe.” Isakov said. “There's also a labor camp and a POW camp nearby.”

“Good. Have that unit disarmed. If they refuse, the battalion commander may deal with them appropriately. And secure those camps. The guards are to be disarmed and the prisoners turned over to the Americans, as per the Marshal's orders.”

Isakov grinned again. Dealing decisively with a KGB unit? “It will be a pleasure, Comrade General.”


1710 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev knew that the Political Department-along with certain KGB elements, would oppose his intention to conclude matters, and so he'd unleashed his headquarters guard on the nearby KGB offices. He'd briefed the battalion commander personally, and the captain was eager to deal with the KGB once and for all before things ended. Now, two companies of motor-rifle troops and a platoon of tanks had surrounded the building, which was close to the headquarters on the old university campus, and were busy reducing it to rubble. And any of the Chekisti who tried to run were gunned down as they did so, while others were shot down where they stood. As he watched from the roof of the headquarters, a smile came to Alekseyev's face. Now, the chief of the Political Department needed to be taken care of. If Chibisov was here, I'd have him handle it. But now, I'll do it myself, he thought. He turned to General Glasov. “I'd say the Chekisti won't be in a position to object to whatever decisions I make, Glasov.”

“Comrade Marshal, there are many officers who would have loved to do just as you have done. Only they didn't have the courage to do so.” Glasov commented.

“I know. But then, those men weren't in the position we're in now.” Alekseyev said. “Let's go take care of the Political Department,” Alekseyev said, motioning to the door leading to the stairwell.

Glasov nodded, and both officers went down to the fourth floor, where the Political Department had its offices. Most of the Political Officers there had left-knowing full well that if they were caught by the Americans, they would be considered war criminals unless proven otherwise, so many had fled, either on their own to Mexico, or had tried to get on the airlift. A few had stayed-and shot themselves, much to Alekseyev's pleasure: he had no use for political officers, and in many cases, leaving “pacification” or “political re-education” to the Zampolits had left a bad taste in his mouth-let alone leaving numerous corpses in their wake. Not to mention the political interference in running the war: oh, he knew full well that the Soviets were not likely to win an outright victory, but Chebrikov's stubbornness, and with Political Officers and the KGB purging officers for supposed defeatist tendencies, meant that his loathing of those two species had been magnified.

Now, the two officers came to the office of the highest-ranking political officer in the entire American TVD. Lieutenant General Valentin Drachev had been in the job for two years, and according to the GRU, the Americans had him on their “wanted” lists. Alekseyev had decided, that if Drachev wouldn't get out-and there were still helicopter flights-he'd 'retire' the political officer and order the remaining political staff out. And so the two officers came to Drachev's office and knocked on the door. Glasov frowned. “Comrade Marshal, I think I hear sobbing.”

“I think you're right,” Alekseyev said, and he opened the door. Inside the office, they found Drachev sitting at his desk, with two empty vodka bottles on top, and the general sitting with his back turned to the entrance, weeping. The Marshal looked at Drachev, and shook his head. “Comrade Political Officer?” Alekseyev said.

Drachev turned, and both generals saw tears in his eyes. “Marshal....I have something for you.”

“Drachev? Why are you in this state?” Alekseyev asked.

“When this war started, I was an idealistic, sincere, communist. Convinced that what we were embarking on was a war of liberation, to free America from the shackles of capitalism, and bring about a new age of peace and justice. Now, I am ashamed of what has been done in the name of socialism, and in the name of the Party.” Drachev said, still sobbing uncontrollably. “Instead, we have outdone the Fascists in their brutality, and our hands are red with innocent blood.”

“Comrade-”

“We had no business coming here!” Drachev shouted, “We all know it, and yet, our leadership in the Kremlin betrayed us, betrayed our soldiers and the people, and now, the Soviet Union is held in the same low regard as Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan in terms of the number of atrocities committed. And yes, I have seen the results of such.....activity.” Drachev sobbed, taking a swig of vodka from the bottle he was holding.

Alekseyev and Glasov looked at each other. “Comrade Drachev,” Alekseyev said. “I can get you on one of the last helicopters out of here, before the end.....”

“I cannot leave. Nor will I surrender to the Americans, Marshal.” Drachev put the bottle down and opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a Tokarev TT-33 pistol, cocking it as he did so. And before either Alekseyev or Glasov could say or do anything, Drachev put the pistol to his head and fired. His body dropped to the floor, leaving a bloody mess on the office window.

The two generals turned and left. As they returned to Alekseyev's office, so that the Marshal could compose his final message to Moscow, Glasov turned to the Marshal and said, “Comrade Marshal, that was probably the best....outcome in this case.”

“Yes, it was. I would have killed him, but better that he took care of that detail himself. I expect that there will be quite a few suicides between now and when the cease-fire takes effect.” Alekseyev observed. “And the Americans will be...disappointed.”

“How is that, Comrade Marshal?” Glasov asked.

“There are those whom the Americans wish to put on trial as war criminals; finding out that some of them evaded the gallows in this way won't make them happy.”

1725 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

Colonel Gregor Alexandrov was at the point of simply throwing up his hands and giving up. He'd been General Lukin's deputy, and had stayed in the job when Lukin was flown out and General Petrov remained in charge of the airlift. Now, Petrov was gone as well, and things had gone to hell in a handbasket very quickly. Only a few aircraft had come in since Petrov's departure, and none of the heavy lift aircraft-like An-22s or Il-76s. A few An-12s and An-24s or -26s had come in, as had a couple more An-74s, but there were still priority specialists awaiting evacuation, and, unless a miracle happened, none of them would leave. Neither would the hundreds of wounded whose injuries gave them a ticket out, and it appeared that everyone's next stop would be an American POW compound.

And those were the least of his problems. American fighters had been prowling around all day, taking shots at the transports whenever they had the chance, and out to sea, carrier-based fighters were feasting on those aircraft making the run to and from Cuba. And just an hour earlier, A-6s had come in and put laser-guided bombs onto two of the runways, leaving only one intact, and that, he suspected, was because the Americans wanted to preserve the field for their own use when they invaded Mexico. Not just the hits on the runways, but also two other A-6s had bombed the ramp area, wrecking an An-12 and a Tu-154, along with a Mexican Air Force 727. He was about to declare the field closed to all traffic when a civilian came up to him. Alexandrov glared at him until he realized the man was the Ambassador to the collaborationist government that had been evacuated. “Yes, Comrade Ambassador? You were saying?”

“Is there any chance of an aircraft coming in this evening? I must get out of here.” said Makarev.

Alexandrov surveyed the man. Clearly, this was as close as he'd ever came to a fighting front, and the rumble of artillery fire from the north and the east was getting ever so slightly louder with each passing hour. Not to mention all of the air attacks they'd gone through. And the man was obviously rattled. “I'm sorry, Comrade Ambassador, but the runways have been cratered. My men likely won't get them repaired in time before the end.”

“But I must leave!”

“So? Look over there, by the terminal building. All of those men there have a higher priority than you, and it's a near certainty that they'll never get out of here,” Alexandrov yelled. He pointed at the last remaining intact hangar, with its doors open and the stretchers all over the hangar floor. “Not to mention those poor wretches. None of them will get out. And you insist on leaving?”

“Yes, Colonel! If I stay, the Americans will no doubt try me as a war criminal for having helped form and support the Liberation Government.”

Alexandrov regarded the Ambassador. “If those bastards were half as bad as the rumors say they were, then you ought to face a trial. Now, get the hell out of my airport. If you want out of here so bad, try getting to Mexico on foot. Just start walking south, and you'll cross the river.”

Makarev was stunned. Obviously, Alekseyev's contempt for him and his duties here had spread. But when several Air Force guards came over, he went back to his car. The Cadillac had served him well, and it was a pity there wasn't enough gas to get him to Mexico, even if the border bridges were still up. His driver, who he suspected, but couldn't prove, as being KGB, had disappeared. No doubt the KGB had their own escape routes already planned and were using them. Makarev sat down in the back seat, and opened his briefcase. He looked at the Makarov pistol, and stared at it. He took out a letter for his wife, then took the pistol, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Alexandrov was watching as an Mi-26 helicopter came in to land. Another eighty-five men would be getting out, thank heavens. He was waving the evacuees to the helicopter when a captain came up to him. “Yes?”

“Comrade Colonel, that civilian you were arguing with?”

“What about him?” Alexandrov asked.

“Some guards found him in his car. He shot himself,” the captain said.

“No great loss. Put his body with all the others. We're flying these helicopters out of here until dark.”


1745 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, University of Texas Pan-American, Edinburg, Texas.


Commander Carlisle waited outside General Powell's office at Third Army Headquarters. The Soviets had used the University as a headquarters, first during the initial invasion, then it had served as a rear-area HQ during the next three years, also hosting a KGB and DGI “pacification” office, before serving as Third Shock Army's Headquarters during the final offensive. The Soviets had stripped the university of anything that could be useful, from the library (obviously) to the contents of labs belonging to the various sciences: biology, physics, chemistry, and so forth. Even office equipment and sinks had been stripped out. Now, the U.S. Army was back, and General Powell had set up in what had been the University President's office.

Her helo ride had been a wild one: instead of climbing to altitude, the helo pilot had stayed at treetop level almost the entire time. And what she'd seen out the window brought a big smile to her face. Columns of American armor and infantry headed south, supply convoys bringing supplies forward, and going north on U.S. 281, columns of Soviet and Cuban prisoners marching north to EPW compounds that had been set up. What was it that General Dudorov had said to her, once? “If those men in the Kremlin could see what we see, they'd bring an end to this.” Well, she thought, it's going to end. And on our terms.

“Commander?” a voice said.

Commander Carlisle opened her eyes. I must have dozed off there, she thought. “Yes?”

“Ma'am, I'm Major Scott Dixon, General Powell's aide. He's ready for you now.” the Army officer said.

She got up and followed the major into Powell's office. An Army-issue desk and chairs, several map boards, and a map showing North America, with the battle lines clearly marked, hung on the wall. “General, this is Lieutenant Commander Valerie Carlisle.”

She came to attention and saluted. Powell returned the salute, and said, “Welcome back, Commander,” putting out his hand.

Carlisle shook hands with the General, “Thank you, sir.”

“Have a seat. My J-2 has told me about your experience. A little unusual, but given how things are from Ivan's viewpoint, it's not surprising they'd pick someone for something like that.” Powell said.

“Believe me, Sir, I was just as surprised. I expected a long Q&A session with a bunch of GRU thugs, and instead, it's practically the royal treatment.”

Powell nodded. He'd been just as surprised as his own staff when they relayed her story to him. “And you think that even if you'd said no, they would've put you on that bus anyway?”

“Yes,sir. I really do.” Carlisle said.

“Well..that settles that. Now, what kind of a man will I be meeting with in a while?” Powell asked.

“Sir?”

“Alekseyev. What kind of man is he?” said Powell.

“Well, General, I got the impression that he's doing a job that he'd rather not be doing. And he's frankly disgusted with the KGB and all of their...activities. Not to mention the ALA and the PSD. He told me that creating them-along with the Hall government, was a mistake.”

Powell looked at his J-2. The Intelligence Officer nodded. They'd had similar information, and this verified some of what they'd picked up earlier. “What else?”

“I gathered the impression he's also disgusted with what he's getting from Moscow. I don't know Russian, sir. But a couple of times, he got messages while I was in his presence, and he looked pretty disgusted at what he'd read.” Carlisle reported. “He wanted me to understand that not all Soviet officers were barbarians.”

Powell leaned back against his desk. “Could he have gotten orders to carry out certain...actions, and that only reinforced his disgust?”

“General, I just don't know. You'll have to ask him.”

“I will. In the meantime, get yourself a shower, and cleaned up. You'll be there.” Powell said.

“Sir?”

“It's only fitting, Commander. You're going to be there at the surrender. All you have to do is stand back and watch. You won't have to say a word. But you'll be able to tell your grandchildren: you were there when the Russians surrendered in Texas.” Powell said. He turned to Major Dixon, “Major, get the Commander to a shower, and see if our Navy liaison has a fresh uniform for her. If not, get her flight suit through the laundry while she's cleaning up.”

Major Dixon nodded, “If you'll come with me, Commander?”

Carlisle stood up to leave. Powell shook hands with her again, and said. “Major Dixon will see that you're there at the ceremony. Is there anything else?”

“Sir, I'd like to let my father know I'm OK. He's retired and living in Maine. Chances are, the Navy's told him I went down.”

Powell nodded understanding. In her position, he'd want to notify his wife by whatever means. “Major, see to her request.”

“Thank you, sir.” Carlisle said.

“No. Thank you, Commander. You've earned it. And remember: tonight you'll be a witness to history.” Powell reminded her.

“Aye, Aye, Sir.”

[Matt Wiser]

Almost time....


1815 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.

Generals Chibisov and Gordonov, along with Colonel Sergetov, were waiting outside the 105th's command post. A brief radio message had informed them that Marshal Alekseyev was on his way, and after that, they'd be going to the Americans. In the meantime, they'd been talking about the war, the current battle, and lost comrades. All of them had had old classmates, or friends they'd served with before, reported killed, wounded, or missing (the Soviets refused to acknowledge their POWs, just as in the Great Patriotic War), but all three knew of friends who were sitting out the war behind American barbed wire. Another subject came up, and that was what would happen in the Rodina once it was obvious the war was over for all intents and purposes. Not to mention the fate of their families once it was clear that they had surrendered. But the same subject kept coming back: could the Soviets have won the war? Chibisov was emphatic.

“No! Absolutely not, Comrades. Unless the Americans had totally collapsed in the first six months, there was no way to win.”

Sergetov nodded. “Comrade Generals, from the perspective of a tank commander, this was a first-class mess. A dreadfully long supply line, hostile populations in three countries-the problems with our supplies in Mexico come to mind, along with those in Canada-and totally losing the battle for world opinion. All of which guaranteed failure.”

Gordinov looked at the young Colonel. A Freunze graduate himself, he'd been hoping to attend the General Staff Academy, but the outbreak of war had prevented that. But it was clear that Sergetov, speaking from the view of a junior officer's eyes, was right. “So easy to draw the sword, but very hard to put it back in its sheath,” he observed. “A pity those in Moscow never learned that.”

Chibisov nodded agreement. “Yes. And something a Japanese Admiral once said applies to our situation-not just now, but back in 1985.”

Both Gordinov and Sergetov looked at him. “A Japanese Admiral, Comrade General?” Sergetov asked.

“Yes, Admiral Yamamoto: the man who planned the attack on Pearl Harbor, back in 1941. He is supposed to have said 'All we have done is awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve.' He also said something else that equally applies to us.”

“And that is?” Gordonov asked.

“It is impossible for a foreign army to invade the United States. There would be a rifle behind every blade of grass, and every tree.” Chibisov said. “In both, he was correct.”

Gordonov's aide came into the room. “Comrades, Marshal Alekseyev is here.”

Chibisov raised an eyebrow. “He's early.”

“Who knew who might have been listening in on the conversation, when he said 1830, Comrade General?” Sergetov pointed out.

“Quite so, Comrade Colonel. Let's go.” Chibisov said. And the three went out to greet the Marshal, and escort him across to American lines. They saluted, and Alekseyev returned it. He was in his last clean uniform, with all of his decorations, and the shoulder boards of a Marshal of the Soviet Union. “Are you ready, Comrade Marshal?” Chibisov asked.

Alekseyev nodded. “Let's go, then.”

Sergetov picked up the white flag and the party crossed into American lines. Once again, American soldiers stood up from their holes and positions to watch, and some, again, took pictures.


On the other side, Lieutenant Moore's First Sergeant called to her; “L-T, they're coming. Four of 'em. And one looks like he's the head honcho.”

Here we go again, she thought. And this time, a Marshal? Boy, if the guys from OCS could see this. She turned to her radioman. “Call battalion, and let them know the Russians are back. With their CO.”

The RTO nodded. “You got it, L-T.”

As he did so, she put on her fatigue cap, picked up her M-16, and went out to greet the Russians. She also handed her First Sergeant her own camera. “When we start talking, take a picture. This time, I want something to show my kids someday.”

The first sergeant nodded. He'd do the same. And the two Americans went to meet the Soviets. When they got there, she saluted, just like it was, back at Fort Benning. “Sir. First Lieutenant Jennifer Moore, United States Army, 29th Infantry Division.”

Alekseyev regarded the American in front of him. So, Commander Carlisle was right. First a female naval aviator, now a female infantry lieutenant. Just as we did in the Great Patriotic War. And he noticed that she had come to strict attention, just like a cadet at one of his own Military Colleges. Alekseyev returned the salute, and said, “I am Marshal Pavel Alekseyev, commander of the forces in the Brownsville area. I have a meeting arranged with General Powell.”

Moore nodded. “Yes, sir. I've notified my superiors, and a helicopter will be here shortly. If you'll come with me. First Sergeant,” she said.

The party went back to Moore's command post, and her RTO came out. He saw the Soviet brass, and just as if it was General Powell paying a visit to the front, he saluted the party. “Ma'am, the battalion commander's on his way. He said 'they're early', but he's coming.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” Moore said. “Sirs, my battalion commander will be here in a few moments.”

Alekseyev nodded and looked around. There were about sixty to seventy troops in the area. “This is your company?” he asked.

“Yes,sir. There were 225 when we started this,” Moore said. “Those paratroopers of yours didn't want to give up easily,” she said, looking at Gordonov, who nodded as well.

The Marshal looked at the American again. So young, and in a harsh business, he thought. But then again, we did the same forty-five years ago. “And how many are women?”

“About a quarter of the original company was female,” she said, matter of factly. “Why do you ask?”

“It's nothing, Lieutenant. Just curious, that's all.” Alekseyev said. Then he noticed a pair of American Humvees coming. “Is that your battalion commander?”

“It is. Wait a moment, Sir.” Moore said. She went over and talked with a Major who got out of the lead vehicle. He nodded, and waved them forward. After introductions, the Soviets got into the Humvees and the small convoy pulled out and headed towards 29th Division Headquarters. As they did so, they passed a small group of soldiers working on an abandoned T-80 tank.

“I told you a socket wrench! Jonesy, did you ever work on a car or truck before you got in the Army?” The sergeant shouted from inside the turret.

“Not much of that in the Detroit inner city, Sarge,” the corporal replied. “Sarge! They're back.”

The sergeant came up and stood in the tank's open hatch. He saw two Humvees, with four senior Soviet officers inside, and one of them had the single gold star of a Marshal of the Soviet Union on his shoulder boards. “That's it. They're going to sign the papers. But they had to get their CO first.”

“What do you mean, Sarge?” the corporal asked.

The sergeant looked at the young corporal from Detroit. How on earth did he wind up in a MI unit? Mentally cursing whoever in the Army bureaucracy had saddled the unit with this guy, the sergeant said, “That's a Marshal of the Soviet Union. And you just saw the end of the war-at least north of the Rio Grande, Jonesy. Now, get me that socket wrench!”


1830 Hours: 29th Infantry Division Main CP, north of Harlingen, Texas.


The Soviet delegation arrived at the main command post for the 29th Infantry Division, and Alekseyev was met by Lieutenant General Gary Luck, who commanded XVIII Airborne Corps, and by Major General Richard Armistead, the 29th's Divisional Commander. After the usual pleasantries, even between enemies, Alekseyev commented that if it had been Schwartzkopf in command instead of Powell, this meeting might have been held a few days earlier. General Luck looked at the Marshal in amazement, then let out a laugh. Puzzled, Alekseyev asked what was so funny, and Luck replied, “You may not know this, but some commentators on CNN have been saying things like that for the past week.”

“And they are not censored?” Alekseyev asked.

“Marshal, even in wartime, there's one thing we Americans pride ourselves on: a free press. The news media knows what it can and can't report, but when it comes to the basics, they can say whatever they want. Even when a Senator or Congressman makes a floor speech, offering criticism of how the war is being fought-or what future strategy should be in their view-it's broadcast. That's the difference between our society and yours.” General Luck said.

“Comrade Marshal, General McCaffery warned us about this: there will be many, many reporters there,” Sergetov said.

Alekseyev nodded. Then the sound of a helicopter broke things up, as a UH-60 came in, made a circle, then flared for landing. The helicopter kept its engine going, and the side door slid open, and two American officers got out. One of them was General McCaffery. Both the division and corps commanders saluted him, and then McCaffery recognized Alekseyev from his file photograph. “Marshal, I'm Lieutenant General McCaffery, General Powell's chief of staff,” he said, saluting.

“General,” Alekseyev said, returning the salute. “I gather this is our helicopter?”

“It is. If you and your party will follow me?” McCaffery said.

The Soviet delegation followed McCaffery and his aide to the waiting Blackhawk and everyone got in. The crew chief made sure everyone was seated and seat belts fastened, then he slid the door shut and the UH-60 lifted off. McCaffery passed out headsets to the Soviets: “It's too noisy to talk otherwise,” he explained, and the Soviets did so. Alekseyev and Chibisov looked out the side windows, and the scene on U.S. 77 said it all: American supply convoys and reinforcements were moving south, empty supply vehicles were going north, and in the highway median, columns of Soviet, Cuban, and other Soviet bloc prisoners, headed north towards American POW compounds. The sight only reinforced Alekseyev's desire to bring matters to an end, before any more of his men died. Then the helicopter turned west, and flew to General Powell's headquarters in Edinburg. Alekseyev recognized the location: it had been 3rd Shock Army's headquarters when the pocket had been formed, and he'd visited that brute Starukhin several times.

As the Blackhawk orbited, Alekseyev could see how things had changed: the Americans were using the athletic fields for helicopter landings, a field hospital was nearby, and there was a tent city set up, apparently to provide living space for Powell's headquarters personnel. Not to mention the Patriot and HAWK missile batteries that had been set up to provide air defense. Then Alekseyev noticed a crowd gathered near the helicopter landing area. He asked General McCaffery. “Are these the reporters you warned my aide and chief of staff about?”

“They are, Marshal. You don't have to say a word to those people,” McCaffery said. Then he spoke to the pilot. “We're getting ready to land, gentlemen.”

The UH-60 flared and landed. As the pilot shut down the engines, everyone made ready to get out. Only when the crew chief signaled that they could do so, did the passengers leave the helicopter. McCaffery led the Soviet delegation past the reporters, who were being kept a distance away by MPs, to one of the campus administration buildings, and took them into a meeting room.

“Gentlemen, since we weren't expecting you this early, General Powell isn't ready to see you. He will see you, though, at 1900, which is in about fifteen minutes or so. Is there anything you need at the moment? Something to eat, perhaps?” McCaffery asked.

Alekseyev nodded. “Thank you, General. Something to eat would be most welcome.”

“Good. I'll have some sandwiches and cold drinks-nonalcoholic, I regret to say, brought in. Make yourselves as comfortable as possible, and the General will see you in about fifteen minutes.”


1850 Hours: K-236: the Gulf of Mexico.


Captain Padorin looked at the message he'd just received from Caribbean Squadron HQ. He looked at the message, then his communications officer. “Have you decoded this correctly?”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” the man replied.

Padorin sighed. “All right. Thank you.” the captain said. The communications man nodded and left the Captain's cabin. Padorin then got up and went into the CCP. The Starpom was there, though Shelpin, the Security Officer, had taken over as officer of the watch. “Comrades, we have a new mission.”

“What?” asked the Starpom.

Padorin showed him the message form. “We're to conduct search-and-rescue operations along the flight path from Brownsville to Cuba. Evidently a plane or planes with some VIPs aboard has gone down, and somebody important is out there on the water.”

Shelpin looked at the Captain. Even though he was KGB, he was also a submariner. “Comrade Captain, does the message say who?”

“No, it doesn't,” Padorin admitted. “And this sounds like another chance to get us killed. Just like that failed pickup on the coast.”

The Starpom looked at the chart. “So where do they want us?”

“A point fifty kilometers off the western tip of Cuba. Then proceed west to a point about halfway between that location and Brownsville.” Padorin said, going over the message.

Shelpin cursed. “Like you said, Comrade Captain. This is another chance to get us killed. That place is likely swarming with American aircraft. If they catch us on the surface...”

“I know,” Padorin said. “But we won't be on the surface. We'll proceed submerged along the route, and only occasionally going to periscope depth to do a visual search. There's no doubt the place has plenty of P-3s and shipboard helicopters, and I won't make it easy for them.”

The Starpom nodded. “Still...it's going to be nasty there.”

“No doubt,” Padorin agreed. Like I said: I won't make it easy for them.” He turned to the Navigator. “New course: three-five-zero.”

“Three-five-zero, Aye, Comrade Captain.”

Padorin then turned to Shelpin. “Come left to three-five-zero. Make turns for twenty knots. Depth: two hundred meters.”


1900 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, Edinburg, Texas.


The Soviet delegation walked with General McCaffery across what had been the University of Texas-Pan American campus before the war. To Alekseyev, it had come full circle: he'd been here in 1985 as a deputy Front Commander, and the campus had served as Gulf Front's headquarters. Now, he was back. McCaffery escorted the Soviets to what had been the main administration building, where Powell maintained his offices, and escorted them into a conference room. There, tables had been set up, and General Powell and his staff were waiting to receive them. “Marshal,” Powell said, saluting.

“General Powell,” Alekseyev responded.

“I only wish this had happened earlier, but...you had your duty to perform, until it could no longer be done,” Powell said. “Please, be seated, gentlemen.”

The Soviet delegation sat, followed by Powell and his staff. One thing that Powell was happy about was that Alekseyev spoke fluent English, as did Chibisov and Sergetov. Though General Gordonov did not, Sergetov would act as an interpreter. “Marshal, I gather that you wish to surrender the forces under your command?”

“That is correct, General. However, I do not have control over those forces that have escaped south of the Rio Grande, nor do I control those at sea.” Alekseyev said.

Powell knew it already. But he wanted it for the record. “I see. How long will it take to ensure that the forces under your command will obey an order to lay down their arms?”

“A few hours, General. Your attacks against our command-and-control systems have proven to be effective. Notifying every headquarters down to battalion level will take some time, if they cannot be contacted by radio or by field phone.” Alekseyev replied.

“Very well. And prisoners? There are a number of POW and labor camps within your perimeter,” Powell pointed out.

“I have already issued orders that they are to be turned over to your forces, when the time comes.” Alekseyev said. “Though, I fear, that those held by the KGB or the PSD may have already been moved to Mexico-or worse.”

Powell looked at the Marshal. It was to be expected, he knew. Not even a theater commander could entirely control the KGB, or those scum in the PSD. “I see. You do have the locations of these camps?”

“Of course, General.”

“We'll also need to have the locations of all land and sea mines. As well as which facilities within the pocket have been rigged for demolition.” Powell said.

“Those will be provided to you,” Alekseyev said. “My chief of staff has all of the necessary materials.”

“Good. The airlift will cease, and there will be no more ships sailing,” Powell stated.

Alekseyev simply nodded.

Powell then asked, “Finally: are there any nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons or materials within the pocket?”

“There are some artillery shells and Grad rockets with chemical warheads: they are already secured, and will remain so until your troops arrive.” Alekseyev said. “I can assure you there are no biological weapons. As for nuclear, you would be advised to inspect the wreck of the freighter Cherepovets, scuttled in the Intracoastal Waterway. You may find some very interesting things there.”

Powell's J-2 raised an eyebrow at that. So that's where they put them, he thought. But Powell himself said nothing, but he did give his approval with a wink and nod. Then Powell spoke:

“The cease fire takes effect at one minute after midnight, Central Time. U.S. Forces will move in to take the surrender of Soviet and Soviet-allied forces beginning at 0800 Central Time. You may keep your headquarters guard and any Military Police under arms to maintain order until they are relieved by U.S. Forces. Any KGB or PSD units remaining are to be taken into custody, and handed over to the appropriate U.S. personnel.”

Alekseyev looked at the other Soviet officers. It was about what they expected. “And our wounded?”

“They will be given whatever medical attention is required, and you own medical personnel will be allowed to continue treating them. It would be advisable to have your chief of medical services come forward soon, so that my own medical personnel can make whatever preparations they need.” Powell said. “You and your men will be treated in full accordance with the Geneva Convention as Prisoners of War, and will be treated well. Just as those in the convoy you tried to send out to Mexico earlier today.”

Alekseyev was stunned. The convoy had been intercepted? “The convoy with Soviet servicewomen?”

“Yes. You may be assured that they will be properly treated,” Powell replied. “And your choice of...shall we say, envoy, was unusual, but given your circumstances....”

The Marshal didn't try to show it,but he was relieved. “They are safe?”

“Yes. And they will be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp where we do hold a number of Soviet servicewomen from previous engagements. They are safe, and able to sit out the rest of the war as comfortably as possible.”

“Thank you, General.” Alekseyev said. He was now resigned to signing whatever surrender document the Americans had.

“You are welcome, Marshal,” Powell said. “Now, we'll adjourn to the gym. Things have been set up there, for the actual signing.”

Alekseyev nodded. “And who will sign?”

“I will, as Commanding General of Third Army. You, of course, as Commander of the Soviet Forces in Texas”

The Marshal nodded.

“There's one thing I should warn you about: there will be representatives of the news media there to witness the signing. They've been told not to ask questions, and other than what is necessary, you do not have to say a word to them-or to anyone.” Powell said.

[rcaf_777]

Why is Scott Dixon only a major?

[Matt Wiser]

ADCs for generals are usually Majors or Light Colonels.

[Matt Wiser]

Things are winding down....



1920 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev was actually pleased. His division and the 47th had managed to extract themselves from their previous position, and had established new positions on high ground, about halfway between Brownsville and the coast. One battered air-assault regiment, the tattered remnants of another, and one full-strength, supported by the 47th, which had been reduced by half, but was still formidable, despite American air attacks and naval gunfire. Now, he hoped, they were out of range of those blasted naval guns, and could meet the advancing U.S. Marines on more equal terms. Andreyev turned to his chief of staff. “This position's good, Anatoly. High ground above the beach and tidal flats, no sand or marsh, just nice, firm ground.”

“Yes, Comrade General. Though I expect they won't come forward until dawn.” the chief replied.

“Quite so; they'll have to get those wrecked tanks out of the way that block the road,” Andreyev observed.

“There is that, Comrade General. And we still have two days' worth of ammunition: we can still make it hot for somebody,” said the chief.

Andreyev looked at his map. “And Glavchenko's brigade?”

“One battalion, here, Comrade General: right in the middle, between the 234th and 236th. What's left of the 235th is in front of us, with the rest of the 47th. Division artillery is at half strength, as is Glavchenko's own artillery.” the chief noted.

“Divisional reconnaissance?” Andreyev asked.

“Our reconnaissance has patrols out in front, as does both the 234th and 236th. They do report that the Americans are consolidating their positions, and there is some patrol activity, but they do not appear to be preparing to resume their advance at night.”

The General nodded. In their position, he'd do the same: get more supplies and some reinforcements up from the beach, clear those wrecked tanks-even if it meant shoving them into the marsh, if necessary, and wait until dawn. Then have as much air strikes as possible to prepare for the attack to resume. And hopefully, he thought, when they do fire their naval guns, all they'll be doing is hitting empty positions; just like the Fascists did to us: hit an empty sack, and our own defense is intact-and waiting. He checked his watch: “They'll move in what, ten to twelve hours?”

“I would expect that, Comrade General. Not until then.” the chief said.

“Good. Now, let's have something to eat. It has been a long and trying day, and tomorrow will be no better.” Andreyev said.


1945 Hours: U.S. Third Army Headquarters, Edinburg, Texas.


Commander Carlisle went into the gym, freshly showered and wearing her flight suit, fresh out of the laundry. Powell's naval liaison didn't have anything available for her, so she made do. Major Dixon was by her side, and the first thing she noticed was the crowd of reporters there, as well as staff officers, and liaison officers from not just the other services, but from the other Allies. There were British, Canadian, Australian, South Korean, and Taiwanese officers there, as well as observers from several other countries, such as Israel, South Africa, Brazil, and a few others that had been minor combatants. Major Dixon had explained that even if they couldn't contribute much in the way of equipment or manpower, these countries had done their part, and had earned a spot at the end. She also noticed that the reporters were in two areas: one for American and Allied media, and one for those from neutral or ex-neutralist countries. And the reporters from the Allied media were sneering at those from the neutralist countries, especially those from newspapers or other outlets that had championed the neutralist cause in their editorials.

The Commander did recognize some of the reporters there: CNN's Christiane Armanpour was there: covering this war had made her a star reporter, and she'd been there almost from the beginning. Jan Fields, also of CNN, was there as well: her constant presence with units such as 3rd Armored Division or the 7th Infantry Division, not to mention a live broadcast from the front lines at the Battle of Wichita, had made her a household name-along with an Emmy Award. The other networks had sent their DOD correspondents, though: CBS' David Martin was talking with a PAO, while ABC's Bob Zelnick and NBC's Jim Michelweliski were glaring at each other: Zelnik had been in the Pentagon on Invasion Day, and had picked broken glass out of his producer's arms after the bomb had gone off, while Michelweslki had been on vacation, and had never made it on the air that day. The reporters from the wire services: AP, UPI, Reuters, were also there, chatting amongst themselves, while the big papers, like the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Philadelphia Inquirer, the Boston Globe, and the East Coast Times-Post, were also there, glaring at the TV reporters-the old rivalry between the broadcast and print media was still there. And there were the allied reporters: the BBC, CBC, ITN, two different Australian channels, KBS from South Korea, The Times of London, Sydney Morning Post, and on and on. There was just so much.

The other side, the neutral or neutralist reporters, were somewhat subdued, though some were able to exchange pleasantries with their Allied counterparts-especially those from Swedish or Swiss media, though those from West Germany, Italy, Holland, Belgium, and even France got more hostile looks than warm smiles, though the West German networks like ZDF or Deutsche Welle were more welcome, but the newspaper correspondents were not so well regarded. Old stories about atrocities in North America being “wildly exaggerated,” or editorials urging the Americans and Canadians to accept Soviet peace offers were still not forgiven or forgotten, and the American media people-not to mention the PAOs, made sure of that.

Major Dixon pointed to where the staff officers and Allied liaison officers were gathered, “Over here, Commander,” and the two walked on over. Several shook her hand, as her story had spread, and a PAO came by: the reporters had sniffed out her story, and Jan Fields of CNN and a couple of print reporters wanted to have interviews. “After this is over,” Carlisle said, and the PAO nodded. He went off to speak with some of the media, and Dixon told her, “Now that you've said you'll talk with 'em, they'll make sure you keep those appointments.”

“I know, Major,” Carlisle replied. “What's taking so long?”

“Who knows? This is the first time something like this has been laid on since the Germans surrendered to Eisenhower, back in '45.” Dixon replied. Then he noticed General McCaffery coming into the gym. “I think it's time.”

McCaffery came to a microphone; “Ladies and Gentlemen, General Powell and Marshal Alekseyev will be here momentarily. Remember; there will be no questions, so don't bother asking. Though there may be a statement from both, that's not a given.” McCaffery then looked at a side door. “They're here. It's showtime.”

Commander Carlisle watched as General Powell walked in with his senior staff officers, and sat down at the table set up in the middle of the gym, right where the center of the basketball court would be. Then Marshal Alekseyev and his officers-she recognized Chibisov and Sergetov, though the airborne officer was somebody she hadn't seen, came in and sat down, and a hush set in. While Alekseyev was calm, as was Chibisov, Sergetov looked nervous, while the airborne officer was stiff as a board. Then she caught his eye, and Alekseyev gave a slight nod. And she returned it. And then General Powell adjusted the microphone, and began to speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here now to conclude hostilities in the Continental United States. While this surrender does not apply to Soviet and Soviet allied forces in Mexico, nor does it apply to the war at sea, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, 'it is not the end of the beginning, but it is the beginning of the end.' I have given Marshal Alekseyev the terms of the cease-fire, and he has accepted them totally. I will read them for the record, and after that, we will sign the document.”

And Powell read the terms of the cease-fire. It was obvious: Soviet and Soviet-allied forces were to lay down their arms, release all prisoners held in the pocket, disclose all land and sea mines as well as demolitions, turn over all KGB or ALA/PSD personnel, halt the airlift, and reveal any stocks of nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons. Soviet and Soviet-allied wounded would be cared for, and all would be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Conventions. “The cease-fire takes effect at one minute after midnight, Central War Time, and U.S. Forces will move forward to take the surrender, and reestablish civil law and order, at 0800 Central War Time tomorrow. Marshal Alekseyev, you do understand these terms?”

Alekseyev stood. “I do, General.”

“Are you prepared to sign?” Powell asked, and Alekseyev simply nodded. Powell then turned to General McCaffery: “General, show him where to sign.”

General McCaffery stood, and showed Marshal Alekseyev where to sign. He did so, and then returned the document to General Powell, who signed on behalf of the U.S. After he did so, Powell asked, “Marshal Alekseyev, do you have any kind of statement to make, for the record?”

Alekseyev nodded and stood. “Thank you, General. With this signature, the Socialist Forces in Texas are delivered into the hands of the victor. It is my hope, and earnest wish, that the victor will, despite being flush with victory, treat them with generosity, despite what has happened in the past.”

Powell then stood up. “Thank you, Marshal. You may return to your headquarters to make the necessary arrangements on your side. And I will see you tomorrow morning. And this concludes our business.”

The Soviets stood up to leave, and they were escorted out. As Powell stood up, there was applause from the media. Then Powell went back to the microphone and had a further statement: “Ladies and Gentlemen, in four hours or so, the shooting stops on this front. So many good men and women have died, or been seriously wounded, to make this event happen. Let us pause for a moment of silence in their memory.” Following the moment of silence, Powell went on. “Due to the fact that there may be those in the pocket who wish to continue fighting, despite the Marshal's signature, there is a news blackout on this until 0800 Central War Time tomorrow. He has indicated to me privately that certain elements within the pocket need to be put under his firm control, and that there are no unpleasant events before U.S. forces arrive. So: no civilian communications in or out until then. I know you want to share this with America and the world, but everything needs to go smoothly on his end to make this work out. Now, I'll take exactly two questions.” He noticed Christiane Armanpour “Yes, Christiane?”

“General, first, my congratulations on achieving this victory. Now, when the Marshal said there were those who wished to continue fighting, did he mean the KGB or ALA?”

“He didn't say exactly, but we can assume that there are such elements present. Those with everything to lose if they come into our hands. He needs time to deal with them, in one way or another. One more question. Yes, Joe?”

“General, Joe Galloway from AP. I'd like to add my congratulations. Will you be going into the pocket tomorrow?”

“Yes. I will be there to meet the Marshal at his headquarters, and watch as the Soviet flag is lowered, and the Stars and Stripes are raised. And then we'll be busy for quite a while as we try and get some sense of normalcy restored. This won't be like Oklahoma City or Waco: it'll be more like Dallas or San Antonio after things wrapped up there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a very important phone call to make. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” And with that, Powell and his staff left the room, to the applause of the media.

Dixon turned to Commander Carlisle. “Well?”

“Just like that?” she asked.

“Yep. Just like that. Let's get you over to the Officer's Mess, and get you something to eat. I'll find you a bunk someplace, and you can get some sleep. You can see those hyenas in the morning.”

“Major, lead the way,” said Commander Carlisle.


2015 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo, Texas.


General Isakov, Malinsky's chief of staff, came into his office, what had been the principal's office at the high school. He found Malinsky taking a nap, sitting back in his office chair. “Comrade General?”

Malinsky had long since developed the habit of waking when he was called, no matter how deep his sleep was. “Oh, Isakov. It's you.”

“Comrade General, Marshal Alekseyev is here. He has come from a meeting with General Powell.”

Malinsky stood up. “Well, Isakov. I think we know what that meeting was about. You disagree?”

General Isakov shook his head. “No, Comrade General. I think the Marshal had no choice. The only question was when.”

General Malinsky nodded. “Let's not keep the Marshal waiting,” he said.

Isakov nodded, and waited for his general. Both went back to the Operations Room, where they found Marshal Alekseyev, General Chibisov, and Alekseyev's aide, Colonel Sergetov. “Comrade Marshal,” Malinsky said.

“Malinsky,” Alekseyev said solemnly. “It is done. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute after midnight, local time. American forces will move in beginning at 0800.”

“Comrade Marshal....” Malinsky said. “We have done all that we can do. Any further fighting only gets good Russian boys killed.”

“I'm glad you agree. Remember that meeting, not that long ago, with the Army commanders and yourself? The only one who really opposed any kind of termination of the war was that brute Starukhin.” Alekseyev reminded Malinsky.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal. And I was wondering whether or not someone would either shoot him, or he would shoot anyone who disagreed with him.” Malinsky said, remembering that meeting.

“My thoughts exactly, Malinsky. Now, to business. Are there any KGB, ALA, or PSD units in the vicinity? They're the ones most likely to cause trouble. They must be....neutralized, before Powell's forces arrive.”

“The only KGB were those assigned to checkpoints, Comrade Marshal. I can assure you that they have been all dealt with. And I have instructed all Army commanders to secure any ALA or PSD personnel-by force if necessary. Though most appear more concerned with saving their own skins than causing trouble.”

“Good. Now, whatever chemical warheads left in your ammunition dumps are to be handed over to the Americans. And one other thing: have your chief of medical services ready to go forward.”

“May I ask why, Comrade Marshal?” Malinsky wondered.

“The Americans have indicated they will take care of our wounded. They need to know how many, and what kind of conditions they'll find when they arrive.” Alekseyev said.

Both Malinsky and Isakov nodded.”When does he leave?” Isakov asked.

“Right away. Send him to the 77-83 highway junction: the same one that had so much blood spilled on both sides. The Americans will receive him, and he'll be taken to meet with General Powell's senior medical officers.” said Alekseyev.

Malinsky turned to Major General Mikhail Levechenko, his chief of medical services. “You do know what you'll need to do?”

“Of course, Comrades,” Levchenko replied.

“Good. Go at once,” Aleksyev said. “Now, we'll be returning to headquarters. Inform your army and division commanders, by whatever means are necessary. If you can't contact anyone by radio or land line, send reliable staff officers to inform them.”

Malinsky nodded. “Understood, Comrade Marshal.”



2040 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev went outside his command post, and peered through his binoculars, to the east. So far, the Marine lines were quiet. And visibility was good, so good that he could see almost to the beach. The Americans were still unloading, he could see, even at night, and no doubt they were landing troops and additional supplies. Come morning, he knew, they'd resume the attack, and maybe, just maybe, he'd give them a bloody nose before his forces were overwhelmed. Then he noticed his chief of staff coming with a message form. “Anatoly? What have you got there?”

“Comrade General.....” the chief of staff said, “It's over.”

Andreyev was surprised. So soon? But he knew from talking not only with General Chibisov, but Marshal Alekseyev, that the end would be coming. “When?”

“One minute after midnight, Comrade General. The Americans will come beginning at 0800.” The chief replied.

“That's it, then.” Andreyev said. “Get all secret materials together and destroy them the best you can.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“Has the 47th been notified?” Andreyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade General. Colonel Glavchenko was relieved, but he mentioned some of his staff and at least one battalion commander were more....distraught.” the chief said. “But Colonel Glavchenko was firm, and two of those officers went out from the command post-and shot themselves.”

“I'll bet there's going to be a lot of that: especially those who were supposed to leave but weren't able to do so.” Andreyev commented. “All right. Recall all of our patrols. Tell our men to fire only if fired upon.”

“Right away, Comrade General.”

Andreyev looked at his chief of staff. “One other thing: I realize there may be some of our officers and men who do wish to continue the fight. If they want to make a run for Mexico, release them from their duties. I, however will stay, and share the fate of the men.”

“I'll relay the message, Comrade General, but I don't think hardly anyone will take the offer.”

[Matt Wiser]

And the reaction, especially in Moscow. And has anyone caught who the KGB Chairman is?


2115 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas.

General Suryakin breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Not quite yet: the clock hadn't reached 0001, but for all intents and purposes, it was over and done. Alekseyev had stopped by the headquarters to inform him personally, and to start the process of notifying unit commanders. All units were to stay in their present positions until the Americans arrived, and that any ALA or PSD were to be taken into custody and handed over to the Americans. If necessary, by force, Alekseyev emphasized.

Now, he looked at his situation map one last time. The 38th Tanks had been reduced to a battered remnant, while 24th Tanks had been finally overwhelmed. On the left, 52nd Tanks and 6th Guards Motor-Rifle had been split, while the 105th Guards Air Assault Division and the 41st Tank Regiment had clung to the highway junction, but had been ground down in the process. If the Americans had launched a major attack that day, or had the surrender not happened, both units were not likely to hold out much longer. It appeared now that the Americans had gotten word of the cease-fire, as they had halted. Though some units still reported exchanging small-arms fire, that was likely soldiers on both sides who hadn't gotten the word. Still, he ordered Golikov to send reliable staff officers to all units to ensure compliance with the cease-fire.

Suraykin walked back to his command vehicle. He fully intended to have a good night's sleep, the first in days, and then in the morning, he'd put on his best uniform and receive the Americans when they arrived. If he was going into an American POW compound, he wanted to show the Americans that he was not a brute like Starukhnin was, nor a barbarian like the KGB or the GRU field security units. As he did so, he heard sobbing coming from another vehicle. He opened the hatch and found his political officer, crying hysterically.

“Comrade Zampolit?” Suraykin asked.

“Comrade General....” Major General Vassily Ossipov said. “I know what awaits me.”

“I don't follow,” Suraykin said.

“Comrade General, I was told by the intelligence officer before he boarded that helicopter that I was on an American 'wanted' list. I was on the staff of General Gennady Bratchenko in Louisiana, and they want anyone who was even associated with him.” Ossipov said, tears streaming down his face.

“Bratchenko....that brute....” Suraykin remembered. He'd been a divisional commander in 1985-86, but he'd heard stories about that monster. Even his front commander at the time had felt the man was out of control, but due to his rank and position, nothing could be done about him. “You were his political officer?”

“No. But I was in the political department for that area. And the Americans consider political officers equally responsible for rear-area suppression: and justifiably so. Many of us not only condoned such activity, but actively encouraged it, even if we did not participate. Now....if I'm convicted of even one of what the Americans call war crimes, I face either life in prison or a trip to the gallows.” Ossipov said.

“Comrade...”

“No. I will not run like a coward, trying to escape to Mexico. Nor will I go into American hands.” said Ossipov, determination creeping into his voice. He got up out of the vehicle, pulled out his service pistol, and went outside. Suraykin and those inside heard a shot.


2145 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev came into the operations room once again. After returning to the headquarters, he'd actually sat down with Chbisov and Sergetov and had a meal, though the Americans had offered a more substantial dinner once the cease-fire had signed, he had politely declined. There would be time enough for things like that the next day, he felt. But he wanted one last meal with his staff before things were truly over and done. After the meal, he'd taken the opportunity to thank those who didn't work in the operations room, but helped keep the headquarters running. Then he went back into the operations room, where the staff was waiting. “Comrades. I take it things are going smoothly?”

Chibisov nodded. “Yes, Comrade Marshal. The KGB and ALA are more concerned with getting away than causing any trouble, though the PSD is a different matter.”

“I take it they're refusing to surrender?” Alekseyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal.” Chibisov said. “They're holed up here, in what used to be the Brownsville Police Headquarters.”

“Send a company from the headquarters guard battalion, with a tank platoon. Give them one chance to follow my orders. If they refuse, destroy the building, and kill every last one of them you find. In this case, we'll do the Americans a favor-and do something we should have done ourselves a long time ago-and cleaned up those scum.” Alekseyev ordered.

Chibisov smiled. “It will be a pleasure, Comrade Marshal.”

Marshal Alekseyev then turned to his communications officer; “Send this message to Moscow, then destroy your remaining radios, codes, and code machines.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” the man replied.

“The Socialist Forces in Texas have given their last full measure of duty. We have done all that can be done and are in a position where no more can be done. The strategic and tactical situation is hopeless. With no reliable resupply, shortages of fuel, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, and thousands of wounded who need to be tended to, my forces have done all that can be done given the circumstances. I have arranged for the surrender of the forces remaining in the Brownsville area, and I hope that those who have withdrawn to Mexico will continue to do their duty when the Americans move south. Greetings to the Rodina. We are destroying our communications. Alekseyev.”

“It will be done, Comrade Marshal.” the communications man said.

“Very good. Now, once you're finished destroying the radios and code equipment; if you so choose, you and your men may go south to Mexico. Though the communications gear has been destroyed, the Americans would dearly like to have a few words with you and your men.” Alekseyev said.

“Comrade Marshal, I will stay, but will relay the offer to the men. Some will go, I have no doubt.”

“As you wish. Now, get that off at once.”

Alekseyev then turned to address the staff. “Comrades, we have done everything that can be done, and we can do no more. There comes a time when loyalty to those who serve under you takes precedence over loyalty to a particular individual. My first duty now is to our men, and to see to their survival and welfare. Nothing more. Those of you who wish to leave before the cease-fire takes effect, and want to continue the fight in Mexico, may do so. Otherwise, we still have our duty to the men, and we shall carry on, until the Americans arrive.”

Chibisov looked around the room. No one wanted to leave. “Comrade Marshal, it appears that the staff wishes to remain.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Very good. Now, we still have things to do. There are still Spetsnatz teams in the pocket, correct?”

“Of course, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied.

“Have them eliminate whatever KGB, DGI, or PSD they can find. Let's do the Americans a favor, and give them a head start in cleaning up this mess.”


2200 Hours Central Time (0800 Moscow Time): The Defense Council, the Kremlin, Moscow, RSFSR.


The Defense Council was holding its morning briefing, one of two held each day since the start of the war, to review developments overnight, and consider what the day might bring. Given the time differences between North America and Moscow, often, the situation at the front lines in the two theaters had changed since the Defense Council had met, and the morning briefings were a way of getting the Defense Council caught up on developments.

Marshal Sergei Akhromayev, the Defense Minister, had the message from Marshal Alekseyev in his hand. He looked about the room, where General Pavel Grachev, the Chief of the General Staff, was waiting to give his briefing to the Defense Council. Unfortunately for the Marshal, the other members of the Council were firmly in favor of continuing the war. He had been forced to go along, despite one-on-one meetings with other members, showing the reality of the situation on both fronts, and that the Soviet Union had clearly lost the war. Saving the Army in North America, and finding an honorable exit, ought to be the priority, not continuing to throw away lives and treasure in a useless struggle, one that Akhromayev knew should never have been started in the first place.

Now, who might change? He knew that Kosov, the Chairman of the KGB, had been wavering. He knew full well what the battlefield situation was, and that given how despised and loathed the USSR had become ever since 1987, a way out was very desirable. But, as the Marshal knew, Kosov was one who owed his job to General Secretary Chebrikov, and very much wanted to retain that position and the power that went with it. The Marshal looked at Tumansky, the Foreign Minister, whose job had gotten a lot harder than his predecessor, Gromyko, had ever been. The longtime Soviet Foreign Minister had died of a stroke not long after the war began, and Tumansky had been appointed to replace him. He, too, was a hardliner, someone who would have fit right in under Khrushchev, and didn't care what the rest of the world thought of the USSR, as long as they were winning. He also didn't care now that the USSR was losing the war, and had been losing for two years.

There was Boris Pugo, the Interior Minister, who controlled the Interior Troops, the VV, who had military training and equipment, and had been used to brutally suppress any dissent in the form of strikes or riots-which had become more commonplace since 1987-88. Not even the KGB had been able to silence every dissident, and when strikes broke out in the Ukraine, or ethnic riots in Central Asia, the VV came in to crack heads, and when necessary, summarily execute rioters. And Pugo was one of those who'd been on the Council, back in 1985, when the decision to go to war had been made.

Of the two other members, Volkov, the head of GOSPLAN, valued his job more than anything else, and would hardly oppose the General Secretary. And Alexandrov, the Party Ideologist, was just as doctrinaire as his predecessor had been, the man who had said “All we have to do is kick in the door, and the whole rotten edifice of capitalism will come crashing down,” and had sanctioned the nuclear strikes on cities such as New York and Kansas City, saying that “if the heart of capitalism is burned out, they will not fight for such a rotten system.” Clearly, those statements had proven blatantly false, and no amount of Party dogma could change the reality of the battlefield situation.

The door to the meeting room opened, and everyone stood as Viktor Chebrikov, former head of the KGB, and General Secretary since 1984, came into the room. He was accompanied by his bodyguards, and the Army Colonel who carried the “football” the case containing the Soviet Union's nuclear release codes, a book of strike options, and a transmitter. Chebrikov had become increasingly detached from reality, both at home and at the front, with Eastern Europe in turmoil, instability in Central Asia, a naval war that had long since been lost, and a land war in North America on the verge of being lost. “Be seated, Comrades,” he said, and everyone took their seats. “I trust you all had a pleasant evening. Now, I see General Grachev is ready to brief us. You may begin, General.”

Grachev began his briefing by going into the situation in Canada and Alaska-where things had been stalemated for nearly three years. The overland supply route from Alaska into Canada was a treacherous one, and only a third of what was delivered to Alaskan ports had made it. The situation would have been better, both Ahkromayev and Grachev knew, had the Battle of Vancouver gone the Soviets' way, but that campaign, which some on the General Staff compared to Stalingrad, had gone the Allies' way, and there wasn't much the Soviets could do about it. Then there was the naval interdiction: the U.S. Navy and both Japanese and South Korean naval forces had devoted considerable efforts to interdict supply convoys from Far Eastern ports to Alaska, with considerable success. And the Americans and British with their Operation EASTERN EXPRESS bombing raids, the Americans with B-52s and B-1s, and the RAF with Vulcans and their own B-1s, made life difficult along the Trans-Siberian and BAM railways, hitting industrial centers, power plants, and the rail lines themselves.

Then Grachev turned to the situation in Texas and along the Mexican-U.S. Border. No U.S. or Allied forces had as yet crossed the border in strength, having closed up along the border everywhere except in the Brownsville Pocket. So far, there was no sign of a U.S. invasion of Mexico becoming imminent, but the presence of the U.S. Fifth Army close to the border meant that such an invasion was a distinct possibility.

“And the pocket itself, General?” Chebrikov asked.

Grachev looked at Akhromayev. Then the Marshal stood, with a grave expression on his face. “Comrades. I have a message from Marshal Alekseyev. He has arranged for the surrender of the forces in the pocket.” Those on the council were stunned. “He cites a lack of fuel, ammunition, food, and medical supplies, and is clearly in a hopeless position. He has destroyed his communications, and has signed off.”

“He did WHAT?” General Secretary Chebrikov said.

“Marshal Alekseyev has surrendered his forces, Comrade General Secretary. There is no more Brownsville pocket.” Akhromayev replied.

“Of all the....Doesn't he realize that I promoted him so that he would organize his men for a final stand, and go down fighting? They got a Marshal of the Soviet Union! No Marshal of the Soviet Union, or Russia, has ever been taken alive!” Chebrikov was raging.

“Comrade General Secretary-” Kosov was saying.

“He doesn't have the decency to even kill himself? I can't believe this! The bravery of so many officers and soldiers is stained by that, that, coward! At the very most, he could have organized and led a final attack, and gotten himself killed leading it! If he wasn't willing to do that, then he should have killed himself!” fumed the General Secretary.

Kosov looked at Marshal Akhromayev, then back at Chebrikov. “Comrade-”


“He surrendered! He didn't commit suicide! And then I offered the command to Malinsky, who only bothered to indicate he'd received my message. Clearly it is obvious that the rot of defeatist and treacherous behavior has spread throughout that command! Alekseyev and his generals could have chosen eternal glory and national immortality, but instead, they prefer to go to Philadelphia or Boston!” raged Chebrikov. “This meeting is adjourned!”

With that, Chebrikov stormed out of the room, followed by Tumansky, Pugo, and Alexandrov. The other members left, until only Marshal Akhromayev and Chairman Kosov remained.

“Comrade Chairman, I fear our dear General Secretary will soon not be fit to hold his office.” Ahkromayev observed. “Who knows what kind of rash actions he may decide to take?”

“I know what you mean, Comrade Marshal. You may be assured that those who carry the codes have been informed of the grave responsibility they bear, and that nothing will happen along those lines.” Kosov replied.

The Marshal let out a sigh of relief. “That's a relief. Nothing of the sort will happen unless you issue the codes that you possess.”

“Correct. Now, I believe we must act as our predecessors did in 1964. Obviously no one on the Council can replace him, and hardly anyone else on the Politburo. We must look elsewhere.” Kosov said.

Ahkromayev nodded. He turned to General Grachev. “We'll need to talk with the commanders of the Moscow, Leningrad, Beylorussian, and Kiev Military Districts. Not to mention the candidate members of the Politburo who have been urging a settlement for some time: that's Minister Sergetov, as well as Comrades Bromkovsky, Gorbachev and Yeltsin.” He returned to Kosov. “Who's that deputy foreign minister, the one who has those useless trips to Geneva to explain things at the UN?”

“That would be Bessmertnykh: his English is impeccable, and he has had back-channel discussions with the Americans in the past-though not since the Battle of Wichita.” Kosov said.

“I suggest you get him.” Ahkromayev said. “Now, where to meet?”

General Grachev spoke up. “May I suggest a location that is secure, well guarded, and is the last place anyone would suspect where such a meeting is taking place?”

“And that is?” Kosov asked.

“Why, the headquarters of the First Shock Army, of course.” Grachev said. “The Moscow Military District headquarters, not to mention either of your dachas, is far too obvious. A meeting can be camouflaged as an inspection of the troops under the Army's command, and there are secured facilities to be used in the event of nuclear war. Those facilities haven't been used since the last nuclear event, back in 1986, but can be activated on very short notice to house such a meeting.”

Both Ahkromayev and Kosov nodded. “Excellent, General,” Ahkromayev said. “How long?”

“The arrangements can be made with full discretion. Two days, three at the most.” Grachev said.

“See to it. And have those couriers who've made it out of the pocket there as well,” Ahkromayev ordered. “And order some maneuvers as well, to maintain cover.” He turned to Kosov. “We do not seek to overturn the State. We seek to save it.”

[Matt Wiser]

It's over in the pocket, but not over elsewhere....


2225 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico.


Captain Padorin came into the CCP, intending on a status update before getting some sleep. He saw Strenlikov, the officer of the watch, and nodded. “Any contacts, Strenlikov?”

“No contacts, Comrade Captain.”

“Very good. Our course and speed?”

“We're maintaining three-five zero, at twenty knots. Depth is two hundred meters.” the young Lieutenant replied.

“Good. Let me know at once if anything develops. I'll be in my cabin.” Padorin said.

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” Strenlikov said.

Then the communications man came in. “Comrade Captain, there's an ELF message for us. We need to go to antenna depth to get the full message.”

Padorin nodded. “I have the deck and the con.” He turned to the diving officer. “Make your depth thirty meters, and slow to five knots.”

“Thirty meters, and slow to five knots, aye, Captain.” the officer replied.

K-236 rose through the depths, and was soon at her new depth. “Raise the ESM antenna first.” Padorin ordered.

The ESM was raised. “No contacts, Comrade Captain,” the operator reported.

“Very well. Raise the antenna.” Padorin said, and the antenna was quickly raised.

“We've got the message, Comrade Captain,” the communications man replied. “They're repeating it.”

Padorin looked at his officer of the watch. The Starpom and the Security officer were both in their cabins, asleep. “Why would they do that? Normal procedure is to wait twelve hours before repeats.”

“I have no idea, Comrade Captain,” Strenlikov replied.

“I don't like it,” Padorin said, just as the communications man came in. “Well?”

“Comrade Captain....” the man said.

“What?”

“It's over in Texas, Comrade Captain. They've surrendered in the pocket.” the communications officer said.

Padorin looked at the man. His expression was one of shock. And Padorin knew it was more than that: he had a younger brother who was serving in an airborne unit in the pocket, and he had had no word of his brother since before they'd sailed from Cienfeugos. And there were other officers and crew who either had relatives serving there, or knew of friends who were also there. Now, they were either dead or prisoners. “Very well.... Up periscope.”

The periscope came up from its well, and Padorin swung it in a 360-degree arc. “No contacts. Down scope, and lower antenna.” As the periscope and antenna went down, he came to his decision. “Back to two hundred meters. Maintain speed.”

Strenlikov nodded, and relayed the orders. The young officer was actually relieved. Maybe, just maybe, he'd find out just how his two brothers had died, now that things were winding down.

Padorin looked at him, and nodded sympathetically. Though he had not lost any relatives, he knew many Academy friends who were either dead or listed as “overdue, presumed lost.” About fucking time, he thought. This has gone on long enough. Then he decided to announce it to the crew. He picked up a microphone connected to the boat's PA system. “Comrades, this is the Captain. We have received a message from headquarters in Cuba. The battle for the Brownsville Pocket has ended. Our forces there have been forced to lay down their arms. Our orders remain unchanged. We'll carry on as best we can. That is all.”


2310 Hours: Cuban 2nd Army Headquarters, Rangerville, Texas.


General Perez received the order from two of Malinsky's staff officers. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute past midnight. And U.S. Forces would move in to take their surrender in the morning. He'd acknowledged the order, and relayed it to his commanders. Only when all of them had acknowledged the order, and confirmed that they'd carry it out, did he relax. About time, he knew. How many good Cuban fathers and sons had died in this war, and for what? He did know that the cease-fire only applied here in the pocket, and not to either Mexico or Cuba, and Perez feared that the Americans, having reclaimed their own land, would move to settle scores with either country-maybe even both in due course. If he was in their place, he'd invade Cuba first, dealing with the island in only a couple of weeks-knowing full well the Americans had the combat power to do just that, and then deal decisively with the Mexicans. His acting chief of staff-the regular chief had left for the border, carrying a copy of the Army's War Diary with him, and taking the Army's chief political officer with him as well: and there'd been no word since. “Yes, Jose?”

“Comrade General, there are a few officers who wish to go south. They'd rather take their chances attempting to reach the border instead of taking their chances with the Americans.”

Perez knew there would be some who wanted to continue, and deep down, he felt that way himself. But he also had a duty to his men, and he intended to do whatever it took to ensure their welfare. “How many?” he asked.

“A couple dozen in all, Comrade General. Mostly younger officers, though a couple of the remaining political officers wish to leave as well.” the chief replied.

Perez nodded and went to the staff. Everyone came to attention. “Comrades, I realize that a number of you wish to continue the fight, by going to Mexico. If you can get through American lines-for the Americans are fully established on our left-you may do so. However, I will remain with the men, and will share their fate. How many of you wish to continue the fight?”

As the chief said, two dozen officers raised their hands. “I see. Very well, I release you from your duties. Good luck, all of you. And should any of you manage to make it to Mexico, and then get to Cuba, give my greetings to the homeland.” Perez then saluted his staff, and those who wanted to leave got up and did so. But the majority of his staff remained.

“Comrade General, your orders?” the chief asked.

“We are in communications with all units?” Perez said.

“Yes, but some links are more reliable than others, as you know,” the chief replied.

“Send reliable staff officers to all units, and make sure that they know that fighting ceases at one minute past midnight. And do it fast.” Perez ordered.


2335 Hours: 315th Independent Helicopter Transport Regiment, near Villa Hermosa, Mexico.


Major Sabin got out of his Mi-26 heavy-lift helicopter, and walked over to the hangar that served as his regiment's headquarters. It had been a very long day, and he wasn't looking forward to tomorrow. He was down to two flyable Mi-8s, and two flyable Mi-26s, though he had a third Mi-26 that would be back on the flight schedule in a day or so, and two more Mi-8s were undergoing battle-damage repair. Still, he knew that if things had been that bad today, tomorrow would be worse. And there were still hundreds of men who were awaiting evacuation who had not gotten seats on the airlift, and who needed to get out. Shaking his head, he went to the status board, where he found Captain Kovpak sitting at a desk, with a bottle of vodka waiting to be opened. “Ivan, you have the shakes or something? We'll be flying again in the morning.”

“Not into Brownsville.” Kovpak replied.

“What do you mean? We've been going in and out there all day. And there's still those who need to get out.” Sabin replied.

Kovpak showed him a message form. It was from General Petrov himself, ordering a halt to all flights into the pocket as of 2300 Hours. And they would not resume at first light.

Sabin read it. “What's this about? There are people in there depending on us.”

“It's over on that side of the Rio Grande. General Petrov called to confirm that. The cease-fire goes into effect at one minute past midnight. No more flights in, and anyone stuck there overnight isn't leaving-except as a prisoner.” Kovpak said, a bitter tone creeping into his voice.

“So no flying tomorrow.” Sabin decided.

“Yes. All I can say, is that I'm glad it's over. I've never been shot at by so many weapons since we got here.” Kovpak said. He reached for the bottle. “A toast?”

“To what?” Sabin replied. This is hardly the time for something like that, he thought.

“We've lost too many friends to this war, and I've lost a brother, up in Alaska. Roman was a Naval Infantry officer-he was killed on the first day.” Kovpak said.

Nodding, Sabin reached for a glass. Kovpak opened the bottle and poured for the both of them. “So, to absent friends?”

“To absent friends,” Sabin agreed. And both men took a drink.


2355 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


Marshal Alekseyev went up to the roof of his headquarters, with Colonel Sergetov and his senior Spetsnatz officer. Colonel Arkady Demichenko had assumed command of the various Spetsnatz units in the pocket, many of whom were shadows of their former selves, and he'd organized them into a provisional regiment. Now, his Spetsnatz men were busy cleaning up rogue KGB and DGI elements, as well as the PSD. Some had gone quietly into custody, while lethal force had been used on others. And the Colonel-a two-tour Afghan vet, as well as a veteran of that horrid war that had been fought in the Louisiana bayou, was among those who were glad that it was over. He'd lost way, way, too many of his men, not to mention classmates from the Air Assault Academy at Ryazan, and if he could have, he would've just walked away from the whole mess. “Comrade Marshal, we've made good progress in cleaning things up. We won't be done by the time of the cease-fire, but not that long afterwards.”

“Not to worry, Colonel.” Alekseyev said. “The Americans know we've got some....housecleaning, for want of a better term, to take care of. Just have everything finished by 0800.”

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal. Though some of my men aren't too thrilled about being here when the Americans arrive.” Demichenko said. “Some of them participated in counter-guerrilla operations, and some of the reprisals that followed.....”

“Colonel, I understand, but no one leaves after midnight. General Powell has privately assured me that those accused of ....war crimes (he used the American term), will be given the full protections of international law, and will be given a fair trial, should things proceed that far.” Alekseyev said. “You do understand that?”

“I do, Comrade Marshal.” Demichenko said.

Chibisov looked at the luminous dials on his watch. “Comrades, one minute.”

Everyone was filled with anticipation, and then Chibisov said, “I make it 0001, Comrade Marshal. The cease-fire is now in effect.”

And those on the rooftop listened. The dull rumble of artillery fire, which had been growing louder in the past couple of days, had stopped. Nor were there the flashes of gunfire on the horizon. The only sound was that of American aircraft overhead, making sure no Soviet aircraft or helicopters tried to get out of the pocket once the cease-fire was official. “So that's what it sounds like,” Colonel Sergetov said.

“What do you mean, Comrade Colonel?” Alekseyev asked.

“The sound of peace, at least in this corner of the war, Comrade Marshal.” Sergetov replied.

Chibisov nodded, then reached into a bag, then pulled out a bottle of vodka and four glasses. “Comrades, I had been saving this for a more.....appropriate occasion. However, I feel that this is such a moment.” He passed out the glasses and poured. “I would like to propose a toast: To absent friends, and an honorable peace.”

“Hear, hear, General,” Alekseyev said. After they drank the toast, he went on, “Now,Comrades, we still have a good deal of work to do.” He turned to Colonel Demichenko, “Colonel, finish cleaning up those scum-especially the PSD. I'll explain to the Americans that they gave us trouble, and had to be eliminated. Just make sure that their documents, files, and so on, are saved, if at all possible. I want to show just what kind of....animals these slime were, and how ashamed we all should be in having had anything to do with them.”

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal,” Demichenko replied.

“Now, Chibisov, we still have to ensure that things proceed smoothly tomorrow. No incidents of any sort, is that clear?”

“It is, Comrade Marshal,” Chibisov replied.

“Good. Now, if we can, some rest is in order. The first good night's sleep in days, and then we greet the Americans,” Alekseyev said. “Remember, you are still Soviet officers, and conduct yourselves accordingly.”

[Matt Wiser]

And it winds on and down...


0020 Hours, 5 October, 1989: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev sat with his staff in his headquarters, in the cellar of the condominium. A couple of bottles of vodka were opened, and several toasts to lost comrades had been drunk, and so far, no one was actually drunk, but that wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Then his chief of staff came in. “Comrade Major, Admiral Gordikov is here.”

“What? The Admiral?” Lazarev said, clearly surprised.

“Yes, Comrade Major.”

“By all means, bring him in,” Lazarev said, putting the bottles away as he did so. He and his staff came to attention as Admiral Gordikov came into the headquarters. “Comrade Admiral,” Lazarev said with a slight bow.

“Major. I trust things here have gone without any incidents?” Gordikov asked.

“Things have gone well, Comrade Admiral. Though the PSD office and the KGB were hit an hour ago, by Spetsnatz, apparently.” Lazarev said.

“That's good,” Gordikov replied. He went from staffer to staffer, shaking their hands. “Is there anyone from the Boiky still here? I would like to thank them for their efforts.”

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. We have most of the survivors organized into a provisional company, and the former executive officer had an observation post on the fifth floor.” Lazarev told the Admiral.

“Show me the observation post, Major.”

“Of course, Comrade Admiral,” Lazarev said. “If you will accompany me...” The two officers walked up the stairs, until they came to the fifth floor. Lazarev then walked to the rooms-the destroyer men had knocked out most of the wall between the two rooms-and opened the door. Kamarov was still at his spotting glasses, peering out to sea. “In here, Comrade Admiral.”

Upon hearing those words, Kamarov got up and stood to attention, “Comrade Admiral?”

“You must be Kamarov, I gather?” Gordikov asked.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.”

“A pity about the loss of your ship and those of your shipmates who were still aboard. You did the best job you could getting here. It's....unfortunate that things have gone the way they have, but that's war.” Gordikov said.

“At least most of the crew will get home, Comrade Admiral. It may be some months, but.... that's what we're all hoping, anyway,” Kamarov said.

“I'm not going to argue with that sentiment, and I imagine everyone here shares it. Just remember that you are still a Soviet officer, and your responsibility is now to your men. No suicides: that's an order. You, too, Major.” Gordikov reminded the two officers.

Both nodded. “Now, there still are civilians here?” Gordikov asked as they did so.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.” Lazarev said.

“Until the Americans arrive, we are still responsible for civil law and order. Fortunately, they'll be here in the morning. We hand over our weapons, turn in our vehicles, and leave this island.” Gordikov said.

“Understood, Comrade Admiral.” said Lazarev.

“Good. Just be glad it's over, Major. And also be glad you didn't have to fire a shot. Enough good Russians have died here, and I'm glad you won't be among them.”


0600 Hours: Camp 24, near Laguna Vista, Texas.

Major Tsernik sat in his office, an open bottle of vodka on his desk. He'd been drinking most of the night, ever since he'd gotten word of the cease-fire. A staff officer from Front Headquarters had come to him, with a written order signed by General Malinsky, reminding him of the directive from Marshal Alekseyev about turning prisoners over to the Americans. He had no orders to eliminate the prisoners, prior to that directive, and would not have done so without such an order.

Now, as the first light of dawn began to break, he knew the Americans would be there in a few hours, and Tsernik knew that he'd have a lot of explaining to do. Though he was not the original camp commander, the camp had had such a reputation for brutality and back-breaking forced labor, that even a number of Soviet senior officers were appalled. The previous commander-a sadistic psychopath by anyone's standards-had been “retired” and Tsernik appointed to replace him. And conditions had improved considerably, but even so, the camp was nowhere near what the Geneva Convention required, even if the Soviets had been inclined to follow it. He'd also put an end to most of the brutality, as well as the worst of the “entertainment” that the inhabitants of the North Compound were forced to provide guards and visiting VIPs.

Tsernik stood up, and went to his adjutant's office. Captain Yegor Dimitriev had been an artillery officer, until he'd been wounded in 1987 during the American Summer Offensive-the one that followed Wichita-having been burned on his arms and legs when his 2S3 SP gun had been hit by an A-10. Though unfit for front-line service, his knowledge of English landed him in this assignment. “Comrade Captain,”

Dimitriev stood up. He'd been sleeping on a cot in his office, “Comrade Major,” he nodded.

“Get the two senior officers-from South Compound and North Compound-and bring them here. Right now,” Tsernik said.

“Immediately, Comrade Major,” the adjutant replied, and he went out to get the two officers. A few minutes later, he was back with two very shabby and disheveled American officers, U.S. Army Major Richard Caldwell and U.S. Air Force Captain Rachel Pearson. Both had been captured in the war's early days, had endured the brutality, forced labor, and poor diet, and they both showed it. The two Americans looked at each other, then at the commander. “Comrade Major, the two senior officers,”

“Well, Major, Captain, today's the day for you.” Tsernik said.

Both looked at the other again. Then Caldwell said, “What do you mean by that?”

“Simple: a cease-fire is in effect since midnight. Your forces will be here this morning. Despite everything the Socialist World could throw at you, you've won.” Tsernik said.

“It's over?” Pearson, a former C-130 pilot, asked.

“Yes, it is. At least here,” replied the commander.

“You do know what we'll report, when our troops arrive?” Caldwell, who had been captured at First Houston, asked.

“I know,” Tsernik said. “I do hope you'll point out that I did improve conditions here, and put an end to the worst.....of things.”

“Not enough, Major,” Caldwell said. “You didn't do enough. All you did was improve things enough to keep us fit for labor, or,” he said, looking at Pearson, “other....activities.”

“I did not participate in that, and you, Captain, know it.” Tsernik replied.

“The hell you did! You may not have dropped your pants, but you either looked the other way, or worse, watched. We call that command responsibility, Major.” Pearson shot back.

Their conversation was interrupted by a low-flying aircraft. Everyone went to a window and saw a C-130 banking around after it had apparently flown over the camp. Then came the sound of jets, and two F-16s came over, obviously escort for the C-130. The C-130 came around for another pass, and first leaflets, then parachutes came from the rear door. Underneath the parachutes were pallets with boxes, obviously supplies. The two Americans turned to the commander. “Well, Major?” Pearson asked.

The adjutant turned to the commander. Tsernik knew not to interfere. He turned to Dimtriev, “Order the guards not to get involved, immediately. And morning roll call will not be held.” Then Tsernik turned to the two Americans. “I suggest you get what's obviously yours, both of you.”

The two nodded, then turned as Dimitriev came back. “The guards have been informed, Comrade Major,”

“Good. Now, please assist the two senior officers in helping to distribute the supplies. I have...something to attend to.” Tsernik said.

Dimitriev nodded. “Follow me, please,” he said, and the two American officers followed him. As they left the camp office, they heard a shot. The trio went back into Tsernik's office, and found him slumped over his desk, a Makarov pistol still in his right hand, and a hole in his temple. “Not the way I wanted another command,” was Dimitriev's response.

The two Americans went over to the body. They simply glared at the now-deceased commander, and Captain Pearson kicked the body, then they turned to Dimitirev. “Captain, you were different. You actually tried to help whenever you could, and we'll remember that. And you never laid a hand on anyone that we know of.” Caldwell said.

“Thank you, Major. Let's get these gifts from heaven passed out to the prisoners. I will have the guards leave the watch towers, and they will go to their barracks, with weapons stacked in front. There will be no trouble.” Dimitriev said. “Things will be orderly when your forces arrive.”


0630 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev got up off of his cot. He'd been sleeping in a tent next to his command BMD, and for the first time since 1985, he knew that no one would be dying today. After shaving, he put on his best uniform-the only good dress uniform he had left, and then went into the command post. His staff was still at work, even though things would be wrapping up in under a couple of hours. His chief of staff came to him, “Comrade General,”

“Anatoly,” Andreyev said, “Were there any....incidents?” That was something that he knew Marshal Alekseyev would be very concerned about as the day went on.

“No, Comrade General, nothing of the sort. Some soldiers decided to take the chance and head to Mexico, but most have remained.” the chief said.

“To be expected: either they genuinely wish to continue the fight, or have...other worries.” Andreyev said, and everyone knew what the phrase 'other worries' meant: a potential trial as a war criminal. He did know that some of his men had come from Spetsnatz into the airborne forces, and had participated in some very nasty counterinsurgency operations, usually leaving a very bloody path in their wake.

“That is so, Comrade General,” the chief replied. Actually, the chief was glad to see them go, though no one doubted their fighting spirit and tenacity, the fact that some of the men in the division were associated with such.....events made him uneasy.

“And the Americans?” Andreyev asked.

“Once midnight came, there wasn't any shooting into the air, much to our surprise. But they did shoot off a lot of flares, there were horns sounding from the ships, and all manner of lights came on from the beach and the ships offshore.”

“If I had been commanding those Marines, I'd be doing the same thing. Would you want any of your men wounded by falling bullets?” Andreyev asked dryly.

A thin smile came to the chief's lips. “No, Comrade General,”

“I gather all sensitive materials have been destroyed?” Andreyev asked.

“Yes, Comrade General,” the chief said. “All codes and communications materials have been destroyed, along with the most sensitive intelligence materials.”

Andreyev nodded. “Very good, Anatoly. Let's get the men a good breakfast, the best we can provide, before the Americans arrive.”


0710 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.


Marshal Alekseyev came into the Operations Room once again, only this time, he knew, it would be for the last time. He glanced at the map, which had last been updated prior to his leaving for the meeting with General Powell, and knew just by looking at it, that he'd made the right decision. Lack of ammunition, fuel, medical supplies, and above all, food, meant that continuing the fight was senseless. And if his actions here started the process by which the war ended? So be it, he felt. It has to start somewhere.

He had risen early, taken one final bath, and wanted to be properly groomed. After all General Powell would be here in a while, and he wanted to be properly dressed to receive the American commander. Then he'd breakfasted with Colonel Sergetov, before coming down. He then found General Chibisov. “Good morning, Pavel Pavlovitch,”

“Good morning, Marshal,” Chibisov replied. “So far, no....regrettable incidents to report, and Colonel Demichenko reports that the matter of cleaning up those elements who may try to disrupt things has been....dealt with. In most cases, things were settled with a minimum amount of force, but in some....”

“In some, those scum-and I believe I'm referring mostly to the PSD, correct?” Alekseyev asked. Seeing Chibisov nod, he finished, “Demichenko's men had to kill them all.”

“That is so, Comrade Marshal. And as per your orders, files, documents, etc., have been secured. And all POW and labor camps, as per your orders, remain intact. There were some....incidents prior to the time of our meeting, but those were mainly due to the KGB and PSD taking action before the cease-fire.” Chibisov reported.

“Let me guess: they decided to kill those who might be able to testify against them later on, in any future legal proceedings?” Alekseyev asked. “How many?”

“About a couple hundred or so, Comrade Marshal. However, Demichenko says that those responsible have already paid-the Chekists when the headquarters guard attacked their headquarters, and the PSD when the police headquarters was stormed. The bodies were found in the basements, I'm afraid.” Chibisov said.

“Something we'll have to mention to Powell, when the time comes,” Alekseyev noted. “And things at the front?”

“All quiet. Though the Americans, once midnight came and went, did celebrate. Not that much in the way of shooting into the air, but a generous amount of flares-in many different colors, lights being shone into the sky, and the ships offshore sounded their horns.” Chibisov reported. “There's a couple of other matters....”

“Yes?” Alekseyev asked.

“Malinsky's chief of medical services went forward, and has returned. The Americans have all the information they need to assist us in treating, then evacuating, the wounded,” Chibisov said.

“It will probably be too late for some,” Alekseyev said, remembering a visit he'd made to a hospital in late September. And the filth had disgusted him. The shortages of even clean linen, let alone things like bandages, antibiotics, antiseptic, and other medical supplies made a bad situation a great deal worse. And one medical officer had said to him that he expected the Americans' sense of cleanliness to be shot away, and that once the wounded had been moved, they'd probably burn the place down and simply rebuild. That doctor was probably right, Alekseyev thought. Another thing that he'd wished those Party bosses in Moscow could've seen, because if they had, they would have at least tried to terminate the war. “And the other?”

“He also brought a message from General McCaffery: since the cease-fire took effect, some of the American reporters may decide to go forward, ahead of their troops. He calls it 'getting the exclusive.' In other words........,”

Alekseyev was incredulous. “In other words, those journalists are competing to be the first into Brownsville, even ahead of their own army?”

“That is correct, Comrade Marshal.” Chibisov said. “If Dudorov was still here, he'd be able to explain it much more than I could. But that is basically it.”

Alekseyev shook his head. “All right, inform Malinsky of that, and inform him that any such reporters are not to be interfered with.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

[pmulcahy11b]

I recently learned that TOPGUN was operating F-86Hs as late as 1982. How would they figure in all this?

[Matt Wiser]

Keep them in the training role.

[Matt Wiser]

And it won't be long now until Powell arrives to take the surrender...


0745 Hours: Along U.S. 281, near La Paloma, Texas.


For Captain Nancy Kozak and her Company Team, it had been an eventful evening. After they'd secured the convoy full of Soviet servicewomen and sent them on their way to the rear, they had pushed on south, until they had reached the site of what had been a Soviet ribbon bridge across the Rio Grande, near what had been the town of La Paloma, but was now more a collection of ruins than a town. And the Team had found some KGB troops stationed there for traffic control, and wiped them out in the process. Then Kozak had received an order to halt for the night, and when she protested that she “could be in Brownsville by midnight,” her battalion commander sympathized, but the orders came down not from division or corps, but higher. A cease-fire was a distinct possibility, and so the order had gone out to hold fast on current positions. Sure enough, at 2100, word came down of a cease-fire effective at midnight, with the advance to be resumed at 0800, with orders not to fire unless fired upon.

At midnight, celebrations broke out all over the line, with some shooting into the air, but mostly colored flares, while an artillery unit to their rear fired off a bunch of star shells. Then the platoon leaders and the sergeants calmed everyone down, and a normal night routine set in. Everyone was awakened at 0530, with the usual stand-to an hour later. And everyone was glancing at his or her watch every two minutes, or so it seemed, waiting until 0800, when they could head on to Brownsville, and be the first to reach the old International Bridges over the Rio Grande. And, in the words of the battalion commander, “beat the airborne mafia there,” for he'd heard that the 82nd Airborne was going in along Highway 77-83 to secure Soviet headquarters and be General Powell's honor guard. The 49th Armored had been chewed up badly during the initial invasion, and had earned the right to be the first into Brownsville at the end, the divisional commander was heard to say over the radio.

Now, Kozak was in the commander's seat of her Bradley, counting down to 0800, and when her unit could lead the battalion's advance. Her gunner, busy peering through his sight, said, “Ma'am, it's weird. We're still at war, but not here. And if somebody shoots at us from across the river?”

“If somebody's that stupid, he gets shot in return. Simple as that,” Kozak said.

Then the First Sergeant came in over the Company net. “Six, there's a Humvee coming up behind us. Wait, there's two of them.”

“Find out who they are, and let me know.” Kozak replied.

The First Sergeant went over to the Humvees in his M-113 and spoke to the occupants. Then he got back onto the net. “Ma'am, they're reporters. One Humvee's got a guy from UPI, another from the Chicago Tribune, along with a fella from some paper in England, and the other has a CNN crew.”

“Who's the CNN crew?” Kozak asked.

“Jan Fields' bunch, Ma'am.”

Kozak smiled. She'd seen Fields' reports when she had been on R&R, and often that reporter had been there at the front, and had even reported live from the front lines at Wichita-the battle that turned the tide of the war: that had earned Fields an Emmy award, as well as the gratitude of the 3rd Armored Division-she had brought a lot of publicity to that division.. “All right, just tell 'em to follow behind us, and they'll be first into Brownsville.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

The clock ticked by slowly, but surely. With five minutes to go, Kozak stood in the seat of her Bradley and gave the “start engines” signal that any pilot would recognize. The tanks and Bradleys cranked their engines, and all were up and running. She looked at her watch one final time. 0800 and ten seconds. “All Bravo Three-Six units, this is Bravo Six. Let's go.” And Kozak's Team rolled forward, heading south to Brownsville.


0805 Hours: 105th Guards Air Assault Division/41st Tank Regiment, Harlingen, Texas.

Captain Gaipov walked out of his regiment's command post for the last time. His regiment was such in name only, for he only had two hundred or so effectives, and some of those were walking wounded. As he did so, he saw the Americans whom they'd fought with for control of the intersection come forward. Gaipov had inherited the regiment simply because he was the highest ranking officer not killed or wounded, given that the regimental commander and his deputy had both been killed by a sniper, and the chief of staff had been severely wounded by American artillery fire. Now, it was over.

Lieutenant Moore and her company came forward on foot, since the flyover ramps at the intersection had been blown down into rubble, and that would have to be cleared before the highway junction could be used by heavy vehicular traffic. Her company now numbered 65, having had 225 when it had started, and like the Soviets, a few of those still fighting were walking wounded, but their wounds were not serious enough to require hospitalization. And everyone was dressed for the occasion, though the troops wore their field caps instead of their Kevlar helmets. She led the company to where the Soviets had come from when they came forward to surrender the day before. And the first Russian she found was an airborne captain, who spotted her and came forward.

“Captain Gaipov, 351st Guards Air Assault Regiment,” he said, saluting.

“Lieutenant Moore, 116th Infantry, 29th Division,” she said, returning the salute. “How many do you have here?”

“Two hundred and five left in the regiment, Lieutenant,” the Russian replied.

“All right, call your men out. Have them lay down their weapons in front of the building, then form up outside. No funny business.”

“It will be as you say,” the Russian said. He turned and shouted orders in Russian. And the Soviet paratroopers, who were just as dirty, ragged, and tired as her people were, came out, and laid down their weapons, as they were told. When they were finished, the captain asked, “Your orders?”

“Start walking north on 77. There's a unit coming behind us that will process you and your men, and start you on the way to wherever they'll send you.”

The Russian saluted again, and she returned it. And even though they were disarmed and now POWs, the Soviet paratroopers marched north, still as a unit. Moore remarked to her first sergeant, “Now that's the strangest thing I've seen.”

“Ma'am?”

“They may be POWs now, but they still have their unit pride. And they're not letting anyone forget it,” she said. “Now, get these buildings secured. Get all the heavy weapons and get them out here as well. Machine guns, RPGs, AGS-17s, any antitank missiles or SAMs, get it all. I'll notify battalion to get people down here to pick this stuff up-and get rid of it. Hopefully, in a nice bang.”

“Right, Ma'am,” the first sergeant said, barking out orders.

Her RTO came over, “Ma'am, there's some more Russians coming, and they've got a white flag.”

“Now who are these guys?” Moore asked. She didn't have long to wait. This time, it was an armor officer, leading what appeared to be tank and other vehicle crews, all on foot. And it was clear from his appearance that he was looking for an officer. He spotted her and came over. Just like the airborne officer, he saluted her first. “Colonel Chesnikov, 41st Independent Tank Regiment. I present my men to you,”

“Lieutenant Moore, 116th Infantry, 29th Division,” She replied, returning the salute. “How many do you have, Colonel?”

“About eleven hundred or so,” Chesnikov answered. “We have left all of our weapons next to our vehicles. They are about a kilometer south of here, along the freeway.”

“All right, Colonel. Like I told that airborne officer who was just here, start walking north along Highway 77. There's people following us who will process you and your men, and send you off to wherever.”

Chesnikov nodded, saluted again, and returned to his men. He barked out an order, and what was left of his regiment, some 1100 men, marched north along the highway. As they did so, Moore turned to the First Sergeant, who'd watched the whole thing. “Two in fifteen minutes.”

“Ma'am?”

She laughed. “That's twice in fifteen minutes I've taken the surrender of a regiment.”


0820 Hours: 76th Guards Air Assault Division/47th Tank Brigade, along Highway 4, east of Brownsville, Texas.


General Andreyev came out of his command post to watch, first with his binoculars, then with the naked eye, as the U.S. Marines came forward. And they did so under the watchful eye of Cobra helicopters and Harrier attack aircraft. The Marines clearly weren't taking any chances, and if he was in their place, neither would he. Nodding, he turned to his chief of staff and the political officer-who had stayed, much to his surprise. He'd half expected the Zampolit to either take off for Mexico, or shoot himself, but instead, the man had stayed. While the Americans were not as harsh with Political Officers as, say, the Germans had been, the fact that many Zampolits had played a part in suppressing guerrillas and in taking measures against civilians, up to and including reprisal executions. As a result, the Americans considered Political Officers as potential war criminals, and treated them as such, unless there was proof the man in question had not participated in any such activity. And Andreyev knew this, and fully intended to vouch for his political officer, since the man had not participated in any such actions during his tenure with the division.

Now, as the Marines advanced, Andreyev and his staff watched as a Marine UH-1N helicopter landed nearby, and several armed Marines came out, securing the area around the helicopter. Then an officer came out, and began walking towards Andreyev, who began walking towards the Marine. Then both saluted.

“Major General Charles Lowe, United States Marine Corps, 4th Marine Division.” the Marine said.

“I am Lieutenant General Andreyev, 76th Guards Air Assault Division. I surrender the division, and the attached 47th Tank Brigade, to you.”

The Marine general nodded. A radioman came up to him, holding out a radio receiver. Lowe spoke into it, and then waved the Marines forward. As they did so, Andreyev's paratroopers came out of their holes and laid down their weapons.

“General,” Lowe was saying. “Congratulations on your promotion. Last my Intelligence Officer told me, you were a Major General.”

Andreyev nodded. “A lot of us got such promotions in the last days, General. Just as the failed art student did with his generals at Stalingrad.”

The Marine general nodded, watching as a steady stream of Soviet paratroopers and tankers came forward, laying down their weapons. “I hope you don't get seasick, General.”

“Oh?” Andreyev asked.

“My intelligence people want to have a talk with you and your staff. They're still aboard one of the ships offshore, so you'll get a nice helicopter ride out to one of the amphibious carriers.” Lowe said as a CH-53E Super Stallion came in and landed nearby. “That helo will take you to the ship. The admiral who commands the amphibious force is aboard that carrier, Saipan, and he'll receive you. One thing: you'll be wearing ear protection: it gets pretty loud in those things.”

Two squads of armed Marines came out of the helicopter, and a Marine Captain came to General Lowe with a bag of “Mickey Mouse” ear protectors. Nodding, Lowe turned again to Andreyev, “General, you and your staff put these on, and follow the captain. Like I said: hope you don't get seasick.”


0830 Hours: 4th Guards Tank Army Headquarters, Harlingen, Texas.

General Suraykin and his staff walked out of the warehouse that had served as the Army headquarters during the final battle. He had half expected to get killed somehow, but instead, he was going to live, and fully intended to set a good example to his men in captivity. Suraykin and his staff were in their best uniforms, and waited for the Americans to arrive. They didn't have long to wait, for a column of M-60A4-120 tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles came down from the northeast, and reached the freeway, and the headquarters. One of the tanks pulled up to where Suraykin and his staff were waiting, and the tank commander climbed down and took off his helmet. General Suraykin noticed he was a Captain, and satisfied about that, walked up to him and saluted. “General Piotyr Suraykin, 4th Guards Tank Army,”

“Captain Jeff Ritter, 5-37 Armor, 2nd Brigade, 7th Armored Division.”

Nodding, Suraykin said, “We've been expecting you, or shall we say, someone from your division. I do have a question: were you at the airport?”

“In fact, General, I was. Those were your guys at the airport, I take it?”

“They were. First 20th, then 38th Tank Divisions.”

“Don't know if anyone's told you this, but General, your men fought hard. We took our share of lumps driving your men out of that airport.” Ritter said.

Suraykin and Isakov smiled. They weren't sure how many casualties they'd inflicted in the final battle at the airport, but at least they'd made the Americans pay a price-even if it wasn't as much as they'd hoped, for the airport. “At least we know that much. Captain, your instructions?”

“Gather your people up here, and get ready to walk north. I'll notify my superiors, and they'll probably send a vehicle or maybe a helicopter for you and any other general officers.” Ritter said. “Have you and your staff had anything to eat since last night?”

“No, Captain, other than some weak tea and some bread,” Suraykin replied.

“We'll get you some MREs-better than nothing, I suppose, but still, they're edible, mostly. First Sergeant!”

“Yes, Cap'n?” the company first sergeant asked.

Get some MREs and bottled water for the general and his men,” Ritter said, and the first sergeant nodded and went off to fulfill the order. “Best we can do, General, for right now.”

Suryakin had heard from prisoners what the Americans thought of their MRE rations. Some were good, some were despised. Well, he'd find out for himself. Soon, the first sergeant pulled up in a Humvee and brought some MRE boxes. “Sir, this should keep you for a while,” he said, saluting. Suraykin nodded and took the boxes, and Isakov passed out the rations. He looked at his: Beef Stew.

[Matt Wiser]

And more U.S. Forces arrive:


0850 Hours: Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport.

Colonel Alexandrov was amazed at the controlled chaos that had been unfolding at the airport since 0800. Right on the dot, several C-130s had appeared-how he wished his side had such capable aircraft-other than the two or three Libyan examples-and began dropping paratroopers. The Americans formed up after landing, and their ranking officer-who identified himself as the Assistant Division Commander of the 82nd Airborne Division, came to him. Apart from a company of paratroop infantry, some of the Americans were airborne pathfinders, sent to mark drop zones, while others were U.S. Air Force Combat Controllers, sent to find out runway conditions, and get ready to support incoming and outgoing aircraft. Within minutes, the single operable runway was declared open, and C-130s and C-141s began coming in a steady stream. And just like his own An-12s and Il-76s, they didn't bother shutting down: troops and vehicles came out of the aircraft, formed up into units, and then moved out of the airport into Brownsville.

Alexandrov was pleased to see that some of the Americans' initial arrivals were medical personnel. One of their medical officers had come over to him and asked where the Soviets had kept the wounded earmarked for evacuation, and where the nearest field hospital was. Happy to be of service, the Colonel showed the American Captain where his people could best be of help. And the American had replied, “Colonel, it's over now. Those wounded may be POWs now, but they're still people who need decent medical care and food. We'll do what we can to help them.”

While that was going on, the American paratroopers were busy disarming soldiers, collecting heavy weapons, and assembling prisoners so that they could be easily guarded, then sent north. And one thing surprised the Colonel: though the Americans were in full combat gear, they were wearing their airborne berets as they went about their business. Clearly, they wanted to send a message that the 82nd had arrived, and there had better be no trouble from anyone.

Now, he was sitting under guard, in the shadow of a hangar, with other Soviet officers-a mix of air force, Army, and Voyska PVO. The Americans had told him that it would be a while before everyone could go north, but they had provided the prisoners with MREs and bottled water, and since many of the Soviets hadn't had much to eat the past few days, the food and water was gratefully accepted. He'd actually enjoyed his MRE, which had said “Ham and Cheese omelet” and had even liked the fruit punch and coffee that came with it. Then he noticed an American officer coming towards him. A nearby guard saluted, then the officer spoke, “I'm looking for Colonel Alexandrov.”

Alexandrov stood up, “You have found him.”

“Good, please come with me.” the American said. Confused, Alexandrov followed the American officer to a Humvee, where several American officers-male and female, were standing, looking over a map-and that map was of the airport. The American saluted another officer-who was clearly in command of the group. “Sir, I have Colonel Alexandrov.”

“Sir, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Joel Wainwright, XVIII Airborne Corps engineers. We need to know where any and all unexploded ordnance is. It's just as much a danger to your men still here as it is to us.”

Alexandrov nodded. Though some might call it collaboration with the enemy, others would say that the safety of his men came first. “I can show you, Colonel. But I have to warn you: I don't know where all of it is, only what was reported.”

Colonel Wainwright nodded. “Fair enough, Colonel. Why don't you show us?” As Alexandrov began to do so, Wainwright added, “Chances are, we're not going to find all of it, either. Some of it's going to get someone killed, fifteen, maybe twenty years from now.”


0900 Hours: Gulf Front Headquarters, Rancho Viejo, Texas.

General Malinsky stood outside his office, watching as UH-60 and CH-47 helicopters flew overhead, heading south. Obviously, this was the 101st Airborne Division making its presence felt, and he wondered why that division had not been committed-unless the division was being held in reserve for this particular eventuality. Well, maybe he'd ask an American officer when the Americans arrived. And he didn't have long to wait, for a group of helicopters flew in and landed on what had been the high school's sports fields. Heavily armed paratroopers came out and secured the landing area, then a senior officer came forward. Malinsky and Isakov went to meet him. “General Malinsky, commanding the Gulf Front,” he said with a slight bow.

“Lieutenant Colonel Pete Fanning, 2-506 Airborne Infantry, 2nd Brigade, 101st Airborne,” the American replied, saluting.

Malinsky nodded, returning the salute, “Colonel, you will find everything here in order.”

“That's good, General. Please wait,” Fanning said as he summoned his RTO. Another Blackhawk, which had been orbiting nearby, came in and landed. Another officer, along with several staff officers, came out. Colonel Fanning walked over to him, obviously reporting to him. Then the officer came over, wearing three stars on his fatigue cap. “General Malinsky?” the American said, “Lieutenant General Gary Luck, XVIII Airborne Corps.”

“General,” Malinsky said, nodding. “Please, this way to the operations room. Everything you need is there.”

“All right, let's go.” Luck said.

Malinsky and Isakov led the Americans into the operations room, where the staff had still been at work, making sure things went smoothly. Out of habit, the staff came to attention. Malinsky nodded, as did General Luck. “General, we need to know if you have any minefields laid-if you were trying to block any kind of helicopter assault. And we need to know about your ammunition dumps: we've got them located, but which ones have any kind of chemical munitions.” Luck said.

Isakov spoke up, “I have that information, General,” and he went over to a desk and picked up two maps. One had the Front's ammunition storage points marked, while another had several minefields. “The first map has the ammunition storage, though all of them have chemical munitions of one sort or another. And the second shows the minefields-at least those that the various armies had reported before things started to come apart.”

Luck picked up the maps and handed them to his intelligence officer. “Pass the information on minefields to the 101st and to 18th Aviation Brigade. Send the material on the ammo dumps to the 101st and to II MAF: there's a couple in their AOR.”

“Right away, General,” the intelligence officer said, going back to the landing zone to get the material flown out.

“General,” Malinsky said, “I thank you for what you've been able to do already for the wounded. Though I fear that your efforts, along with ours, will be too late for many.”

Luck nodded. He'd had that information from his own intelligence sources come in a few days earlier: those who were not in shape to be returned to duty were on the airlift, while those who could be patched up and sent back to the front got priority. Those whose wounds were much more serious, were left undertreated, or in some cases, untreated and allowed to die. “Won't be the first time: but the last time something like this happened was probably in Germany in '45.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Malinsky said.

“General...” Luck said, “I'm curious: where's your political officer and his people?”

“Before the cease-fire took effect, many of those fled. Others shot themselves,” Malinsky said.

“Given as to what many-though not all of them-did, it's not a surprise.” Luck said. “And we got word that you were evacuating your intelligence people.”

“That's correct,” Malinsky said.

“Well....we can't get them all, because a lot of them do have innocent blood on their hands, General.”

“I understand, General Luck. It is...unfortunate that the war turned those who should have simply done their duty, into beasts.” Malinsky said. “Still....General, before I and my staff go north, I would like to offer a toast. Isakov,” Malinsky nodded to the chief of staff, who produced a bottle of vodka and several glasses.

“A toast, General?” Luck asked, incredulous.

“Yes. A toast to peace. At least in this corner of the war. And I imagine that men like you and me have seen and done enough in the last four years.”

“You're right about that. Vietnam, now this.....I've seen enough. I'll tell you one thing, General. As soon as they work out an Armistice, I'm going to retire,” Luck said.

“Then shall we drink to an early retirement?” Malinsky asked.

“Yes. Let's,” Luck said.


0920 Hours: Camp 24, near Laguna Vista, Texas.


Captain Dimitriev watched with the two American senior officers as the helicopters flew overhead, and the prisoners waved to the troops in the helicopters, who waved back. He had made sure that the guards remained in their barracks, with their weapons stacked outside, and the guard towers were unmanned. And the Soviet and ALA flags had been hauled down as well. Not to mention the supplies that had been air-dropped earlier had been distributed: food, medicine, and bottled water. And Dimitriev had one other little bit of cleaning house to tend to after Tsernik's suicide: he'd gone looking for the political officer, only to find that the man had gone. When he'd told this to the senior officers, Captain Pearson had simply scowled, saying, “So the worm took off for Mexico? Good luck getting there,” while Major Caldwell had said nothing.

Then a flight of UH-60s orbited the camp, as if looking for a place to land. After finding a suitable landing site, the Blackhawks landed, and out came heavily armed soldiers, who surrounded the guard barracks and waited in front of the main gate. Dimitriev glanced at the two American officers, and said as he nodded towards the gate, “Shall we?”

The trio went to the main gate, and found American troops there in full battle gear, though wearing their caps instead of helmets. And the Captain who was waiting at the main gate was obviously female. But the M-16 rifle she bore in her hand-and the way she wielded it-indicated that this woman was a combat veteran. “I am Captain Dimitriev, the acting camp commander,” Dimitirev said. “And I have the two senior American POW officers with me.”

The female officer nodded, and gestured to a sergeant next to her. He took out a large set of bolt cutters and cut the chain on the gate, which swung open. “Captain Regan Nyberg, 3-187, 101st Airborne. Order your men to come out of their barracks, hands on their heads, and no funny business,” she said, with an angry tone of voice.

Dimitriev nodded, and walked over to the barracks, covered by the paratroopers. He yelled in Russian, and as Nyberg had ordered, the guards came out of the barracks, hands on their heads. Then Dimitriev handed his pistol to the captain. “Your prisoner, Captain.”

“Go over with your men,” Nyberg said. “First Sergeant, tag all of 'em as POW camp guards, and keep them separate from other EPWs. Let battalion know the guards were still here, and request instructions.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” the first sergeant replied, and the guards were marched off. As they were marched off, a steady stream of now former POWs came out of the camp, hugging the paratroopers who were coming in.

The two senior officers identified themselves, and Nyberg saluted them, and then ordered her troops into the compound. The two gave her a tour, showing her the commandant's office (with the deceased Major Tsernik now attracting flies), the interrogation rooms in the HQ building, with dried bloodstains, the posts in the compound where prisoners were tied and beaten, the isolation area, with sweat boxes, ramshackle POW barracks, the inadequate bathing and sanitary facilities, and the building in the North Compound where female POWs were taken to “entertain” guards and visiting VIPs. Throughout the tour, Nyberg stayed calm, and both Caldwell and Pearson looked at her. “Captain,” Caldwell said, “You don't seem surprised.”

“I'm not. Sad to say, this isn't my first time. I liberated a couple of POW camps last year, west of Houston. They were just like this.” she said.

“Nobody should have to see this more than once,” Pearson said. She'd been in two other camps before being sent to 24.

Captain Nyberg nodded. Then she looked around. “Where's the supply area?”

“Behind the guards' barracks. Why?” Caldwell asked.

“OK, do they have any gas?”

“Yeah, for their generator. Why do you ask?”

“I think I know what she's got in mind,” Pearson said.

“Here's what we'll do: I'll have my first sergeant get the gas and he'll get it spread around these buildings. Before you leave-and I'll either get trucks or see if a helicopter lift can be organized-we'll put this place to the torch.” Nyberg said.

The two senior officers looked at each other, then at her. Both grinned from ear to ear. “I take it that means yes?” Nyberg asked.

They nodded, and then she said. “Good. Let's get it over and done.”


0940 Hours: U.S. 281, Brownsville City Limits:

It had been a long time coming, but now, Kozak's Team was at the Brownsville city limits. The point element, a tank and a Bradley, had stopped at the sign, and to no one' s surprise, the crews got out and took pictures of each other. After a blast on the radio from Kozak, the chagrined soldiers got back into their vehicles and continued south. The reporters, though, did stop. And everyone noticed the CNN crew filming the team's vehicles as they crossed into the city, the first American troops, or so they hoped, in the city in four years.

As her Bradley entered the city, Kozak got on the radio to the battalion commander, reporting entry into the city. And his response pleased her. “Get to the University of South Texas-Brownsville and secure it. That's Soviet Headquarters, Division says. Get there as quick as you can.”

Pleased at the thought of taking the surrender of the Soviet commander and his staff, Kozak acknowledged the order, and told the Team to push on. As the Team, with the rest of the division following along and behind, moved deeper into outskirts of Brownsville, a stream of civilians came out, waving and cheering, while some broke out long-hidden American flags and were waving them at the tanks and Bradleys as they rumbled past. Many of them showed the signs of people who'd been living on an inadequate for a long time, and soldiers threw MREs and water to the people they'd fought so hard to liberate. As they pushed on, one thing did occur to Kozak: none of her troops were original members of the 49th, and no one was familiar with the area. When her Bradley came to an intersection, she told her driver to stop. A crowd of civilians came up, clapping and cheering, and Kozak waved and smiled. After she got up and off the Bradley, she felt like her grandfather had in Paris, 1944. And soon, she was surrounded by cheering civilians, not noticing Jan Fields' crew filming the scene. Then she asked, “Anyone here know the way to UT South Texas?”

Several people indicated they did, and one offered his services as a guide: before the war, he'd been a graduate student in biology, and not only knew the way there, but also knew the campus backwards and forwards. “All right, hop on,” she said, climbing back onto the Bradley. The young man, to the cheers from the crowd, climbed onto Kozak's Bradley and simply rode on top. While that was going on, her Third Platoon leader came up on the net. “Six, we got something here.”

“What is it, Three-one?”

“Six, it's an ALA or PSD office; can't tell which. But somebody beat us to 'em. The place is a mess, but the files are all out here, neatly arranged, and in front....”

“What's in front?” Kozak asked.

“Bodies. All wearing ALA or PSD uniforms. Some of 'em are burned or shot up pretty bad, but half of 'em....all shot in the back of the head.” Third Platoon's leader said.

Somebody's just saved JAG a ton of work, was her first thought. Then she asked her guide. “Know anything about that?”

“No, nobody could go out because of the curfew, but we heard a lot of shooting.” the civilian said.

An interesting question: who'd done away with the local ALA or PSD? And that kind of precision ruled out guerrillas. Kozak got on the radio and informed the battalion commander, who immediately ordered Alpha Company to send a platoon to secure the site. Kozak was to continue her advance. As the Team rolled on, she asked the guide, “How far to the campus?”

“Two miles, give or take,” he replied.

This is going to be the longest two miles of my life, she thought. But it'll be worth it, to see the faces of not only the Soviet brass, but the airborne mafia when they see we beat 'em to the Soviet HQ.

[Matt Wiser]

The endgame approaches:

1000 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville.

Marshal Alekseyev looked out the window of his office, and and the sky was full of American aircraft and helicopters. A steady stream of aircraft flew in and out of the Airport, while helicopters came in and landed at various locations, unloading troops and supplies, then heading off. Apache and Cobra gunships flitted overhead, providing cover, while American fighters and attack aircraft circled overhead. It was clear the Americans were not taking any chances.

He also took a look at the city, and from this vantage point, he could see some American columns pushing in, with crows of civilians lining the streets. To the Marshal, it reminded him of films of cities liberated from the Hitlerites during the Great Patriotic War, and he realized all to well that to the Americans, this was their equivalent. Shrugging his shoulders, he went back to the Operations Room, where most of the staff was there, waiting, along with Chibisov and Sergetov. Alekseyev motioned to the two to follow him, and the trio went down to the foyer, and out the front door. “This reminds me of something, Comrades, from reading about the campaign in the west, in 1944.” Alekseyev said.

“What is that, Comrade Marshal?” Sergetov asked.

“Paris, 1944. I am in the position similar to that of General Dietrich von Choltitz, who was the commandant of the city when the French and Americans arrived. All we can do is wait for the Americans to arrive and formally take possession of the city,” Alekseyev said.

Both Chibisov and Sergetov nodded, as an OH-58D Kiowa Warrior and a pair of AH-64A Apaches flew overhead, scouting along the river. So far, there had hardly been any shooting from across the river, which Alekseyev was glad to hear, and hopefully, cooler heads on that side of the river will prevail. Given how determined the Mexicans were in the final days, he frankly didn't expect that to happen, and that when he arrived at whatever senior officer POW camp the Americans sent him to, he'd find out that the Americans had invaded Mexico. And given what the Mexicans had done since 1984, he honestly didn't blame the Americans one bit for wanting to settle those scores in a very serious and direct manner. His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of Humvees coming up to the perimeter. Fine vehicles, those Humvees, he thought, and captured examples had served the Soviets well, and some examples had even been sent to the USSR to help with the design of Soviet light transport vehicles. The occupants of the Humvees got out and began to set up a satellite antenna, and a tripod with what looked like a camera. Curious, Alekseyev sent Sergetov over to see who these Americans were. Clearly, they didn't appear to be military. Sergetov went over, spoke to the Americans, and then came back, with a confused look on his face. “Well, Comrade Colonel?”

“Comrade Marshal, you're not going to believe this..” Sergetov said.

“What?” Alekseyev responded.

“They're not military, but are reporters. One group is a TV news crew for one of the American networks-CBS, he said, while others are from either news services or newspapers.” Sergetov said.

“How did they get here ahead of the U.S. Army?” Chibisov asked.

“The correspondent for the CBS crew, Bob McKewon, said they asked local civilians which way to get here, and they simply drove onto side streets and not the 77-83 freeway, or any other main road. Those are crowded with military traffic as well as crowds of civilians.” said Sergetov. “He said it's the worst traffic jam he's ever seen.”

And General McCaffery's words about the military and the news media came back to Alekseyev. “Well, Comrades, they're here, and there's not much we can do about it,” he observed, noticing the camera being trained in their direction. Then a shout came from the east side of the perimeter. “They're here!”

A column of Humvees, a platoon of LAV-25s, and a platoon of what looked to be Cadillac-Gage Stingrays began to appear at the East Gate. The Americans slowly advanced, turrets swinging back and forth, clearly showing that they were not taking any chances. As they did so, another shout came from the West Gate. M-60A4-105 tanks and Bradley IFVs were approaching. These, too, were moving their turrets, not taking any chances. Both columns met in front of the Soviet Headquarters, and the respective commanders got out. The two talked for a few minutes, shook hands for the TV cameras, then both came to Alekseyev, saluting, a male captain in an airborne beret and a female mechanized infantry captain, still wearing her combat vehicle helmet.

“Captain Mark Hanson, 2-325 Airborne Infantry, 2nd Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division,”

“Captain Nancy Kozak, 3-144 Infantry, 3rd Brigade, 49th Armored Division,”

Alekseyev returned the salutes, as did Chibisov and Sergetov. “I am Marshal Alekseyev. We have been waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” Hanson replied. “I have orders to secure the area for General Powell's arrival. He will be here shortly, once the area is declared secured. Though we're in different corps, Captain Kozak apparently has similar orders.”

“That I do,” Kozak said. She turned to Hanson. “Why don't your men take the east side, and we'll take the west? Marshal, are there any minefields or booby traps we need to know about?”

“Yes, we have some antipersonnel mines out, as an anti-guerrilla measure.” Alekseyev turned to Sergetov. “Go and bring those maps here, Colonel.”

“Right away, Comrade Marshal,” Sergetov said, and he went back in to get the maps.

Alekseyev noticed the news crews coming in closer and setting up their cameras. Before long, the network crews were on the air, live. He grimaced, but tried not to show it. Then Sergetov came with the maps. “Here are the maps, Comrade Marshal, Captains,”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Hanson said. “I've got an engineer platoon with me, they can get started. Fortunately, there's no mines that may be an immediate danger, but when civilians start to return...”

“Just like in Stalingrad,” Chibisov said. The two American officers looked at him. “It took months of work before many areas of the city were declared safe for people to return. I believe you've got similar issues in San Antonio and Houston, among others.”

“Unfortunately, that's true, General,” Kozak said.

Hanson and Kozak then studied the map further. “Like we said, I'll take the west side, you take the east side. Let's get these guys disarmed and ready to go north.” Kozak said, seeing Hanson nod. “How long until General Powell arrives?”

“When I tell battalion the area's secured,” Hanson said, “Which won't be too long.”


1015 Hours: 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, South Padre Island, Texas.


Major Lazarev watched as a C-130 transport flew over the island, dropping leaflets to the civilians still living there. Just a day before, anyone possessing such a leaflet could expect to be shot, but now, the Americans were getting ready to arrive on the island. He noticed that civilians were coming out of their storm shelters and homes, and many were shaking hands with each other, glad to have made it through the invasion and occupation, and now, he also noticed, some were coming out with long-hidden American flags-possession of which could have gotten the owner sent to a labor camp at the very least-if not summarily shot. Now, the Americans were coming back, and the local population was in a mood to celebrate.

He watched as several CH-46 helicopters came over and began to orbit, obviously searching for places to land. So, he would be surrendering to the U.S. Marines, it appeared. His chief of staff, and Captain Lieutenant Kamarov came to him. “Well, Comrades, it's just about time.”

“Would you rather have fought a useless battle, Major?” Kamarov asked. “I'm just glad that most of my crew has made it, and as far as I'm concerned, that's all I care about right now.”

“Understandable,” Lazarev said, watching as the first helicopters began to touch down, near the Queen Isabella Causeway. They soon lifted off, having deposited their Marines, and soon, more helicopters began to come in. A few minutes later, U.S. Marines began coming up Park Road 100, South Padre Island's main street, and civilians were coming out to welcome their liberators. The Marine point element came up to the 175th's headquarters, and Lazarev and the other two officers went to meet the Marines. “Major Lazarev, 175th Naval Infantry Brigade, Red Banner Northern Fleet,” he said, saluting the Marine Lieutenant who was leading his platoon.

“Major. Lieutenant Robert Greer, 2/23 Marines, 4th Marine Division,” the Marine said, returning the salute. “How many do you have here?”

“I have about 3,000 Naval Infantry, about five hundred sailors from various commands, and several hundred others-air defense, coastal defense, and rear services.” Lazarev said.

The Marine nodded, waving up his RTO. “How many civilians are here?”

“About 2,000, Lieutenant. Some were....relocated, but others were allowed to remain.” Lazarev said.

The Marine officer then spoke into his radio. And a few minutes later, a senior Marine officer came forward. By the eagle insignia, he was a Colonel. Lazarev saluted, and the Marine returned it, saying, “Colonel Sean Bradford, 23rd Marines.”

“Major Lazarev. We have all of our weapons assembled in one location, and have kept the heavy weapons separate.” Lazarev said.

“That's good, Major. Now, do you have any minefields? The beach, especially?” Bradford wanted to know.

“Mines were one thing my brigade was short of. But I can give you a map of my defenses: all of the minefields, such as they were, are marked.” said Lazarev.

“Show me,” the Marine Colonel said, and Lazarev and the other officers brought the Marine Colonel and several other Marine officers into the headquarters. And Lazarev's chief of staff pointed out the mine locations on the map-mostly around the buildings where the Naval Infantry had dug into. One of Bradford's officers took the map and headed out to inform the Marines now moving to take their Soviet opposite numbers into custody. “Major, you're probably wondering if you sat here, twiddling your thumbs, while the real action took place down at Boca Chica.”

“Colonel, the thought had occurred to me.” Lazarev said.

“Well...I guess I can tell you now. We thought a great deal about coming ashore here, and had a plan to do it. But the recon pictures showed your defenses, and so....Boca Chica it was. There was only a single battalion on the beach, and that was a penal unit.” Bradford said.

“A penal unit?” Lazarev was astonished.

“That's right. Now, if they'd been KGB, or maybe your airborne, it would've been a real brawl. Instead, most of them simply raised their hands, while the rest took to their heels,” replied the Marine Colonel.

“I can assure you, Colonel, that no such behavior would have happened here,” Lazarev said. “My orders were clear: defend this island at all costs.”

“And that's one reason we didn't land here. The other one is the demolitions: the Causeway and the Port Isabel oil refinery.” Bradford said.

Lazarev nodded. “I know the causeway was set with demolitions, but I know nothing about the oil refinery.”

“I doubt you did. Anyway,” Bradford said, “Be glad you and your men are alive.”

Major Lazerev simply nodded, and the party went back outside, as Soviet Naval Infantrymen, sailors, and others came out of their positions to be searched, and formed up to be taken off the island. He watched as a Marine officer came up to Colonel Bradford. “Sir, the causeway's secured. But getting all the demo charges off, it's going to be an all-day job.”

Bradford turned to Lazarev, then back to the officer. “All right, get some MREs and water for these men, they'll be here until the causeway's declared safe.” The officer nodded and went off to relay the order.

“Major, sorry about that. But no one's using that causeway until it's declared safe to do so. Don't worry: you and your men will be fed, and anyone who needs medical attention will get it.” Bradford said.


1050 Hours: K-236, The Gulf of Mexico:


“Captain to CCP!” the boat's PA system barked.

Captain Padorin got up from his chair in the wardroom. He'd been going over his patrol report so far, and wondered if the kills he'd made would balance out the fact that they had been in vain. That's for Caribbean Squadron to decide, he rationalized, but we did everything possible, and it wasn't enough. If Zirinsky was still with them, he might have caused trouble, but that was no longer any concern to Padorin. His only regret was that Zirinsky had not delayed his mutiny solicitation until after the pocket's liquidation: then it would be clear that the man had tried to mutiny in favor of a lost cause. But the Zampolit was not missed aboard the boat, and it was obvious that K-236 was a happy boat at the moment.

Padorin went into the CCP, where Shelpin was standing watch. “What do we have, Shelpin?”

“We have an ELF message for us, Comrade Captain,” Shelpin replied. “As per the order book, I have ordered the boat to antenna depth, and slowed to five knots.”

“Very good. I have the deck and the con,” the Captain replied. “Present depth?”

“Sixty meters, Comrade Captain,” the helm replied.

“Very well, Helm.” Padorin said.

The boat was soon at antenna depth,and after the ESM mast was raised and showed all clear, the radio antenna was raised. The message came in, and again, it was repeated. “What now?” Padorin asked. “That's the second time in a row they've repeated messages.”

The Starpom came into the CCP-he'd been off watch in his cabin. “Another message?” he asked.

“Right. Now we wait until decoding. Lower antenna, and up periscope.” Padorin ordered.

The periscope came up, and Padorin did a full sweep. “No contacts, down scope,” and the periscope went back down. Then the communications officer came in. “Yes?” Padorin asked.

“Comrade Captain, message from Caribbean Squadron,” the man responded.

Padorin took the message form, and this time, a smile came to his face. “Our search and rescue mission is canceled, Comrades.”

Everyone in the CCP, the Starpom and Security Officer especially, let out a sigh of relief. “What are our new orders?” asked the Starpom.

“Return to previous station in Yucatan Channel, and await further orders,” Padorin said. He turned to the helm officer. “Come left to one-four-zero.”

“Coming left to one-four-zero, Comrade Captain.” the officer replied.

“Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters, and make turns for ten knots.”

“Two hundred and fifty meters, make turns for ten knots, Aye, Comrade Captain.” the man said.

Once the boat was on its new course and at that depth, Padorin turned to Shelpin. “You have the deck and the con. I'll be in my quarters.”


1100 Hours: Soviet Headquarters, Brownsville


Marshal Alekseyev and his staff watched as the Americans went about the business of securing the perimeter, checking for mines, and closing up on the Mexican border. He was very impressed with how through and serious the Americans took their tasks, recalling the difference between that and prewar propaganda, which depicted American soldiers as pampered, spoiled, pushovers who were likely to surrender or run away. Now, that may have happened at times in the early days, but whoever wrote those words back then was dead wrong, by and large. Not to mention the fact that there were so many women serving-and in combat units. A female company commander? He'd encountered two in the last twenty-four hours, and he had noticed female soldiers in that infantry company positioned where he'd gone through American lines to meet with Powell. And there were more here: female tankers and mechanized infantry on the west side, and female paratroopers on the east side, and they were just as serious as their male counterparts. For his part, Chibisov commented on how the paratroopers appeared: in full combat gear, but wearing their maroon berets instead of their helmets. It was plain that the Americans wanted not just the Soviets, but any potential troublemakers, as well as the civilian population, to see that the 82nd had arrived, and that the airborne meant business. There had been some scattered shooting, but things went smoothly for the most part, much to everyone's relief. Then the airborne company commander came up.

“Marshal, This area is secured. I've notified General Powell, and his helicopter will be here in a few minutes.”

Alekseyev nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Were the minefield maps useful?”

“Yes, sir. The engineer platoon's pleased, and their company commander is as well. Fortunately, they're pretty easy to clear: either the MON series of Claymore copies, or some POM-Z stake mines. Finding and clearing any antitank mines, though...that's going to be tougher, he said.” Hansen responded.

Then four Humvees, two from the east-the 82nd's area, and two from the west-the 49th Armored's area, arrived. Alekseyev noticed the female mechanized company commander going to the ones from her division, and Captain Hansen going to those from the 82nd. He noticed that the lead Humvee in each had a placard with two stars on it: those had to be divisional commanders. And sure enough, two general officers, one in an airborne beret, and the other in a field cap came together, shook hands, and came up to Alekseyev and his staff.

“Marshal, Major General Robert Gregory, 82nd Airborne Division,” the airborne general said, saluting.

“Major General Wesley Clark, 49th Armored Division.” said the armor officer.

“Gentlemen,” Alekseyev said, returning their salutes. “Two divisions here?”

“Well, Marshal, both of our units were in kind of a race to be the first here, and for all intents and purposes, the first to the International Bridges. Just as your army in 1945 had a race to Berlin and the Reichstag, I believe.” Clark said. “Then there's the traditional rivalry between the airborne and everyone else in the Army,” he said, glancing at General Gregory, who nodded.

“I see.. and General Powell?” Alekseyev asked.

“He's on his way by helicopter,” Gregory said. “He ought to be here anytime, Marshal.” Then came the sound of helicopters. “That should be him,” he said, pointing to four UH-60s coming in close. The four helicopters made a circle, then flared and landed. After the helicopters shut down and the rotors stopped spinning, the occupants came out. General Powell and his staff came out of the first two helicopters, a number of MPs came out of the third, and a group of reporters came out of the fourth. The two American generals saw the reporters and shook their heads. “There's enough of them here already,” Gregory muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Clark replied. “But at least I've got Jan Fields over there,” he said, pointing to the CNN crew with Kozak's company.

“And the General brought Christiane Armanpour and her bunch with him,” Gregrory said. “Oh, well. Let's get on with it.”

Alekseyev watched as the two generals went to greet Powell, and some words were exchanged. Then both generals assembled their respective divisions' honor guards, while the reporters were shown where they could set up. Only then did General Powell come to meet Alekseyev. “Marshal,”

“General Powell,” Alekseyev said. “So it is time.”

“Yes, it is. Again, I'll say it for the record. Your forces put up the best fight they could. Even though the outcome was inevitable, your men fought hard.” Powell said.

“Thank you, General. If your Navy and Air Forces hadn't been as successful in cutting our supply lines, we'd likely still be in our positions that we had at the beginning of the month.” Alekseyev said.

“Probably so, Marshal. So far, things have gone smoothly. Some rough spots-like some guerrillas coming out and trying to take revenge, but those have been taken care of. And I'm curious: who did away with the ALA and PSD here? Some of my commanders have said that those offices-along with some KGB and DGI, were eliminated with precision.” Powell said.

“Let's just say, General, that some of my airmobile troops handled that bit of...housecleaning, for want of a better term,” Alekseyev said.

Powell took the hint. Obviously Alekseyev was referring to Spetsnatz, but still couldn't openly say it. “Well, whoever it was did a very good job.” Seeing Alekesyev nod, Powell said, “All right, let's get on with it.” He turned to the two generals and issued orders.

Two soldiers from the 82nd came forward and lowered the Soviet flag. None of the Americans saluted, though of course, the Soviets did. The flag was folded and presented to General Powell, who then gave it to General Clark, as a present to the 49th Armored Division. Then two soldiers from the 82nd, and two from the 49th, came forward. The pair from the 82nd had the American Flag, while the pair from the 49th had the flag of the State of Texas-recognizing the fact that the 49th had been a Texas National Guard Division before the war. A bugler sounded, and as he did so, the Stars and Stripes were raised, with everyone saluting. After that, the state flag was run up the other flagpole. Then Alekseyev walked over to Powell, removed his service pistol from his holster, unloaded it, cleared the chamber, and presented it to the General, and then saluted. Powell returned it, and only then did he shake Alekseyev's hand.

After he did so, and accepted Alekseyev's invitation to tour the headquarters, Powell went to address the media, and the soldiers from both divisions present. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it has been a long road from that dark day in September, 1985, when we all awoke to the news that not only had we been subjected to nuclear attack, but that the unbelievable had happened: Soviet and Soviet-bloc forces were on American soil. Despite the shock and panic of those early days, the wheels were set in motion so that we would not only resist, but would repel the invading forces. After the Battle of Wichita, the outcome was never in doubt, and two years ago, we started on the long road south, the road to victory. So many good men and women have given so much, and some have given everything they had: not just those in uniform, but those who fought a different kind of war, behind the lines, in the tradition of Frances Marion or Roger Mosby, a guerrilla war the likes of which has not been seen before on American soil. Despite the trials and tribulations, successes and setbacks, the goal has remained the same: the defeat of Soviet and Soviet-bloc forces in America. Now, four years after the outbreak of war, and two years after embarking on the long and bloody road south, that goal-at least in the lower 48, has been achieved. There are no more Soviet or Soviet-bloc forces fighting anywhere on the soil of the Continental United States. While much remains to be done, both here and in the Northern Theater, where we fight alongside our Canadian and British allies, but soon, all of the territories remaining under enemy occupation will be free. Again, it has been a long and bloody road, but this is the payoff. Thank you, and as General Douglas MacArthur said on the deck of the Missouri after a similar ceremony forty-four years ago, 'these proceedings are closed.'”

[Matt Wiser]

The epilogue will follow tomorrow.

[Matt Wiser]

Here it is:


Epilogue:


7 October, 1989, 1400 Hours Moscow Time, Headquarters, 1st Shock Army, outside Moscow, RSFSR:


Marshal Akhromayev went down into the bunker on the base complex. The bunker had been built in the 1970s to enable military units to function in the event of a nuclear attack on the Moscow area, and the facility had seen service during the early days of the war, when the Americans had conducted two limited nuclear strikes in the Moscow area, and in 1986, when the Americans took nuclear revenge for a failed attempt to destroy the American President's bunker on the Pennsylvania-Maryland border. Now, the bunker's facilities were serving a much different purpose, as those in the Army, Party, and the KGB who were determined to end the war and in so doing, save the USSR, were meeting for the first time.

One thing still bothered the Marshal: so far, there had been no announcement on State Radio or Television about the surrender in Texas. The usual military communique simply stated that fighting continued, and that Soviet forces were “resisting gallantly.” What nonsense! General Vitaly Berkenev, the GRU director (who was attending the meeting) had reported that news of the surrender had traveled fast: the Voice of America, the BBC, Radio Liberty, and Radio Free Europe were spreading the news, along with stations in Poland, Turkey, Iran, South Korea, and Japan, and their broadcasts could easily be picked up. Not to mention the fact that in the Baltic Republics, some were able to pick up Finnish or Swedish TV, and those stations had the surrender as their lead stories. He'd spoken about this with Chairman Kosov, who verified Berkenev's reports. And still, that Chekist bastard who's General Secretary won't tell the people! There will come a time, Comrade Chebrikov, mark my words, Akhromayev thought.

Now, as the Marshal entered the bunker's conference room, he saw the Chief of the General Staff, General Pavel Grachev, and the Commander of the Moscow MD, General Mikhail Moisyev, engaged in a serious conversation. General Berkenev, for his part, was talking with General Ivan Morozov, the Commander of the Beylorussian MD, and two of the couriers who'd escaped from the pocket, General Lukin and Major Sorokin, along with General Vitaly Glavchenko, who commanded the Leningrad Military District. Chairman Kosov, for his part, was talking with Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin, two of the candidate Politburo members, and two of the others-Ministers Sergetov and Bromkovsky, were talking with Aleksandr Bessmertnykh, the deputy Foreign Minister whose thankless job of attending UN meetings had proven to be quite a futile effort: no one believed or trusted the USSR, except for its allies, any more. Even the client states in Africa, along with the Syrians, Iraqis, and South Yemenis, were keeping the USSR at arm's length these days.

Then, Chairman Kosov noticed the Marshal. “Comrades, Marshal Ahkromayev is here. Perhaps we can begin?”

Heads nodded and the conspirators, for want of a better word, took their seats. Grachev had chosen a perfect location, and no one would suspect this location, of all places, for such a meeting. The Marshal nodded to two officers at the door, and the entrance to the room was sealed and guarded. “Comrades, I am glad you all could attend. I would like to thank all of you, and not only General Grachev for arranging things here, but General Lukin and Major Sorokin, our two couriers who managed to escape the pocket,” the Marshal said, nodding to those two officers, who acknowledged the Marshal. “I believe all of you have been briefed, either individually or in small groups, by these two, and I trust their information was of considerable value?” Heads nodded around the table, and the Marshal continued. “First of all, our objectives here are twofold. First: we seek to save the state. It is not only Chebrikov, but virtually the entire Politburo, who has driven this country to disaster. So, whoever replaces Chebrikov (the Marshal avoided the term “comrade”) must be willing to not only bring the country back from the brink of civil war-and some areas of Central Asia and the Caucasus are approaching that brink as we speak. Second, he must also bring an end to the war. This war has gone on long enough. It is time that we came to a peace with America and her allies. We have paid a high price in blood and treasure for a lost war, and there is no point in continuing the fight any longer.”

“I agree, Comrade Marshal,” Kosov said. “In order to do so, we must remove the current General Secretary and the Politburo-except, of course, for Comrade Bromkovsky. And we must do so quietly, if at all possible. Just as it was done in 1964.”

“Agreed,” both Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin said at once. Then Yeltsin-the Party Boss of Moscow-spoke up, “I have seen for myself the effects of this war on our people: the endless shortages, the young men who answer their draft call-and many of whom have never returned, or those who have returned, do so maimed or crippled for life, and the widows and parents of those killed or missing. You all know the parade of widows and mothers that takes place every Friday, from Moscow Party to Red Square?” When several of those present nodded-including Chairman Kosov-he continued. “All of whom are angry bitter, and feel a sense of betrayal. All these people have left of their loved ones is photographs, memories, and a telegram from the Defense Ministry, informing them of the death of their husband or son-in some cases, sons. And this is not just in Moscow: it's spread to Leningrad, Minsk, Kiev, Kazan, Tiblisi, and several other cities, no?”

“Yes, it has,” Kosov said. “And none have been arrested: because if we do that, who knows what's going to happen next? There have already been strikes and protests-largely in Central Asia, but some in the Ukraine and the Caucasus, but they could spread easily-and out of control.”

Heads nodded around the table. The Ahkromayev said, “Comrades, to end the war, and save the Rodina, we must take decisive action. However, I have no ambitions to become General Secretary. I am a soldier.” He looked at Chairman Kosov; “And I assume Chairman Kosov also has no such ambitions, given that we've had two General Secretaries come out of the KGB, both of whom had roles to play in starting this misadventure?”

Kosov nodded. “That is correct, Marshal. Now, whoever becomes General Secretary is in this room. He is not a soldier or KGB. Before we decide on who, let us hear from those who have escaped from the pocket, General Berkenev for the overall military situation, along with Comrade Bessmertnykh, who can fill us in on the international aspects, then we can come to an agreement on how to proceed.”

Sergetov stood up. “I never thought I'd hear this from the KGB, but I am in agreement with him and the Marshal. Let us have an open and free discussion, and then come to a consensus on how best to carry this out.”

“I agree also,” Gorbachev said. “This war has gone on long enough, and threatens to bring down the Rodina around our ears. To save Russia, we must act.” The discussion that followed was spirited-and honest.

Two hours later, everyone was in agreement: a quiet coup, if at all possible, or failing that, one carried out with a minimum of force. Any of the Politburo members who resisted would be killed, but hopefully all would be taken into custody. The nuclear codes would be safe, with both Ahkromayev and Kosov quietly gaining control of the “football” beforehand. Then a troika of Gorbachev, Sergetov, and Yeltsin would be formed, to gain control of the Party and State apparatus, while the military and KGB supported their move. And if the VV (Interior Ministry) troops tried to intervene, they would have to be dealt with-hopefully with a minimum amount of force needed. Once the troika was in control, their first act would be to arrange a cease-fire with the Americans and their allies, prior to peace talks beginning in Geneva or Stockholm. And some unilateral actions would be taken to show the new government's sincerity, such as releasing all prisoners of war, accounting for those the Allies listed as Missing in Action, and commencing withdrawal from remaining occupied territories.

Just before the meeting adjourned, with an agreement to meet again at the same headquarters, one of General Berkenev's aides came into the meeting room, and passed a note to the General. “Comrades, if I may, but there is a new development. State Radio and Television will be making an announcement momentarily,” He nodded to the aide, who turned on a TV in the meeting room. The familiar scene of Red Square came onto the screen, then came the announcer. “We interrupt our regular programming on television and radio to make an important announcement: 'The High Command of the Armed Forces announces that the Soviet and Socialist Forces in Texas, under the leadership of Marshal Alekseyev, have been overcome by superior enemy forces, due to unfavorable tactical situations, and severe conditions affecting our forces. A decree from Comrade General Secretary Chebrikov declares three days of national mourning, with all public entertainment closed, and flags flown at half-staff in honor of the brave soldiers who have fallen.'” Then the camera shifted to an orchestra, and somber music began to play.

Several of the conspirators shook their heads, and Akhromayev spat. “So it took the bastard two days to decide what to tell the people? We must act, Comrades. Two weeks, three at the most. Before the Northern Theater collapses-and it will do so before winter sets in. And we can save what's left of our nation's self-respect and honor in so doing.”



1200 Hours Central Time, 7 October, K-236, the Gulf of Mexico.


“Comrade Captain, a word?”

Captain Padorin looked up from the plot table and turned to see the boat's medical officer. “Certainly, Doctor.”

“In private, please.”

Both officers left the CCP and went into the wardroom, locking the door behind them. “Yes, Doctor?” Padorin asked.

“Comrade Captain, I have four cases of food poisoning in sick bay right now, and two more suspected.” the doctor reported.

“Are you sure?” Padorin asked. Such cases were rare, but not unheard of, aboard a submarine.

“I'm quite sure. Those complaining of the symptoms ate the same food: canned fruit from Cuba.” the doctor said.

“And right now, most of our food stores are canned.” Padorin said. Wonderful, he thought, seeing the doctor nod. “And your suggestion?”

“Comrade Captain, if a good portion of our food supply is contaminated-”

“Let me guess: the patrol should be terminated.” Padorin finished for his medical officer.

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Captain.” the doctor replied. “Who knows what may be in some of the food stocks?”

And Padorin knew it. “Very well, Doctor. You acted correctly in bringing this to my attention. Let me know how the sick men are doing, when you can.”

“Thank you, Comrade Captain.” And the doctor left to return to his patients. Shaking his head, Padorin went back into the CCP, where the Starpom had the watch. “The Captain has the deck and the con. Bring us to antenna depth.”

The Starpom nodded and relayed the necessary orders. Soon, the boat was at antenna depth. “At antenna depth, Comrade Captain.”

Padorin nodded. “Raise the ESM mast.”

The ESM mast was raised, and “sniffed” the air for radar and radio signals. “Nothing, Comrade Captain. Screen clear.” the operator said.

“Sonar?”

“Sonar clear, Comrade Captain.” the sonar officer reported.

“Very well.” Padorin turned to the communications officer. “Send this to Caribbean Squadron: 'Several crewmen suffering from food poisoning. Portion of food supply contaminated. Patrol being terminated and K-236 returning to base.' Add my name and get that off at once.”

“Immediately, Comrade Captain.” the communications man replied. In a few minutes, the message was coded and ready. “Comrade Captain?”

“Raise the antenna.” And the radio antenna shot up to poke just above the water. The communications officer sent the message. “Any reply?”

“No, Comrade Captain.” the man responded.

“Very well. Lower the mast, and up periscope.” Padorin ordered. The Starpom went and looked through the scope after it was raised. “No contacts, down scope.”

“Make your depth two hundred and fifty meters. New course: zero-nine-five, and make turns for fifteen knots.”

“Two hundred and fifty meters, course zero-nine-five, and make turns for fifteen knots, aye, Comrade Captain.” said the Starpom.

When K-236 was at her assigned depth, Padorin turned to the Starpom. “Maintain course and speed. Navigator: as soon as possible, plot a course for Cienfeugos, once we're clear of the channel.”

The navigator nodded. “Aye, Comrade Captain.”


1400 Hours Local Time: Camp 32, near Holguin, Cuba.


A tropical depression was going over the eastern third of Cuba, and for the American POWs held at camps in this part of Cuba, it meant no work details, either in camp or outside. And that meant that the prisoners had a rest day or two. At Camp 32, which had been built in 1986, the inmate population was a mixed bag: a number of U.S. Navy and Marine personnel from Guantanamo Bay, sailors from a submarine tender that had been at the base when it had been attacked, prisoners captured on the mainland in Texas or Louisiana, and shipped by freighter to the island, and aircrew members shot down in strikes flown against Cuban targets. And depending on where one was captured, and what one had been doing when captured, the regime could vary: those captured at Guantanamo, and also those captured and brought to Cuba, were often used as forced labor, but lived in bays similar to what POWs in Hanoi had called “Camp Unity” at the Hanoi Hilton: bays that held up to 50 prisoners. Downed aircrew, and both officers and enlisted who were considered “bad attitude” cases, were held in cells-the more troublesome were, of course, in solitary confinement, but most prisoners in that part of the camp were in cells that had two to four prisoners per cell. And the camp actually had two wings built with both sections: one area for men, the other for women.

In the women's section, specifically the cellblock areas, most, but not all, were aircrews. In one cell, Air Force 1st Lieutenant Kelly Ann Ray sat on her bunk, glad to be not outside in the rain. She shared the cell with Marine 1st Lieutenant Blanchard Ryan, who had been an A-6 Bombardier-Navigator, and two Navy officers from Guantanamo, Lieutenant (j.g.) Kellie Greer, who had been a deck officer on the submarine tender Prairie, and Ensign Stacy Davis, who also been on the Prairie. Lieutenant Ray had been shot down in an F-4D in May, 1986, while on a strike near Mariel, while Ryan had been shot down in August, 1987, in a strike on the port of Banes. All had suffered brutal interrogations, time in solitary confinement, and had been on their share of work details, and they all showed it. They were filthy, wearing dirty prison pajamas, and were either barefoot or wore thin sandals. None had been allowed to write home, or to receive mail-none of the POWs in Cuba had, and neither had there been visits from the Red Cross. And they had been subjected to lectures (harangues would have been a more apt description) from American leftists who made no secret of their sympathy to the Soviet and Cuban cause, and the penalty for dozing off, or showing any disinterest, could mean time in the hole, or a very nasty “quiz session” with the interrogators. Other than new prisoners, there was no reliable news of the war, and Cuban propaganda was still emphasizing that, despite setbacks, “Final Victory and a Socialist America,” were still within reach of “the Socialist Forces in America.”

Lieutenant Ryan was looking out the barred cell window as the rain continued to pour down. “Too bad this won't last long. The guards hate being out in the rain just as bad as we do.”

“Yeah,” Greer said. “There's one other good thing.”

“What's that?” asked Ray.

“Those cisterns they made us dig? At least they'll get some water.” Greer said. She and Davis had been there the longest, ever since the camp opened.

“To be hoped for,” Davis chimed in. “Too bad they won't let us outside for a few minutes.”

Her three cellmates looked at Davis as if she'd suddenly grown an extra head. “What?” Ryan asked.

“Showers: all we have to do is strip down and stand in the rain. We'd be decently clean for the first time in who knows how long?” Davis quipped, and after a minute, her cellmates broke out laughing. A natural shower beat what the guards allowed: only ten minutes, just enough time to get wet, lather up, then rinse, all under a tepid shower head in a bath stall that was filthy to say the least.

“Quiet! No unnecessary talking!” a voice came from the hallway. The guards were clearly upset about something, as even the few decent guards had suddenly developed a mean streak. And it had showed last night, when the occupants of the cell across from their own had laughed at something someone said, and the guards fell upon them with rubber hoses, beating all four prisoners, then putting them in rear handcuffs and leg irons overnight, and they were still in those today. Ray remembered all too well when they had angered the guards one time-what they'd done to piss them off, she still wasn't sure, but they, too, had been stripped, beaten, and then locked into cuffs and irons-for two weeks, not allowed to bathe, and only being released twice a day-morning and evening-to eat and use their waste bucket.

Outside, the camp PA System was going on as usual, with propaganda broadcasts from Radio Havana and Radio Moscow, intermixed in with anti-war appeals from prisoners who'd been tortured-the slurred speech, mispronounced words, halting phrases, all gave that away. No one blamed them for having to make the statements, for all of the officer prisoners-some more than once-had been forced to make such statements. Sometimes, there would be diatribes from those leftists who supported the Soviet and Cuban cause, or seemingly endless martial music as well. For the aircrews, it was just like SERE training, where POWs from Hanoi lectured about the North Vietnamese doing the same thing in their POW prisons.

Suddenly, things changed on the PA. Solemn music began to play. And all over the camp, prisoners were wondering what had happened. In Ray's cell, the four occupants were whispering to themselves.

“Maybe Fidel's dead?” Ryan asked.

“Maybe....” Ray said. “Or maybe that SOB Chebrikov kicked.”


Greer and Davis looked at each other. “Who knows?” Davis said, and Greer just nodded.

Then an announcer began to speak. “The Supreme Headquarters of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Cuba announces: The battle for the Brownsville Pocket has ended. True to their oaths, the Soviet and Cuban forces in Brownsville, under the leadership of Marshal Alekseyev, have fought heroically and with determination, before being overwhelmed by superior numbers, and a general unfavorable situation confronting them. In no way does this setback weaken our cause, and in a joint statement, Comrade General Secretary Viktor Chebrikov and Comrade President Fidel Castro reemphasize their determination to fight on, and achieve final victory.

“President Fidel Castro, in the Palace of the Revolution, has issued a decree declaring five days' national mourning, with all public entertainment, such as movie theaters, restaurants, and amusement places, closed, in honor of the memory of the heroes, especially the brave soldiers of the Cuban Armed Forces, who have given their lives in the struggle. Long Live the Revolution! Long Live Cuba!” After the statement, the somber music began to play again.

In the cells and bays, prisoners smiled at each other, shook hands, and even embraced. No one, though went further-not wanting to anger the guards any more than they were already. And who knew how they'd react? In Ray's cell, the four occupants looked at each other and grinned. Maybe, just maybe, there was light at the end of the damned tunnel, and soon, they'd be going home. At the very least, treatment would improve, and there'd be an end to the work details. Maybe.


1500 Hours: Headquarters, Soviet Caribbean Squadron, Cienfeugos, Cuba.


Rear Admiral Valery Denisov looked at the message form, with K-236's message, and he shook his head. Food poisoning? That hadn't happened in a while, but anything was possible these days. He got up from his desk and went to his situation map. Apart from K-236, he had exactly two nuclear submarines at sea, and a third in port here in Cienfeugos, provisioning and taking on weapons, prior to another patrol. And he had exactly four diesel boats, but two of them were suspected of having run afoul of American ASW forces, and hadn't been heard from in several days. His surface ship strength was down to exactly three effective combatants, coastal forces excepted. And if the Mexicans came to a separate peace with the Americans, as rumors first spread, then his intelligence officer had informed him that those rumors were very likely to become fact, then Cuba-and his forces-would be next on the Americans' revenge list.

His Chief of Staff, Captain First Rank Oleg Savin, came in to give the Admiral his afternoon situation update, and he had a message from Moscow. “For you, Comrade Admiral.”

Denisov took the message form and scanned it. “That, I can do without. A promotion to Vice Admiral looks good in Red Star, but it doesn't give me much to stop the U.S. Navy when they come in to put Marines on the beaches.”

“Just like in Brownsville, they say. Some of those who've escaped say that there was a rash of promotions before the end.” Savin commented.

“Again, something I can do without, Oleg Petrovich. Now, what do you have for me this afternoon? I'm aware of K-236's situation, so what else is there?” Denisov asked.

Savin went to the map. “K-236 is roughly here, in the Yucatan Channel, and he should be here sometime tomorrow. In the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Haiti, is K-69, a 671 (Victor I) class boat, and south of Puerto Rico is K-60, a 627 (November) type boat. K-69 has had no contact so far, but K-60 has had repeated encounters with American ASW forces, and barely escaped when they found him and the K-131 (Echo II), and the latter was sunk.

“As for diesel boats,” Savin continued, “K-156 (Juliett) was last reported in the Old Bahama Channel, but one of our ELINT aircraft reports intense American and British ASW activity in -156's general location.”

“British?” Denisov asked. That was something new.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. A call sign was intercepted, and it matches one used by an RAF Nimrod squadron. The Bahamas are a member of the Commonwealth, and Nassau International Airport could easily house both British and American ASW aircraft.” Savin reported.

“And someone claimed a kill?”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Admiral.” the Chief of Staff said.

The Admiral grunted and motioned for Savin to continue.

“In the Mona Passage-between the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico, B-28 (Foxtrot) is on station, while B-319 (Tango) was last reported in the Florida Straits. However, he, too, apparently fell victim to American ASW forces out of Key West,” reported the Chief of Staff.

“And here in port?” Denisov asked.

“K-508 (Charlie II) is replenishing his food stores and reloading weapons, and should be ready to sail in two days, and B-397 (Foxtrot) has just arrived; he'll need to be refueled and replenish food stores before going back out.”

“Surface forces?” asked the Admiral.

“We've only one effective modern unit: the destroyer Stoyky (Sovermenny-class), along with the destroyer Dzerky (Kanin-class) and the frigate Gromky (Krivak-class). Several other ships, including the cruiser Vitse-Admiral Drozd (Kresta I) are tied up in various ports here in Cuba, with..”

“I know, unrepairable battle damage. And Moscow wanted us to send a final convoy to Texas, with only those three ships to escort the merchant vessels? Someone there is living in a dream world,” Denisov said. “All right: Naval Aviation?”

“We've two regiments, though both are down to roughly two squadron equivalents due to losses. The 37th Naval Strike Regiment with Su-24Ms, and the 697th Fighter Regiment with MiG-29s. We also have individually assigned Tu-95s, both missile carriers and RT reconnaissance aircraft, and a couple of Il-20s. A very depleted squadron of Mi-14s handles shore-based ASW, while several Ka-25s and -27s from sunken or damaged ships supplement them.”

“In short, Savin, when the Americans come, we'll be overwhelmed,” said Denisov. It was not a question.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral.” replied Savin. “Both carrier-based aircraft, and aircraft flying from bases in Florida, would suffice. The Cuban air defenses will be completely overwhelmed, and as soon as possible, the Marines come ashore,”he said, seeing the Admrial nod.

“When?”

“If the Mexicans quit the war, as is very likely, in theory, it could be a couple of weeks. If I was CINCLANT, however, I'd wait until the end of Hurricane season: that's 30 November. Anytime after that, but the aerial preparations can start as soon as the assets have redeployed and are in place.” Savin reported.

“Thank you, Savin. Send this to Moscow: acknowledge my promotion, and request information on when the Americans can be expected to invade Cuba. Perhaps the Naval branch of the GRU has some idea....The generals at Group of Soviet Forces Cuba certainly don't.”

“Right away, Comrade Admiral.”

[Matt Wiser]

The finale of this particular story, but there are more to follow:

1600 Hours Eastern War Time: U.S. Military Academy Annex, Garrison Lake, New York.


Several buses and a staff car, under Military Police escort rolled up to the gate of the Annex, which had been acquired by the U.S. Army after the war began. Though originally intended to train officer candidates coming from universities and Colleges in New York and Connecticut, the Army had wound up putting the facility to use for a much different purpose, for despite its failure in Operation ADVENT CROWN, several Soviet Generals had been captured during that ill-fated offensive, and the Army needed a place to hold high-ranking Soviet, and later, Cuban, Nicaraguan, and East German officers, in a location that where they could be held with accommodations equal to their rank. And so the Army had built numerous cottages for the high-ranking prisoners, with barracks for enlisted prisoners to serve as orderlies, along with appropriate dining, recreation, and other facilities. The camp also housed high-value prisoners of company and field grade-those who had relatives in the Soviet system-including several sons of Central Committee members or sons of high-ranking officers still serving in the USSR. Despite the amenities, it was still a POW camp first and foremost, with fencing, watch towers, and armed guards.

The staff car pulled up to the camp headquarters. The driver of the car got out,opened the door for its two occupants, and saluted. Marshal Alekseyev and Colonel Sergetov returned the salute as they exited the car, and the camp commander came to meet them. Both noticed that the American officer, a brigadier general, walked with a serious limp, using a cane with his left hand, and had several scars on his face and neck from burns. Clearly, this was an officer whose injuries prevented a return to front-line service, just like a number of camp commanders on his side. The American officer saluted. “Marshal, I am Brigadier General Martin Fleming, the camp commander.”

“General,” Alsekseyev said, returning the salute.

“Marshal, this is a bit awkward, as we've never had so many senior officers fall into our hands at once, so please understand if the other generals had to ride in the buses. It's not exactly Geneva, but it's the best we could manage on short notice.”

“I understand, General,” replied the Marshal.

“Good, Marshal. Please follow me. Your baggage will be taken to your quarters. It's not exactly a resort, but we've had no complaints from the Red Cross-or from any of the others held here.” Fleming said.

Alekseyev nodded as he and Sergetov followed the commander into the headquarters, and to his first-floor office. The two Soviets noticed the usual activity one found in any military office, only this office had a number of people who were clearly too old for front-line duty. Sergetov whispered to Alekseyev, “Comrade Marshal, I'd swear that a couple of the NCOs at those desks could have fought in the Second World War.”

“I see you noticed, Colonel.” Alekseyev replied as Fleming's secretary opened the door for the trio.

General Fleming limped over to his desk. “Marshal, Colonel, please, have a seat,” he said, and the two Russians sat down in the chairs in front of the desk. “I trust the trip from Texas was satisfactory?”

“Apart from a noisy C-130 cargo plane and a box lunch, yes, it was,” Alekseyev said.

“Again, Marshal, we're not used to hauling high-ranking officers in such quantities,” Fleming said. “Now, this is still a POW camp, but things here are relaxed. Everyone's locked in their cottage or barracks at 2100, and let out again at 0700. The mess hall is open for meals at 0800, 1200, and 1800. Other than that, there's no set routine. No roll calls, nothing of that sort. Those held here are simply allowed to sit out the war as comfortably as possible, and whatever activities take place are often those begun by the prisoners themselves.”

“I see, General,” Alekseyev said. “Such as?”

“There is a library, gymnasium, recreation hall, all for your use. There's also a walking trail, and just as long as you don't cross the warning stakes, you're fine,” Fleming said, “For the younger officers, there's opportunities for sports, and some also take correspondence courses-which have been arranged with a couple of civilian colleges in this part of New York-courses such as English literature, law, history, and so forth. Anything to keep the mind busy, even if it's a gilded cage....”

Both Russians nodded.

“And Colonel Sergetov, you're probably wondering why you're here?” Fleming asked. Seeing him nod, Fleming went on. “You're not the first son of a high official-whether in the Party or the military-to fall into American hands. There's quite a few generals' or Admirals' sons here, along with sons of several Central Committee members, or regional Party officials as well.”

That many? Sergetov thought to himself. “I'm surprised.”

“Don't be, Colonel. Though most of those we have want to sit out the war here, some have not. They're in a place where conditions are more strict, but still in line with International Law. You'll share a bungalow with an officer of equal rank, and each general officer has one to himself, and also,” Fleming said, nodding to the Marshal, “is allowed an enlisted prisoner to serve as an orderly. Since you are clearly the senior ranking officer here, Marshal Alekseyev, you may have two, if that is your decision.”

“If the other generals are allowed one, then I shall have one as well. No exceptions for me, General. You do understand?”

“Completely, Marshal. If you have any complaints, speak to one of the officers, and I will be informed.” Fleming said, reaching for his speaker phone. “Major Lewis, please come in.”

The office door opened and a blond female Major came in. She saluted General Fleming, and the two Soviets. “This is Major Lewis. She'll escort you to your quarters. Her Russian is impeccable: she was a Professor of Russian Literature at Syracuse University, and as a young girl, was in Moscow with her father, who was a Foreign Service Officer at the Embassy, back in the early 1960s.”

Alekseyev and Sergetov nodded. “Thank you, General.”

“Any final questions?” Fleming asked.

“Yes, if you don't mind my asking,” Alekseyev said. “I take it you were wounded? Our side, sad to say, had a number of prison commanders who were wounded at the front and were no longer fit for front-line service-and sometimes, took that out on the prisoners in their charge.”

“Yes, I was, Marshal. I was Assistant Division Commander of the rebuilt 2nd Armored Division. Wichita: I was in an M-113, going from one unit to another, when an Mi-24 found us. A salvo of rockets, and the APC caught fire, then exploded. Two crewmen dragged me to safety, only they were wearing Nomex fire-retardant tankers' suits and gloves. I was merely in BDUs, and received burns over thirty percent of my body, and shrapnel in my left knee. Ever since, I can't get into or out of an armored vehicle quickly enough, and so the Army sent me here.”

“I see...well, as one combat soldier to another: you did your duty, just as we did ours,” Alekesyev said, putting out his hand.

Fleming shook hands with the Marshal, and said, “Again, Marshal, if you have any issues, please, don't hesitate to ask to see me. Though that's been few and far between in the past.”

“Of course, General,” Alekseyev said, saluting.


1540 Hours Central War Time: 324th Soviet Field Hospital, Brownsville, Texas.


Lieutenant Colonel Dherkov was amazed: despite the Americans being busy with their own casualties, not to mention tending to the needs of the civilian population, they had enough resources-and people-to tend to the Soviet wounded. That contrasted very much with his side since 1985, where Soviet and Soviet-allied wounded had been given priority, and the civilians-not to mention prisoners-got short shrift. Now, a company from the 101st Airborne Division guarded the hospital, and American medical personnel, and some from America's allies, were treating Soviet wounded.

Conditions had improved, but were still poor by American standards. The first American medical personnel-a battalion surgeon and his medics-to arrive had been genuinely appalled at the conditions-the filthy latrines, squalid wards, dirty linens, and the shortages of just about everything. It was so bad that the Americans had brought in one of their own field hospitals-what they called a MSH, or Mobile Surgical Hospital, and set up shop across the road from the Soviet facility. Those Soviet wounded who could be moved were transferred over to the MSH, and then evacuated when able, just as if they had been Americans. Those who couldn't be moved were taken in to some of the school buildings that either hadn't been used, or were still relatively clean, and given the best care that the Americans could provide. And it wasn't just Americans: some doctors from the Irish Brigade, which had not been in at the finish, but had been ready to go if needed, had come down to help, along with some South Korean and Taiwanese medical staff.

Then an American officer came over to Colonel Dherkov. “Colonel, would you please come with me?” the American said. Puzzled, Dherkov followed the American captain to a Humvee, where another American officer, this one a Brigadier General, was standing, “General? I have Colonel Dherkov.”

“Colonel, I'm Brigadier General Richard Collett, XVIII Airborne Corps' chief surgeon.” the general said, putting out his hand.

Dherkov nodded and shook hands with the general. “General, I must say, I am pleased at how your people are taking care of the wounded. A far cry from our own practice with enemy wounded, I greatly regret to say.”

Collett nodded. He knew that the Soviet practice with American wounded had been to leave them to their own devices. Few seriously wounded Americans had made it to POW camps, and fewer still survived captivity. “The difference between our two systems, Colonel,” said the General. “Now, this used to be an elementary school, right?”

“That is so, General,” Dherkov said. “I imagine the schools will want their property back as soon as possible.”

“Not this one: this place is such a hazard to local health. I doubt any school district is going to want to reopen a place like this,” Collett said, turning to his aide. “Tell the civil affairs people that this particular school is not a candidate to reopen. When they rebuild, use the property across the street; there's plenty of room for a new campus.”

“Yes, sir.” the aide replied.

“Colonel, there's how many unburied bodies here?” Collett asked.

“About two hundred. Plus those in the....terminal ward-another three hundred or so.” Dherkov replied.

“All right.” Collett said. He turned to another officer. “Get Colonel Tucker, the 101st's officer in charge of EPW handling. I need five hundred EPWs here, ASAP.”

“For what purpose, General?” the staffer replied.

“Grave digging. Tell the prisoners they'll get double-no, make that triple rations if they'll dig graves for their countrymen-full biohazard protection, the works.. And get the wounded out of here as soon as we can.”

“Yes, sir.” the major replied.

“Once we've cleared out the wounded, and taken care of the dead, Colonel, you'll probably go to an EPW camp to work in the camp infirmary, along with the other medical staff. But this place...” Collett said. “After it's cleared, burn it to the ground. Raze it completely.”

Dherkov nodded, while Collett's aide said, “Yes, Sir.”

Collett looked at Dherkov, “Colonel, there's one other thing: why did your people expend a lot of effort-and scarce supplies, on one officer? I've seen a chart your people had on a tank officer: burned over sixty percent of his body. The only way he'll live out the week is if he gets to a burn center-and the nearest one taking patients is in either Phoenix, Tuscon, or New Orleans.”

“I know the officer you're referring to, General.” Dherkov said. “We had no choice: he is the son of a Central Committee Member. The KGB told us to do whatever it took to get him in condition to fly out, but we never did have the chance to get him out of here.”

“Let me guess: they said 'if he dies, you die'?” Collett asked.

Dherkov shook his head. “Not quite that, but, General, shall we say.....serious consequences could result if he died in our care.”

Of all the.....Collett thought. Now I've heard everything. It's bad enough the KGB did that to civilian doctors, but their own people? He shook his head. “He's at the MSH, and he'll get what care they can give him. I'm afraid he likely won't make it to a burn center, but they'll try anyway.”

“Thank you, General.” said Dherkov. “May I ask about the female staff who were evacuated from here? I have no idea if they got to Mexico or fell into your hands.”

Collett nodded. “I personally don't know, Colonel. But I will find out. Rest assured, if they did get captured, they're safe, and on their way to a prison camp. They'll be treated well.”


1100 Hours Local Time, 8 October 1989, Soviet Naval Base, Cienfeugos, Cuba:


Admiral Denisov watched as K-236 sailed into the harbor. Though the arrival was subdued, he saw that the boat was flying four victory pennants, signaling ships sunk, from her radio mast. Since the boat had ill crewmen aboard, ambulances were waiting to whisk the sick men to the base hospital, while Denisov and his staff were waiting to talk to the Captain and his senior officers. Soon, the boat tied up at the pier, and the gangway was put up. And quickly, the forward hatch opened, and sailors began gingerly lifting stretchers up, as eight crewmen were sick enough to warrant hospitalization ashore. Also leaving the boat was a single Air Force officer, who Denisov assumed had been shot down near the boat's patrol area, and picked up. Lucky man, Denisov thought, because as far as he knew, that was the only known survivor picked up by a Soviet vessel.

After the ambulances had left, Denisov went up the gangway, saluted the colors, and asked, “Permission to come aboard?”

Captain Padorin returned the salute, “Permission granted, Comrade Admiral.”

Padorin received the Admiral, and took him and his operations officer below, into the wardroom. After he locked the door, only then did Padorin feel he could speak honestly. “Permission to speak freely, Comrade Admiral?”

“By all means, Padorin,” Denisov said. “It's your boat.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral. First of all, I'd like to know whose idea was it to have us that close to the coast?”

“I have no idea, Padorin,” Denisov said. He'd been just as exasperated about that as Padorin had been. “All I know is that the orders came from Moscow.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral. Despite the successes we had on the patrol, making that rendezvous
was highly unlikely, at best. The ASW activity we encountered was the worst I've ever seen.” Padorin said.

“So I gather. And you encountered the battleships. That's something you'll tell your grandchildren about.” Denisov said.

“Yes, Comrade Admiral. There's one other thing.....”

Denisov noted the shift in Padorin's tone of voice, and the way he trailed off. “What is it, Captain?”

“Comrade Admiral,” Padorin said, coming to attention. “I have to report that Comrade Zampolit Zirinsky attempted to solicit a mutiny, after our encounter with the battleships.”

Denisov and his operations officer exchanged glances. A political officer attempting a mutiny? Nothing of the sort had happened since the mutiny on Storozhovoy in 1975....”You're sure, Comrade Captain?” the operations officer asked.

“Absolutely, Comrade Admiral. My Starpom, Security Officer, and all of my department heads are willing to so testify, if necessary.” Padorin said.

“And where is Comrade Zirinsky now?” Denisov asked.

“He was court-martialed at sea, convicted, and set out a torpedo tube, Comrade Admiral,” Padorin reported. “However, the log entry says that the Political Officer suffered a fatal accident while in the engineering spaces, and was buried at sea.”

The Admiral and the operations officer exchanged glances. “I see...” Denisov said. “Well, Captain, you did act correctly in this matter, though I would have preferred that Zirinsky answer the charges in a more formal setting. But, as I said, you did act correctly,” said the Admiral. He went on to add, “Unfortunately, we don't have any spare Zampolits available, so you'll be responsible for the political education and stability of your crew.”

“I understand, Comrade Admiral,” Padorin replied.

Denisov nodded. “Good. Now, your weapons stores will be replenished, though the Klub missiles are in short supply: we've only eight left. The torpedo supply is adequate, and I assume that's all you require?”

“That is so, Comrade Admiral. More missiles would be...good to have, while we're out of Type-65s,” Padorin said.

“You can have four missiles, and the Type-65s you need. To make up for the missiles, you'll get four TEST-96 torpedoes. That'll have to do, I'm afraid.” Denisov told the captain.

“Understood, Comrade Admiral. How long do I have to complete the turn-around?” Padorin asked.

“You can have four days. I'm sure your sick men will have recovered by then, and you can give your crew some time ashore,” Denisov said. “Be ready to sail anytime after the 12th.”

“Thank you, Comrade Admiral.”


After they left the boat, and began walking towards their staff car, Denisov turned to his operations officer. “Andrei, the boats still in port?”

“Yes,Comrade Admiral?”

“Hold them. No sailings until the 12th. I need to talk with General Morozov in Santa Clara. There's rumors of an armistice going around, and we need to determine contingencies in the event something happens.”

The operations officer was surprised. “Comrade Admiral?”

“What if there's an Armistice and Castro refuses to sign? He's been raging for days on Cuban State TV that no matter what, he won't agree to an Armistice under any circumstances. If that's the case, and the Americans do come, we're caught between the Cubans and the Americans,” Denisov said. “That's not a pleasant thought.”

“Understood, Comrade Admiral.”


0800 Hours Local Time, Headquarters, Group of Soviet Forces Cuba, Santa Clara, Cuba.


Colonel General Sergei Morozov was not a happy man, though he tried not to show it in the main conference room at his headquarters. He was the commanding general of the Group of Soviet Forces Cuba, and he knew full well that his situation had the potential to become another Brownsville. Morozov normally ran the Group as an oversized advisory and training command, assisting the Cubans with forming new units, and helping them to achieve the Soviet training norms the Cubans had adopted. Now, though, since 1987, he'd been devoting more and more attention to the possibility of an American invasion of Cuba, more so since the Americans' offensives in 1988 and 1989. Some on the General Staff had felt that the Americans would not finish off the Soviet forces in Texas without clearing their flank first, and that meant invasion of Cuba, even if it was a limited one, to ensure a secure Straits of Florida. Instead, the U.S. Navy had simply bullied its way through, and when the Soviet and Cuban navies and air forces had tried to stop them, the damage inflicted had been minimal, while the cost in lost ships, submarines, and aircraft to the Soviets and Cubans had been frightful. And now, with the fall of Brownsville, a U.S. invasion was now certainly within the realm of possibility, though it was expected that it would not occur until after the end of the hurricane season, which was 30 November.

It also struck Morozov as ironic that, with the cream of the Cuban Army either having been destroyed in America, or stuck in Mexico, unable to get home due to the Americans' control of the sea, he now possessed under his command the most effective heavy combat force on the island. Though there were some Cuban units that were well-trained and well-equipped, due to the fact that they had not deployed to America, such as the 101st Armored Division, they were deployed in the Havana area, as well as near key cities such as Mariel, Matanzas, Banes, and so forth. Most of the remaining Cuban regular forces were mainly training and support commands, while infantry were largely reservists and militia.

His own forces, though, were a mixed bag. Morozov looked at Lieutenant General Vladimir Khrenov, who commanded the Eleventh Guards Army. The Army Headquarters, as well as its army-level artillery, air defense, engineers, and other support units, had been intended for Texas, but due to the shipping shortage-and the depredations of the U.S. Navy-they had only gotten as far as Cuba. And he didn't envy Khrenov one bit. Two of his divisions had come with him from their home station in the Kallningrad region: the 1st Tank Division and the 1st Guards Motor-Rifle Division. Both were well equipped with T-72 tanks, BMP-2 infantry vehicles, and their men were well trained by Soviet standards. Another division, the 41st Guards Tank Division from Uman in the Ukraine, was also well equipped, with T-72s and BMP-2s, and Khrenov also had a well-equipped independent motor-rifle regiment, the 501st, with the only T-80s on the island, as well as his own air assault battalion, the 139th. Also available to him was the prewar Brigade Cuba, though it was currently engaged in its advisory and training role. However, three other divisions were not so well off as the rest of the Army.

One division, the 16th Guards Motor-Rifle Division, was from Vilnius, and was woefully underequipped, with only a single MR battalion with BMP-1s, while the rest were in BTR-60Ps with open tops, their tanks were T-55s, and all of the artillery was towed. Not to mention that most of the division's rank and file were Lithuanian. The 83rd Guards MRD from Rovno in the Ukraine was also in bad shape, with its tanks being forty-year old IS-3Ms, towed artillery, and old BTR-152 APCs. After he'd inspected the division, Khrenov had asked General Morozov why a division in this poor material condition had been chosen for this deployment, and Morozov had no answer. The last division, the 49th MRD from Saatl in Azerbaijan, was in the same shape material wise as the 83rd, but had a worse problem: most of the division's manpower was from Azerbaijan, and was considered to be potentially unreliable. If it came down to it, a serious fight might result in the division disintegrating. Once more, Morozov cursed whoever in the General Staff had sent this division over, not that it would do him that much good.

Now, Morozov was meeting with his senior commanders. General Khrenov was there, as commander of the 11th Guards Army, of course, while Admiral Denisov represented the Navy. The Air Force was represented by Major General Ilya Mikhailov, with Major General Boris Osipov from the Voyska PVO mission there as well. There were two other participants: Major General Grigor Goncharov, who was the Soviet Military Attache from the Soviet Embassy, and via conference call, there was Marshal Ahkormayev, the Defense Minister himself. Though Morozov initially resented the intrusion of the Marshal, the Defense Minister indicated to him that the fate of the Soviet forces in Cuba was of paramount importance to him, saying “We cannot afford a second Brownsville.” The Marshal had also indicated that he merely wished to listen in, but would, if asked, speak as well. Morozov felt that the Marshal had something in mind, but couldn't pin it down. But at least someone in Moscow would be paying attention-something he had heard had definitely not happened in Texas.

“Comrades, are we ready?” Morozov asked, “And Comrade Marshal, can you hear me?”

Heads nodded around the table, while Ahkromayev said, “Perfectly, General. You may begin.”

“Thank you, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said. “Comrades, our position here in Cuba is....tenuous at best. With the surrender of Alekseyev's forces in Texas, the Americans have options that they are now free to pursue. Option one: invasion of Cuba; Option two: invasion of Mexico, or Option three: a combination of naval blockade and an air campaign to force both to sign a separate peace-and on American terms. Now, Comrades, what can we do in the event of Option one?”

General Khrenov spoke first. “Given how much preinvasion air and naval bombardment is likely to be coming, there's not that much we can do. Though our forces are employing the usual maskrikova techniques, once we begin our movements to counter the invasion itself, we'll be exposed. Not to mention having two divisions whose manpower is....questionable, at best.”

Morozov nodded. “Thank you, General. Air Force?”

“Right now, both my aircraft and the Cubans are able to mount defensive combat air patrols, and scramble to defend Cuban airspace proper,” Mikhailov said. “When the Americans get serious about preinvasion preparations, we'll contest the sky as best we can, but the odds are not very good. We'll be out of aircraft by the third or fourth day. And what we have left for offensive operations? Not that much: a few Su-24s, some Su-25s, and MiG-27s. That's it. And they're needed to mount attacks on any invasion shipping-assuming they're not caught on the ground.”

“Ossipov? Air Defense, if you would,” Morozov asked.

“Both the Army-level air defense units and those missile batteries that my troops man are the best remaining on the island. We've had to move some of them about-to cover gaps in the existing Cuban network. A determined campaign to eliminate the air defenses, however......” The Voyska PVO man shook his head.

“I see...” Morovov noted. “And last, but not least, Admiral Denisov?”

“I have three nuclear boats and two diesel boats left. And exactly three surface ships: one modern missile destroyer, one old gun-armed destroyer, and a single modern frigate,” Denisov reported. “Not including coastal forces. And none of the surface ships would last very long-all we'd do is have a death-and-glory ride out of harbor to face the U.S. Navy, and good ships and men would be lost for no reason.”

“Comrade General, that's our forces,” Goncherov, the military attache, said. “The Cubans are a decidedly a mixed bag: several good divisions and brigades that didn't deploy to America, a few reserve divisions-largely equipped with 1960s leftovers-or worse: T-34s and IS-2 or IS-3 tanks, and the balance are militia.”

“How long, Morozov, could your forces-and the Cubans-hold out?” Ahkromayev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, do you want it good or bad?” Morozov replied.

“How long, General?”

“Best case would be about three weeks. A worst case scenario would be ten days for all organized resistance to end. Not just ours, but the Cubans, too.” Morozov answered, and heads around the table nodded in agreement.

“All right,” Ahkromayev said. “Now, there's some efforts underway to bring about an Armistice. Mainly through back-channel dialogue. If the Cubans agree, it's not a problem: we simply gather your men and their equipment, load them on the ships and aircraft, and return home,”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Goncharov said. “That would be the best case. If, however, Fidel keeps his word, and refuses to sign any armistice agreement unless the Americans agree to his demands?”

Morozov nodded. He'd been thinking about that himself. “That's going to be a problem, Comrades. I believe that in 1962, when Castro was refusing to initially go along with the agreement that withdrew the missiles, he was told that our forces in Cuba would stand aside.”

“Are you suggesting, General Morozov, that a similar note be sent to both Castro brothers?” Ahkromayev asked.

“Comrade Marshal, it may be necessary to do just that. Even if the Cuban generals want an end to the war, Fidel may not. He wants the Americans to come to Cuba, I think, and he gets what he's wanted all along: a final confrontation with the Americans.” said Morozov.

“I agree with General Morozov,” Goncharov said. “He's wanted that for a long time, and now....”

“Very well,” Ahkromayev said. “Morozov, make preparations for several contingencies: invasion, an air-naval campaign without invasion, an armistice agreed by all, and a Soviet-American-Allied one only. Make sure that any equipment you have to leave behind is not...sensitive or classified. One thing you'll probably have to do, if the Americans don't do it for you, is to ensure that the Lourdes intelligence facility is inoperative. I know the Americans have bombed it several times, but we've repaired it, and they come back again. Make sure the facilities are wrecked, and all secret equipment and documents are destroyed.”

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said. “I've already had some discrete preparations made in that regard.”

“Good. Now, Comrades,” Ahkromayev said. “If the Americans attack prior to an Armistice, you will give the best account of yourselves possible,” and Morozov noted the heads nodding in agreement. The Defense Minister went on, though. “If, however, there is an Armistice, it's highly likely there will be terms that are going to be very bitter for us. However, given the general situation, we are in no position to argue. If, however, there is a Soviet-American Armistice only, make sure the Cubans don't get their hands on the ships, the attack aircraft, and the more...sensitive Army equipment. Is that understood?”

“It is, Comrade Marshal,” Morozov said.

“Good. I'll get out of your hair, and let you get on with your jobs. And rest assured, I am working to see to it that you and your men do return home to the Rodina. One way or another.” And with that, Ahkromayev signed off.

Morozov and his generals talked for most of the morning. Finally, several contingency plans were agreed to, and sealed orders prepared for them. One thing they did agree on also: whatever did happen, they would leave Cuba and return home with their heads held high. They had come to do their duty, and would continue to do it until ordered home, or other circumstances dictated.

In Ahkromayev's office, the Defense Minister was talking with General Grachev, the Chief of the General Staff, and General Brekenev, the GRU Director. “Comrades, that was...interesting. Now, Grachev, how long do you expect Cuba to hold out-with or without our forces?”

“With our forces? Two to three weeks, Comrade Marshal. Without? The size of the island does facilitate a guerrilla war, and it has in the past, as we do know. But given the shortages of equipment and trained troops? Two to four weeks to terminate organized resistance.”

Akhromayev nodded at that. The Cuban Military Attache had told him the same thing-with the required bombast cut out. “When, Berkenev?”

“The Americans can redeploy air and naval assets relatively quickly, and they do have the forces available to maintain the blockade of Mexico at the same time. Moving ground forces, and assembling the amphibious shipping will take longer, though,” Berkenev said. “However, they can begin the preparatory air campaign sooner rather than later.”

“How soon for the actual invasion?” Akhromayev asked.

“No sooner than 30 November. That's the end of Hurricane season.”

Akhromayev nodded, and settled back in his chair. “Comrades, this only reinforces my belief that this war must end as soon as possible. I have no desire to see any more good Russian boys die in far-off lands for no real purpose. We've lost: there's no way that can be hidden much longer.”

Both generals nodded. “And those in Mexico?” Grachev asked.

“Hopefully, when we do conclude an Armistice, arrangements can be made for them to return home. Though their equipment....the Mexicans are welcome to it to use in their civil war.” Ahkromayev decided. “Now, status of military preparations?”

“General Moisyev reports that the 1st Shock Army is ready to use its contingency plans to move into Moscow, should those be necessary. And the 16th Spetsnatz Brigade is ready as well...their targets have been identified, and preparations on that score are underway.” Grachev said.

“And the military prison on Gogol Boulevard is ready to handle those taken into custody,” Berkenev reported. “Though given the age of the targets, the cellars will likely remain unused.”

“Never assume anything, Comrades,” Ahkromayev reminded the two generals. “That's partially what got us into this mess in the first place. Though I do hope that things can be handled without resorting to those who work in the cellars.”

Both generals nodded.

“Very well, Comrades. Continue with your preparations, and a target date will be coming very soon.” Ahkromayev said.

[Matt Wiser]

Any comments, questions, etc. before I put the next one up?

[Matt Wiser]

There'll be some new work up in a day or two. Just letting folks know.