[b]Port Said, Egypt[/b]

There was no great burst of gunfire, no flares to signal the advance, nothing to give away the fact that four hundred men, their faces and weapons blackened to match the night, were slipping quietly into the city. They went in small groups, no more than a dozen at a time, using the reeds and ruins as cover as they darted from shadow to shadow. Thankfully the night was mostly dark, the odd cloud parting to allow the moon to show through. 

Delgado went first, as they knew he would. He had his rifle slung across his back to prevent the desire of using it until the most dire situation. In his right hand he carried his bayonet, the metal blackened with fire soot until it looked like a billy club. His foot falls were gentle, reminding him of the times he had stalked wild game on his fathers farm. He was amongst those to use the water approach, the most dangerous. He lowered himself ever so gently into the water, wincing as the water reached his groin and then beyond. He was thankful it no more than waist deep and, ducking low amongst the reeds, he moved forward. One by one the dozen men he had selected came after him, their movements in the water hidden by a small wind that came up, causing the lake to ripple of its own accord.

Reeds brushed against his face and chest as he went, the mud sucking at his boots, and on more than one occasion he was forced to pause and yank a boot free, Each time he would pause afterwards, waiting, hoping no one in the enemy held buildings would see him. Those behind him struggled as well and for all he could tell, they were making enough noise to wake the dead but no voices called out, now shots rang into the darkness. All was quiet.

Worry assailed Delgado. What if the enemy knew and was simply waiting until they got close enough to kill them all. He tried to shake the worry but every time the moon came out he froze, expecting the night to come alive with the crack of rifles and the screams of dying men. But the shots never came, no voices called out over the water. Only the wind seemed to be awake, that and the occasional explosion of crack of gunfire from where the Spanish Armada was held up by a bunch of poorly armed Ethiopians and a single warship. 

Delgado came at last to the far bank, a place he knew that enemy forces had been spotted by observers as they planned their attack in the brief time given to them. There had been four or five men, all of them trying to keep a keen eye out without becoming sniper bait. He climbed from the water, cringing as the sound of his movement sounded like thunder in his ears. Nothing moved.

His footfalls were careful, the same skills he has used to hunt wild boar as useful against men as it had been then. His men came behind him until all twelve of them were kneeling in the reeds. He looked from left to right as they all nodded to him and then they stole up the bank. The enemy lookouts were still there, indeed they had lit a small fire that was well hidden from any viewers on the Spanish held airfield. Four were sitting quietly, speaking in low whispers, the fifth was keeping a steady lookout, how the advancing [i]Brigada Internacional[/i] had not been spotted he would never know. He waved his blade forward and they went forward like wraiths. There was a brief struggle, sound of blades pricing flesh and then the smell of blood was rich in the night.

Moments later the [i]Brigada Internacional[/i] was moving swiftly into the ruins of Port Said. Those who had never killed a man less than a few hours before were now learning how to do it with a knife, learning the weak spots in a man so that he might be killed swiftly before he could give the alarm. They did not spread out but moved in a path no more than fifty yards wide, slaughtering their way towards the Canal. It was a blood letting like the world had not seen since the Great War. Men struggled and died in a welter of silence and blood. How they made it to the Canal without the alarm being sounded Delgado would never know but suddenly the ground dropped away and the Canal was before them. He could vaguely make out the ships of the Armada to the north, and to the south the Aksum, just on the edge of his sight. 

He could see figures rushing about the edge of the Canal and trucks, their lights removed, hurrying up to unload cargo. The majority of his men had arrived, a few had died along the way or been wounded and left to fend of themselves. He crouched, waiting and watching, he hadn't planned for the attack to go so well and was almost unsure of his own intentions now. At last he realized that delaying would only make matters worse and so, taking the flare pistol from his belt he fitted a red flare and then, with a deep breath, he fired it into the air.

The moment he pulled the trigger he knew he'd made a mistake. HIs men were not deployed properly but it was to late for that. The instant the flare went up, all hell broke loose. The [i]Brigada Internacional[/i] opened fire on the men and their trucks where they had frozen in the act of dumping more debris into the canal. He fitted another flare and fired, this time a yellow one. It arced away, bouncing off the top of one of the trucks and skittering across the ground. Within moments the reports of Spanish naval guns sounded and shells, sounding like freight trains, trundled overhead and the trucks vanished in massive geysers of earth and fire.

"Begin to advance southwards!" The [i]Brigada Internacional[/i] spread out as best they could and, the element of surprise over, opened fire on everything that moved.