[b]Madrid, Spain[/b]
((A collaborative post between myself and duck55223))

Rhythmic clacking of purposeful footsteps reverberated down the corridors of the Halls of the Republic - the nexus of the Spanish government. Alfonso Sotelo, the prime minister of the Spanish Republic, strode down the marbled halls flanked on either side by muscle-bound bodyguards: members of a specialized contingent of Cazadores whose training regimen prepared them to more readily protect lives than take them. The suit clad goons came to a halt before the entrance to a conference room and stood at rigid attention at either side of the door, ready to spring into action at the slightest indication of anything abnormal that might occur during the upcoming discussions. Paying these guards little heed, Sotelo pulled the door open and left the guards in the hallway.

Inside, the Prime Minister found himself before a Serbian delegation that had already seated themselves about the roundtable situated in the center of the cavernous conference room. The Serbian delegation was led by a single portly man, his bald head shining in the glow of the light fixtures of the meeting room. Two guards in black suits stood near the entrance from which the delegation had come. Small sidearms sat on their hips, as they glared at Sotelo and their Spanish counterparts from their position in the room.

“Greetings Mr.Sotelo, I am here on behalf of the Serbian Government. We would like to congratulate the Spanish Military and Spanish Government on their quick seizure of the Suez Canal. We also like to inform you that the Serbian Government fully supports your move into Ethopia. After all the only way to deal with a communist is swift bullet through the head.” said the Serbian Diplomat, looking directly at Sotelo.

The Prime Minister slid into the nearest available seat, smiling briefly and folding his fingers together as he pressed himself upright and rigid in his seat.

“The congratulations are appreciated, as are the sentiments regarding the wages of socialism. I have long held the Serbian administration in high regard. Welcome though envoys of your homeland are in the Republic, I must confess my surprise that you have come to Madrid today. So far as I am aware, I received no notification from Belgrade that a delegation would be arriving today. Therefore, I ask patience on your behalf when I ask as to the nature of your visit to this Republic.”

“Apologies about our visit being unexpected. Neven was quick to rush out the door, he seemed intent we head to Madrid right away. As for the nature of our visit, Serbia seeks the support of the Spanish Government, particularly in the form of weapons. I will not hide the fact of why we would seek such support; Serbia is intent on unifying all South Slavs into one state.”

Sotelo’s customary smile collapsed into the typical frown as the exchange shifted away from pleasantries. “I will admit, the armed forces of the Republic do not commonly receive inquiries regarding the sale of arms. The Spanish Republic is not often seen as the weapons-monger for the West - that is more often seen as Poland’s sphere.

To my knowledge, Spain has never been approached for the supply of arms in modern history. The weaponry at the disposal of our armed forces and private firms is among the finest equipment in all the world. The costs of such equipment are… prohibitive. And while I hold your homeland in high esteem, I do not have such an exalted opinion of Serbia that I would provide it the means to expand across the Balkans.”

“Your concern is understandable Mr. Sotelo, and we have not gone to either Poland, or the most next obvious choice Germany because they fear we would expand across the Balkans. This is true as I said earlier, but what those two countries do not realize and what I think you do not realize is that a unified South Slav right-wing state is needed because another even greater threat to the balance of power of not just the Balkans but all of Europe is coming. And that threat is Russia.”

“You realize we live in the year 1980? Not 1948, not 1970. There is essentially no Russia to speak of, do you understand this? The threat of an expansionist Tsarist Empire in the East was put paid to a decade ago by a Finlander assassin. If Serbia seeks to bolster its position in preparation for an Eastern hegemon, let it be that of the Communist Chinese.”

“The Communist Chinese is exactly what we are talking about Mr. Sotelo. While their pace seems slow now, communists along with wanting to destroy all that is good are also very clever. They will find a way to make the Russian Republic collapse quickly, and let’s be honest the Russian Republic is torn up by organized crime. It would not be that hard, and if China defeats the Russian Republic, then they will unify Russia into a single state under a communist government. There will be rebuilding to do but give it a few years and we could have what was once the might of Tsarist Russia in the hands of communists.”

“I too have received concerning reports from Siberia. And I will agree that the Communist Empire must not be permitted to reach the very fringe of Europe. But I do not yet understand how rendering weaponry unto Serbia will play a direct role in stemming the advance of the mongoloid bolsheviks. Cementing control over the Balkan Peninsula is certainly in your interest in preparing for the arrival of communist forces on the border of Eastern Europe - but it is not in mine. Why should it be?

“We would provide your forces a few military bases in the Region, and since the Bulgarians do count as South Slavic that also opens up a few naval bases in the Black Sea for you. The Black Sea is important trade-wise and with fleets in the region you could prevent the communists from gaining total control over such trade. Serbia would also remain a military and political ally of Spain. Unlike the United States we see what the true threat communists are, and I can guarantee you have the full support of Serbia in any political matters, our say may not mean much know but imagine what it could be if we were a unified South Slav State.”

Sotelo bridged his fingers, considering the offer on the part of the Serbian envoy. Access to the Adriatic and the Black Seas - that was a step in the right direction. But the Prime Minister knew he could get far more. 

“A unified Slavic State? A tantalizing possibility for Serbia, certainly. But for the part of the Spanish Republic? I will not provide for the creation of a state that could - in time - develop interests contrary to those of the Second Spanish Republic. If I am to support the existence of a greater Serbian state, I will need assurances that this future state will not jeopardize the interests of this republic.

...Assurances that could be satisfied by having Belgrade ratify the Ibiza Treaty. By Serbia’s accession to the Iberian League.”

“Such an offer we could accept but we may need to ask a bit more in return. Beyond just Spanish support and weapons perhaps you could take a bit more of a active role in helping Serbia? Our industry could use some bolstering from Spain, especially considering the strength of your machines. A few advisers to help us organize our armed forces and make them more effective would assure me and Neven that ratifying such a treaty is in Serbia’s best interests.”

“Advisers, armaments. Those will be simple enough. As for industrial support, I can introduce legislation into the Senate providing for substantial subsidy for investment in Serbia - an action that will guide the market’s invisible hand to lift Serbia to opulence and splendor. These requests can be satisfied. I believe we may find an agreement on this.”

“I think there is nothing else to settle then.” said the Serbian diplomat, standing up and shaking Sotelo’s hand with a tight grip. “As a sign of Serbian Goodwill I can go ahead and sign the treaty now, Neven has granted me the same authority as him in diplomatic matters.”

“Very well. I will call for the notaries to see to us and provide a copy of the Ibiza Treaty that you may ratify on behalf of the esteemed Neven.” The prime minister stood up from his seat and accepted the envoy’s handshake - his own grip much colder and looser in comparison.

“As for the business between us, we are concluded. On behalf of the Second Spanish Republic, I welcome Serbia to the Iberian League.”

[b]Gulf of Aden[/b]

Spain had launched against Ethiopia the very pinnacle of their nation's aviation: as nimble of a plane as had ever been built. It did not take an aeronautical engineer to determine that the Spanish Fantasma was built with agility and speed in mind. It appeared more akin to an airborne torpedo than any sort of airplane: the fuselage had been built around a single engine nacelle which fired a propulsory jet of superheated and compressed air from a single thruster pod incorporated into the tail. A ring of four .50 caliber machine guns encircled the intake on its nose like fangs around a bestial maw. The fighter was kept aloft with a pair of short, slender wings accompanied by two separate ailerons directly anterior to the proper wings. Emblazoned upon these wings was the Leonese lion of the Second Republic in white paint.

The flying torpedo rocketed past the pillowy masses of cumulus clouds hanging over the open blue waters of the Straits of Mandeb. In a great, banking arc the Fantasma climbed out from the cloud banks after a solitary cargo airplane moving across the horizon. A blocky, heavy mess of an airplane - it moved hopelessly slow. The rocket of a fight swept behind the cargo aircraft and darted in to intercept the lumbering plane.

As the fighter tailed its prey, the cargo plane's tail elevators flared down, pitching the aircraft upward at a dizzying angle. The Fantasma roared past as the cargo plane arced into the cerulean void above the world, its helmet-donning pilot turning in his cockpit to watch as the plane swooped overhead. As ineffectual as it was, such a move constituted an evasive maneuver. The chase was on.

The Fantasma pilot's shoulders pressed down with tremendous force against his lower body as the jet pulled upward in a sharp curve, giving chase to the propeller plane. Within seconds, the Fantasma had matched the ascent profile of its prey and throttled up to close in for the kill. The pilot's gloved fingers snaked around the rear-mounted trigger on the fighter's joystick. Despite the best efforts of the pilot inside, the cargo aircraft found itself squarely within the gyroscoping crosshairs of the Fantasma. He squeezed the trigger for a second.

The nose-mounted machine guns roared to life, rattling the cockpit of the Fantasma as a torrent of red-hot tracers arced across the sky. Brass shells tumbled past the cockpit while the pilot kept the fighter's guns trained on the propeller-bound plane. At the last moment before interception, the Spaniard tugged on the trigger once more for a follow-up burst. His eyes registered sparks of clashing metal on the fuselage of his target in the instant before he tugged the joystick to his left, banking the Fantasma away.

As the fighter veered off, the pilot spun in his seat in order to confirm the damage he had inflicted. A smirk stretched underneath his oxygen mask when he saw a fire flickering wildly from within the innermost of the two right propeller pods. A smear of thick black smoke trailed across the blue sky. The target was wounded, but it could escape yet.

The pilot's vision blurred briefly as he pulled another sharp turn - blood trickled from his head down into his lower body from the centrifugal forces produced by the rapid turn. The Fantasma turned about to face the cargo aircraft with its guns once more. The blocky craft, with one of its engines severely damaged, struggled to continue its evasive climb. It bobbed and shuddered, threatening to stall as the roiling flame within the engine grew in intensity. The Fantasma swept about to intercept the limping plane from behind. Once again, he trained the crosshairs at the fore of the cockpit directly upon the airplane's fuselage. As he closed in, his finger wrapped itself about the trigger once again, biding only to get close enough to ensure a mortal volley.

At that instant, a brilliant flash of blue lightning bathed the cockpit and the airplane jolted violently. A deafening crack of thunder left the pilot's ears ringing. His heart raced as the needles of the myriad instrument dials around the cockpit all spiked momentarily before falling back to zero. The constant whine from the fan blades of the jet engine beneath him wound down to a gradual halt. The Fantasma sailed lifelessly past the smoldering cargo plane; it failed to respond when the pilot slid the throttle back and forth.

There was no doubt - it was a lightning strike. All the electronic instrumentation of the Spanish jet remained listless. The craft's pilot was too frightened to begin to wonder how his plane had suffered a lightning strike in clear skies and several thousand feet above the nearest clouds. He was now gliding a hundred kilometers to sea over unfriendly waters.

The pilot brought the radio microphone up to his lips to relay a distress call, only to realize that the radio was also dead. He jostled the joystick - the elevators and ailerons still functioned - but required some application of force without the powered components. Realizing that he yet had some control of the plane, he slowly veered in a southerly direction.

And as it came about, a narrow spit of golden-yellow land glowed invitingly against the deep blue ocean below. The fighter descended slightly and proceeded to glide down to the desert island below.