[b]Port Said, Egypt[/b]

Francisco de le Cal Delgado crouched behind what remained of a low stonewall, his chest was heaving with every breath from the run across the small open space a few yards away. Two bodies lay crumpled in the open, one in Spanish uniform, the other in the now familiar garb of Ethiopia. 

The fighting had stalled here. An initial rush to take the square had been halted by, and Delgado still wasn’t sure if he’d seen right, a woman. She had dropped two of his soldiers before a bullet dropped her and she was pulled to safety by another soldier. The surprise of the attack had quickly worn off and while the [i]Brigada Internacional[/i] had successfully driven the Ethiopians back from the Canal, they were now having to fight house by house, street by street.

His breathing had slowed now though his left eye still twitched uncontrollably for some reason and he tried blinking hard to clear it with no luck. A quick check of his weapon ensured he still had a full clip in his weapon. Slowly, ever so slowly, he looked around the corner of the wall. Darkness had blanketed the land and the only light came from the remains of several burning buildings and trucks. He looked for movement.

For a moment nothing showed itself but then he saw something shift, a shadow deeper and darker than the shadow around it. He almost stopped breathing as he stared at the spot. The shadow moved again. 

In one fluid motion he rolled onto his left knee, sighted and fired. A man screamed and the shadow vanished. Then the whole world lit up as a wall of steel appeared to his left. The [i]Aksum[/i], making its run for the sea. It seemed as though every mortar or small arm the Ethiopians possessed now opened fire on the big ship, completely careless if it gave away their position or not. It was an all or nothing moment and he everyone knew it.

Delgado leapt up, screaming to be heard over the din, and waving his men forward. Shadows all along the streets and in windows came alive as gunfire drowned out all other noise. 

He was running, halting only to fire quick bursts into small groups of Ethiopian or Arab soldiers. Twice he came across mortar teams that had abandoned their positions to try and fire directly on [i]Aksum[/i] as it raced past. In each case he shot the man loading and then killed the others as they reached for their personal weapons. In one case he fired just as the man dropped the round into the mortar and it fell sideways with him, the shell slamming into a nearby building and bringing it crashing down into the street. 

Something buzzed past his ear and he spun with it, catching sight of a kneeling Ethiopian soldier who grimaced as he missed, worked the action of the rifle he was holding and took aim again. Where he had got the rifle from, Delgado would never know, maybe a dead Arab, it didn’t matter. He brought up his own weapon and sprayed a line of bullets towards the other man. Two hit him, one in the foot, the second in his arm and he was down.

The Ethiopians bullet also hit its target, slamming so hard into Delgados helmet that he dropped to the pavement, stunned. The shot probably saved his life as a group of Ethiopians burst from a nearby alley to counter attack, running past him in the darkness. 

He opened his mouth to cry out when the world shook, a shockwave from huge explosion, driving the air from his lungs as it slammed through the city. For a moment there was silence, almost as if the explosion had reminded everyone of just how bad things could get. 

Then a machine gun fired, a flare arced into the sky, and the Ethiopians were retreating. They had failed to block the Suez Canal and now, their shouts loud in the night, Spanish reinforcements stormed into the City.

The Ethiopians went back, the Spanish went forward, and Delgado, still breathless on the ground found that he could not see. He was blind. 

[b]Buenos Aires, Argentina[/b]

A world away from the blood and screams of Port Said the Republic of Argentina was bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunshine. As was typical with this time of year, it was hot, brutally hot so that tourists sweated away in their air conditioned hotels and locals made their way to small underground bars where the suns heat was negated by the cool stone walls.

Despite the heat the streets of Buenos Aires still buzzed with the sound of traffic. For many it had been another perfect day in the Republic. Few indeed had seen better days. The economy was stable and rising so for the first time in many generations everyone had a bit of spending money. It was a new feeling for many, especially those from the countryside who arrived in the city with eyes wide in wonder, more than a few would get hit by racing city drivers, but that was the price of progress.

In the countryside, further from the coast, men sweated under the sun as they laid out long lines of rail track and smoothed asphalt for new highways. New industries sprang up in regions that had only ever known poverty and for the Delgado family the new wealth of an emerging middle class had been a boon.

For a hundred years they had worked a small vineyard near the foot Aconcagua, the tallest of all mountains in the Western hemisphere. As the economy grew and the wealthy elite had looked for the finer things in life they had found the small vineyard and discovered in it and excellent red wine. One man even bought the vineyards entire supply for a year. That money alone had allowed the Delgados to expand their operations and now, as their son fought and killed in a foreign land, they had taken ownership of the largest vineyards in Mendoza Province.

Their story was not unusual in this new age of prosperity. People flush with money they had not had before were spending more on luxury goods from around South America and seeing themselves in a new century, Argentina’s Century they called it. 

News of the war in Africa had of course been long in coming and local newsmen had jumped at the chance to report on the [i]Brigada Internacional[/i] and the young farm boy who had led the beach attack on Port Said. Details were slow in coming and sketchy at best but it did not matter, the imagination of a nation was being captured by this young man who had no idea what effect his actions would have on the course of Argentine history. 

The reports had also caught the attention of men in uniform, men of high rank who had been watching the conflict with great interest. All knew that Argentina had a burning national pride but only those in power knew truly how far they would go to achieve greatness. 

It was on that hot afternoon, his face to the setting sun, that the President-General wrote several idle musings on the corner of his napkin as he enjoyed a cold beer. [i]Condor Legion[/i]. For now it was but words a dream, in the months to come it would become a reality and it would lay the groundwork for Argentina’s rise on the world stage.