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May 30th, 2028.
Makhachkala, Russia

Captain Pasha Glazkov let the sea breeze blow over his face. He breathed in and savored the salty air. His shoulder ached, so he set his duffle bag down next to him. He hadn’t been home in over four years. Yet it wasn’t until this moment that he realized how much he missed the place. He’d shocked his friends and family when he ran off to join the Russian Army. Now he was going to shock them again with his return. 

I should have called ahead to let them know, he thought as he rubbed his shoulder and hefted his bag. He made his way down the empty, sleepy street to the modest two-story house on the beach that he’d grown up in. How many hours had he played in these streets growing up? How many of his old mates would still be around? He had no idea, but then again he had plenty of time to get the answers to all of his questions. 

He caught movement in the second floor window. He watched as his mother walked past and took a double-take. She looked at him, quizzically, from the distance and with his uniform on, he imagined that she wasn’t sure it was him. She opened the window. 

“Mama! Mamochka, eto Pasha!” he shouted to her. Her face showed her absolute elation. 

“Pasha! Bozhe moi!” she withdrew from the window and within seconds she burst out of the back door and ran to greet him. She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. 

“What the hell is going on our here?” asked Pasha’s father, Makar. “What’s all this-” he stopped short. “Pavel?” 

“Yes, father, I’m home from the war.” 

“You could have at least told us that you were coming,” chided Makar. 

“And ruin the surprise?” asked Pasha, smiling. Makar smiled and stuck out his hand. Pasha took it, and gripped his father’s hand tightly, as though trying to convey all of the emotion of his mother’s hug in the simple handshake.  

“It’s good to have you home, son. Come, let’s get you settled.” Pasha followed his parents into the house. His room was just as he’d left it, years ago. His mother hadn’t the heart to make any changes, and his father hadn’t the need. Walking into the room filled him with even more memories. He set down his bag, and soaked in the moment. 

“Pasha,” said his mother, Nadezhda, “I’m going to the market. We weren’t expecting a guest, and I don’t have anything to feed you.” 

“Don’t make a fuss Mama,” replied Pasha. 

“She’s not making a fuss,” said Makar, “she’s just happy to have an excuse to make a Kulebyaka to celebrate your return.” 

“Oh, no. That’s too much Mama,” protested Pasha, but  in his mind he could taste the sturgeon filled pastry and his mouth watered. 

“Nonsense,” she said, waving away his concern. As his mother left his father invited him to sit in the modest living room on the ground floor. 

“How long will you be staying in town?” asked Makar. 

“I’m home for good Father. I have been discharged from military service and I’m free to pursue whatever life has to offer.” 

“Nothing more specific than that?” he asked. 

“To be honest Father, ever since the first time those Chinese bastards first took a shot at me, I’ve wanted nothing more than to come home, and live by the sea where I grew up. I never made any specific plans, for fear that those plans would fail, and I’d end up back in the army.” 

“So instead of planning to ensure success, you’ve… What? Tried to ensure a failure?” 

“Not at all,” said Pasha, “I just don’t have a set definition of success. I saw a lot of construction on the way in. I bet those crews could always use a strong back. And I know the fishing fleet is always looking for help.” 

“Have you thought about working at the University?”

“Unless I’m going to sweep the halls, I think I need to go back to school before I could find meaningful work at the University.” 

“That’s always an option,” said Makar. “I’m sure you have some “Road to Home” benefits that you could use.” In this, he was referring to free tuition that some veterans could take advantage of. 

“That is an option,” agreed Pasha, “as I said, I haven’t made any plans other than to breath the sea air and not get shot at by Chinese.” He knew that the idea of being a laborer didn’t sit well with his University Professor father. 

“So, how are you?” asked Makar. “They say war changes a man.”

“I’m…” Pasha hesitated, “I think I’m okay. I’ve seen things and I’ve done things that will be with me for the rest of my life. Some of them grand, some terrible. Do you know what I liked the most?”

“Um…” the question caught Makar off guard. 

“Baikal in the spring. It’s absolutely stunning. The mountain breeze is so crisp. It’s so different than the wind coming off the Caspian.”

“I think you’re dodging the subject,” said Makar. “I know you never got to know your uncle Artem-”

“I know where you’re going with this. I know the story.”

“And you know how it ended,” continued Makar. “My brother was never the same after Afghanistan. He brought home ghosts from that war. They haunted him until the day he died.” His eyes misted a bit as he continued. “He thought he could kill them with vodka and whisky, but all he did was make his life and the lives of his family miserable before to booze killed him.” 

“I understand Dad, and I appreciate the warning.”

“I loved Artem, and I love you. I could do nothing for him, but I won’t let the same thing happen to my only son.”

“I love tou too, Dad. I don’t know how everything is going to work out, but I promise that I will be careful.” 

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for,” said Makar.

Pasha went for a walk on the beach as his mother returned from the market and prepared the Kulebyaka. The family celebrated the return of their son, and the future was as bright as the blue skies over Lake Baikal in the Spring. 

Back in 2020 James and I started working on a project together, however it was soon overtaken as he needed help with the Monroe Doctrine Series. So this was shelved after I’d gotten almost 20k words down. It starts off with the assassination Attempt on Reagan, which is a scene I had a lot of fun writing, but I never knew how it would be received.

01 January 1982
Ometepe, Nicaragua

“Happy new year, Rick,” said CIA Operative Fred Poole as he raised a bottle of Toña beer. Rick touched his own bottle to Fred’s, completing the toast. The two of them sat at a table on a deck overlooking Lake Nicaragua. The patio had been poured by the Seabees not long after the base had been seized by the Americans. The tables, chairs and umbrellas had tickled in over time so that now, XX months later, the little CIA outpost had tiny retreat for its inhabitants. 

“With the way things are going in Europe,” said Rick, “this might be our last chance at a happy new year for the foreseeable future.”

“That could be true,” replied Fred, “but there are worse places to spend the end of the world.” The breeze blowing in off the water was refreshing. “How’s Nancy?” asked Fred, referring to Rick’s wife. 

“I’m not sure,” said Rick. “She’s getting tired of my being on the road all the time.” 

“Yeah, I bet. She’s well aware of your roving eye,” said Fred with a laugh. 

“Hey, I love the ladies, what can I say? Besides, these Latin women are amazing. What about you? Whatever happened with what’s-her-name? Scott Alexander’s daughter?” 

The question caught Fred off-guard. He thought of Mary Alexander often, but it had been years since he’d reflected on the end of their relationship. 

“Mary,” said Fred. “Mary Alexander. Talk about star-crossed lovers. It just wasn’t meant to be. I think she was worried that her dad liked me more than he liked her.” Scott Alexander had been his mentor when he first came to the CIA and he’d fallen hard for the man’s daughter in what seemed like a million years ago. “She’s back in Portland trying to take care of her brother.”

“Steve?” asked Rick. 

“Yeah, Steve. He never really got back on track after Vietnam. Anyhow, enough ghost stories. What was important enough to get you out of that cozy Mexico City station of yours?” 

“I’ve got a lead on these ComAms you’re dealing with down here. What can you tell me about them?” 

“Not much at this point. The bulk of them are former Sandinistas who went underground when the US started blowing everything up. They appear to be well funded, especially in the propaganda department, but with weapons and equipment as well. We’re working under the belief that they are getting most of that funding from the Soviets, most likely using Cuba as a pass-through.” 

“Interesting,” said Rick with a nod. “What are they doing with all of that money? Are they putting together a real resistance?” 

“I think it’s too early to tell. Right now they appear to be somewhat unmotivated and disorganized. I guess that’s what an ass whopping like that will do to you. 

“You have an asset on the inside?” asked Rick. 

“Yeah,” said Fred, before realizing his mistake. 

“Who do you have? Former Contra? Hondruan Special forces?” 

“Oh, nobody you know,” said Fred, hoping he sounded casual. Rick knew better than to ask for details about covert sources. That was very unusual. Something wasn’t quite right here. “Does your information corroborate any of this?” 

“Yeah, you’re right about the Soviets. But it’s not just Cuba as a pass through. They’re using Mexico as well.” 

“The Mexican government is helping bankroll the ComAms? How does that make any sense?” asked Fred. 

“On the face, it doesn’t… Until you consider the predicament of the PRI right now,” said Rick, referring to the ruling party in Mexico, the Institutional Revolutionary Party. They’ve held onto power for over fifty years, and I think they can feel the winds shifting. By supporting the ComAms now, we think they are trying to build some credit with the Soviets to flip like the Turks and the French did. This would allow them to stay in power, as long as they play ball with Moscow.” Fred let out a low whistle. 

“This certainly ups the ante, doesn’t it?” 

“That’s right,” said Rick, “We need to stamp these bastards out quickly. This thing will spread like wildfire if we allow them to get organized. Can you imagine a solid communist bloc from Panama to Mexico?” 

“A nightmare,” said Fred, shaking his head.

“A God Damned nightmare,” agreed Rick. “Listen, I’ve got to meet up with someone on the mainland, but I wanted to get this to you quickly.” He pulled a file folder out of his briefcase and slid it over to Fred. “These are the financial records that the forensic accountants used to piece together the transactions. It’s got Eastern European Commie stooges, Castro, and even a Columbian drug gang.”

“A little light reading,” said Fred. 

“Exactly, but listen, I’ve got to run,” said Rick. 

“Yes, you’re mysterious friend on the mainland. What’s her name?” said Fred with a wink. 

“Nobody you know,” replied Rick with a sly grin. Fred flipped through the papers and watched Aldrich “Rick” Ames head out the door.

05 January 1982
Texas Air National Guard
Ellington AFB

Captain George “Nomad” Bush was worn out. In the weeks since the Nuclear exchange between France and the Soviet Union, the Texas Air National Guard had been on the highest of Alerts. Even when both NATO and the Warsaw Pact forces declared a cessation of nuclear hostilities, the operational tempo hadn’t slackened. 

Those bastards can’t be trusted, thought Nomad. They were preaching peace right up to the minute they invaded West Germany. The TANG kept a constant interceptor presence in the air. Now the “Ready Five” units were the second line of defense, while the Combat Air Patrol, or CAP, was the first. Today, Nomad was leading a flight of four F-106 Delta Darts over the Gulf of Mexico. 

“Lonestar Two, this is Kelly Control.” The voice startled Nomad. 

“Kelly Control, Lonestar Two, copy.” 

“Lonestar Two, Kelly Control. We need you to take a look at something. Come to one-two-seven degrees. A Navy Orion picked up a faint contact that may be low altitude aircraft. We need you to take a look.” 

“Kelly Control, Lonestar Two, understood. Coming to a heading of one-two-seven degrees and dropping to five thousand feet.” 

Dammit, this is going to burn a lot of fuel, thought Nomad as he pushed his stick forward and to the right, putting his fighter in a diving turn. 

“Kelly Control, do we have an estimated range?”  

“The Navy was a bit fuzzy. They were looking for Subs, not incoming bombers.” 

“Understood Kelly Control,” said Nomad. Then to his flight, “Lonestar two to Baker flight, engage your MG-13s. Let’s see what we can see out there.” He reached down and flipped the switch, turning on his XXX. 

“Kelly Control, Lonestar Two. You might want to tell them Squids that they need more practice with their radars. We’ve got nothing out here.” 

“Understood Lonestar Two, maintain heading one-two-seven-”

“Hang on Kelly Control. We might have something… We’re getting interference along the line of bearing.” 

“I don’t like this, Nomad,” said Lieutenant “Speedy” Gonzales, Nomad’s wingman. 

“Just keep it together, Speedy. We have no idea what’s out there,” said Nomad. “But whatever it is, we can assume that it has hostile intentions.” He then switched back to Kelly Control. 

“Kelly Control, what are our rules of engagement on this?” 

“Lonestar two, Kelly Control. We are in the process of getting launch authority clarifications. Right now, you are weapons tight.” 

Damit, thought Nomad, now we’re facing the unknown with our hands tied behind our backs. Baker flight pushed on, deeper into the jamming. 

“Baker Flight, Nomad. Come right to course one-seven-five.” Nomad thought that perhaps they could work their way around the jamming. 

I should have learned more about electronic warfare when I had the chance, he mused. As the nose of the F-106 pointed south-southeast, the interference lessened and then disappeared altogether. That puts the jammer to the north east. But how far out? And how long can I maintain this heading before I lose my intercept angle? 

“Okay boys, whatever is out there is to the north east. Come to course zero-four-five. Kelly Control, Lonestar Two. Any word on if we’re firing on these assholes?” There was a pause.

“Nomad, it’s Colonel Lane. Listen, we don’t have launch authorization at this point. I’m making the call. If you encounter foreign bombers, you are weapons free.” 

“Understood, thank you Colonel,” replied Nomad as he watched the jamming cloud his radar once again. 

“Contact,” said Speedy, “bearing zero-six-two.” 

“What do you got?” asked Nomad.

“Unknown… wait. Large Contact… Angels twenty-three.”

“Nomad, Hippy. I’ve got four large contacts making six hundred knots on the deck.” 

“Bearing?” 

“”Bearing zero-three-three.” 

“Shit, they’re going to get past us,” replied Nomad. 

“What about the high alt bird?” asked Speedy. 

“I think that’s our Jammer,” said Nomad. “Either way, these fast movers represent a hostile threat to the homeland. Form on me, and push your throttles to the notch.” Nomad was pushing his flight to full military power to chase down the enemy bombers. Before they could even complete the turn his radio burst to life. 

“Nomad, Speedy. We’ve got multiple high altitude contacts. I think they’re fighters.” 

“Ignore them. The bombers are our concern,” said Nomad as he opened his weapons bay doors. He could hear his voice as he said the words, and he hoped that they conveyed more confidence than he felt right now. Turning his back on enemy fighters that wanted to kill him didn’t sit well with him. “Listen, we’re going to need to get in close to make a good trailing shot. These bastards are really moving.” Up to this point, Nomad had always prepared to fire at incoming bombers. With the enemy closing on him, he could fire his missiles from farther out, since the enemy would close some of the distance. 

Nomad looked over his right shoulder and could see four dots high on his six o’clock. He looked forward again and could clearly make out the Soviet made Tu-22 bombers on the deck. The “Blinder” was completely outclassed by more modern designs. But in the here and now, Nomad was reminded that everything was relative. These may be antiquated, but they were a real threat. 

Who am I kidding? Thought Nomad, those bombers are a newer design than the Six I’m flying. Relics fighting relics. The flight of four F-106s ran after the fleeing Tu-22s and away from the descending MiG-21s. It was a deadly race that was coming to an end. As the Delta Darts crossed within three miles of the Blinders, Nomad gave the order. 

“Engage,” He watched as three AIM-4N missiles sped away from the formation and towards the bombers. 

“Shit,” said Speedy. After another pause, a fourth missile was loosed. 

“Engage,” repeated Nomad, and this time, four missiles were fired simultaneously. 

Speedy hadn’t opened his weapons bay,  thought Nomad. He watched as the missiles ran down their quarry. The Blinders jinked and slid as chaff clouds and flares burst behind them. Nomad saw two of the first three missiles explode harmlessly behind the bombers. The Third managed a kill, detonating and blowing the tail and two engines off its target. Speedy’s delayed Falcon missile also managed a kill. He didn’t have much hope for the second salvo. These were older AIM-4D missiles. They were worse than the “N” variant in every way. Never-the-less, one of the four took out another of the Blinders. 

“Shit, we’ve gotta get out of there,” said Hippy. “MiG-21s, right on top of us.” Nomad didn’t take his eyes off of the lone remaining bomber. 

“Cover me, fellas,” said Nomad, “I’m going to make a guns pass on this bastard. His mission, his sole reason for being at the moment was to stop the bombers. He thought of Laura and his parents in Houston. For all he knew, this Tu-22 was carrying a nuclear payload that could destroy everything he loved. 

“Cover you?” asked Speedy. Then “”Breaking, I’m engaged.” The Bomber grew larger and larger in Nomad’s view. He fired a burst, but it fell far short. 

Stupid. You can’t hurry this. 

“Nomad, you’ve got one on you, break!” said Hippy. Nomad pulled back lightly on the stick and dispensed a string of flares before pushing forward and re-acquiring his target. He fired another burst, this time his tracers passed over the tail of the aircraft. He adjusted his aim as the tail gun of the bomber returned fire. He ignored it, and ensured that he put rounds on target.

 The twin engines on the rear of the plane twinkled as twenty millimeter rounds tore into them. Black smoke poured from the engines, and Nomad pulled back on the stick again, and pushed his throttle past the notch, engaging his afterburner. The thrust pushed him back and as he flew over the stricken bomber, he pushed forward on the stick to get onto the deck, hoping to get some distance from the MiGs so that he could assess the situation.  

“Baker flight. Report,” said Nomad, once he was clear. 

“Nomad, Speedy. We’re dispersed. Once the MiGs hit us, it was every man for himself. We lost Hippy and Cap, but the MiGs withdrew once you hit that last bomber. I’ve lost visual contact with you.” 

“Kelly Control, Lonestar Two. I have two units returning to base, Winchester,” said Nomad, indicating that his flight was out of relevant ammo. 

“Understood Lonestar two. Be advised, Able and Charlie flights are inbound to your position.” 

“Kelly Control, understood, but I believe the threat has been neutralized.” 

“Negative Lonestar Two. I don’t know what Jose is playing at, but you only engaged a fragment of the strike. While you were engaging those blinders, we picked up a flight of Badgers. It’s almost like they were trying to lure you out with the Jammer and the Badgers, so they could sneak in the Blinders on the deck. 

“Longhorn One, this is Lonestar Two. Good hunting Gadget, hopefully those MiGs are Bingo after our skirmish.” 

“Lonestar Two, Longhorn one. Copy that Nomad, it looks like the whole circus is turning back for Cuba. We’ll see if we can nab a couple of those Badgers to keep Jose from thinking he can pull this shit without consequences.” With the battle handed off, Captain George “Nomad” Bush, relaxed and pointed his Six back towards Ellington Air Base. 

Note: All Rights Reserved by Alex Aaronson and James Rosone, in conjunction with Front Line Publishing, Inc. Except as provided by the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

1 January 1981
21st Special Air Service Regiment 
Lübeck, West Germany

Trooper Gary Bealer looked at his cards. The King of Diamonds and the Two of Hearts. Corporal Willis, the dealer, was showing the Five of Spades. It was a no-brainer. 

“Oi, I’ll twist,” said Bealer. He looked at the card and tossed the other two on the table with disgust. “Bullocks!” The Ten of Clubs caused him to bust, and play moved down the line. Lance Corporal Cooper stood fast, while Trooper Baker twisted a card. Play moved to Willis. He flipped his down card over, showing the Queen of Spades, giving him a total of fifteen. He twisted another card and drew the Ace of Diamonds. He sighed, twisting another card. The King of Clubs busted Willis. 

“Shit,” said Willis, tossing his cards down. Cooper and Baker turned their cards over. Baker had managed to hit twenty one, while Cooper had a respectable eighteen. 

“All right, hand ‘em over,” said Baker as Willis paid out both he and Cooper. 

“Bealer,” said Cooper, “What happened with that blond German number you slipped out with last weekend?”

“What do you think happened?” replied Bealer. There was something about Trooper Gary Bealer that the local women found irresistible. He had a charm that none of his squad mates could define, but every one of them envied. Bealer himself believed that it had a lot to do with his natural confidence, a trait shared by anyone who managed to get into 21 SAS, and his fluency in Holsteinisch, the German dialect spoken in Lübeck. 

“Oh, I can just imagine,” said Cooper. 

“And that’s all you’ll have,” replied Bealer, “an active imagination.” The other men of the squad laughed at Cooper’s expense. 

“The next time Coop gets a shag in,” said Baker, “he’ll be thinking about Bealer boffing that blond the whole time.” More laughter erupted. Wanting to change the conversation away from his love life, Bealer asked, 

“Willis, how’s the family back home?” The Corporal’s wife and six year old son were back in Leeds while Willis served out his contract in Germany. 

“They’re good,” said Willis. “Henry likes his new school… well, as much as Henry’s going to like any school, that is.” 

“A chip off the old block then?” said Bealer. 

“More than you know,” replied Willis, chuckling. “Lara’s going after it with my mum, but that’s nothing new. Those two will be fighting their own kerfuffle while the world’s ending. But it’s good.” 

“What are you going to do when you get out?” asked Baker. 

“My old man got me on at the Meltog plant in the South East.” 

“What the hell is a Meltog?” asked Cooper. 

“Thank you for asking,” laughed Willis. “Ahem,” he cleared his throat before breaking into what was clearly the backside of a company flier. “Meltog Manufacturing produces high quality Metal Packaging Machinery, as well as both Filter Tube Manufacturing Machinery and a range of Industrial Shredders.”

“And that,” said Cooper, “’is what you’ve chosen to do, instead of going on further adventures with this lot?” 

“Don’t take this personally, lads. I just need to spend more time with the family. I’ve had the time of my life up to this point, but I know what it’s like to grow up without a father around and I don’t want that for Henry.”

“Hey, are you arseholes playing or what?” asked Baker, sensing the discomfort creeping into the conversation as it brushed too close to Willis’s personal life. Willis smiled, and started dealing out the next hand. Bealer looked at his first card. The three of clubs. He dropped a thirty pence bet, the lowest bet allowed in today’s game. Cooper took a look and bet three pounds, the maximum. 

“Someone’s looking at an Ace,” said Bealer. Before Cooper could reply, Willis broke in, 

“Shhh. Shut it.” Everyone went quiet, straining to hear whatever had caused the Corporal to halt the game. The faint sound of sirens could be heard. 

This started when I was watching the premier of “The Americans” on Fox. I’m pretty sure it was the pilot anyhow. It could have been the second episode. And, before I get to the point, if you haven’t watched that show, you really should.

Anyhow, I’m watching the show, and there are two dudes having a conversation about the Soviet “Akula” class submarine. My bullshit meter exploded. It was 1980. The “Akula” fast attack submarine was still three years away from being laid down, not to mention the time to build, outfit and put into service. I ranted at Lacey for a while before I had a flashbulb go off.

Shit. They’re talking about the Typhoon. In January of 1980, it was likely that the first of the Typhoon class ballistic missile subs was undergoing sea trials. The confusion comes in because the Soviets referred to her as “Akula,” while NATO called her “Typhoon.” Not a big deal until years later when some big-brain in NATO decided to slap “Akula” on the newest Soviet Attack Submarine. And now we have the “Akula Paradox.”

Basically, when writing about these submarines you have to make a choice: Do you use the correct designations, which most of your readers aren’t going to know, and will then tear you apart in the reviews? Or do mis-name them? You could even try to refer to them by what the speaker would call them. How confusing would that be?

NATO FFG Commander: Fire the ASROC at the Akula!

Soviet Sub Sonar Operator: I’ve got a torpedo in the water! It’s tracking the Pike to our north!

There simply no way to get this one correct. And it hurts my soul.