[b]Djibouti, Pan-African Empire[/b]

They had arrived.

Towers of steel and menace glowing in the twilight of the setting sun stood vigil across the waters from Ethiopia's port city. A wall of mighty guns trained upon Djibouti, awaiting only the order from Admiral Santiago Santin to smash the city into dust. That order would come soon - once the swarm of landing boats now being lowered into the sea had reached a safe distance from their own guns. The muzzle fire from one such naval battery could incinerate a house. No matter: time was on the side of the Spanish; Djibouti was going nowhere, but it could be hoped that the Ethiopian defenders would loose heart in the face of the coming onslaught and would flee rather than resist.

Luis glanced longingly back to the Armada's ships as his landing craft drifted toward the shore some four kilometers away. On those ships, the private felt relatively safe. The primacy of Spain's blue water navy was uncontested - barring a naval intervention by the Chinese, the Spanish fleet could never be threatened. Behind the study hull of the [i]Golondrina[/i], nothing could hurt him. But in this rusting old boat, rocking and bobbing about in the sea, Luis would be utterly helpless if calamity were to strike. He could only pray and hope that the Lord would steer this boat through sea mines and incoming shells. Even an errant wave could spell disaster, spilling Luis and his companions into the open water.

Those companions did not seem to share Luis' concern. There was a tension amongst the men to be sure, but it was not one of timid reservation. Brief comments here and there met with short bouts of laughter. Luis' comrades were coiled springs, ready to be released from the landing boat and thrown against the Ethiopians. It was a palpable eagerness - they, after all, would be the ones to redeem the imperial splendor of Spain. Hector in particular seemed as though the spirit of Cortes and Pizarro were spurring him on against the Aztec and Inca of the modern age.

"Did the Armada forget how to shoot those guns? What gives?" One of the infantry spoke up.

"What's the range on those things anyway?" Another added.

"I've heard something like forty kilometers."

"Shit, those ships get any closer to shore and they'll be able to clear us a path all the way to Addis!"

"Forty kilometers on a [i]good[/i] day." Lieutenant Ayesta corrected, leaning against the hull of the landing craft as the boat rolled over a wave crest. Droplets of foamy seawater splashed over the side and fell upon their olive-beige combat helmets. "And today is not a particularly good day as these things go. That storm's going to be on the Armada's ass in a few hours and you bet those gusts will play havoc on shells sailing through thirty to forty-five kilometers of air. They're getting in as close as they can. No reason not to; we've got aerial superiority and Ethiopia just lost what's left of a navy." Chuckles and grunts of approval rang out over the rumble of the diesel engine churning through the sea to the rear of the boat.

Luis craned his neck over the lip of the hull toward the shore. His boat was at the rear of a loose, vaguely-linear cluster of landing craft - one of the first waves. They had traversed about half of the distance between the Armada and the coast - heightening waves and the beginnings of whitecaps showed that the water was already quite shallow here. The landing boat was no longer rolling over the surf, but powering through it. The diesel motor revved angrily as the front of the boat plowed over the ridge of a wave - shattering it into a mist of beads shimmering in the spotlight the driver had switched on minutes earlier. As the boat bobbed up with the waves, Luis could see with some clarity their target, their destination.

Orange streetlights glowed over the inky darkness of the water, illuminating the city against the encroaching darkness. For the bastion of communist sympathy in the West, Luis was not particularly impressed by what he could see of Ethiopia so far. Djibouti was by no means a grand city, the buildings washed in the glow of halogen streetlamps went no higher than a few stories - a far cry from the glittering high rises and office complexes of Alicante, Valencia, or Barcelona. Wharves, warehouses, and loading cranes silhouetted against the reflected glow of the city against the nighttime sky could be seen off to the north. There was no doubt that any shipping-related infrastructure would be the first things the Armada would target; denying Ethiopia an important resupply port was a vital point of the Spanish strategy. Directly ahead was the ebbing whiteness of surf-driven foam crashing against a beach: a more suitable medium for a waterborne invasion.

An explosive flash materialized somewhere in the city, followed immediately by a handful of others. Several seconds passed before the distance-dulled boom of the blasts registered. The barrage had begun, eliciting cheerful whoops from the Spanish soldiers. No sooner than the Armada's initial salvo had begun, the unmistakable roar of helicopter propellers came in loud over the crashing surf. Barracuda gunships engorged with infantry swooped just over the landing craft crawling through the waves. They would carry heavily-armed fireteams behind the enemy's defensive lines, further encouraging the mass rout of Ethiopian forces that General Ponferrada so desired. For his own sake, Luis hoped that the Ethiopians would quail at the sight of this display of force.

Another shell fell upon Djibouti, deep within. It triggered an explosion that blossomed into a churning fireball, then rose upward above the city turning from bright orange and yellow and mushrooming into a deep red cloud. Embers and smoke billowed upward as the fireball expanded over the city. Another round of cheers as the sound of that explosion met their ears.

"Must have hit a fuel depot with that one!" One of Luis' peers exclaimed.

Another infernal flash materialized up to the north, nearer to the harbor. And then another flash, and another...

"[i]Jesucristo[/i]! Armada's making these shots count!"

"That's not the Armada." Lieutenant Ayesta declared, craning his neck to look back over the driver's platform. "Our guns aren't firing."

"What a bunch of fucking morons!" Hector cackled. "They're shelling their own city!"

As the soldiers burst into hysterics at the supposed stupidity of their enemy, Luis watched as the fireballs continued to blossom forth from the bursts of light, each one merging into a horizon of firelight. Djibouti - the entire city - was rapidly beginning to burn.
__________________________________

Admiral Santiago Santin stood at the helm of [i]La Ira de Dios[/i], his arms crossed behind his back as he pressed himself against the windshield of the aircraft carrier's control tower. A pair of state-of-the-art infrared binoculars rested upon a nearby console; Admiral Santin had no need for them now, he could see everything he needed to. An infernal glow radiated across the hills and deserts surrounding the port city as the conflagration grew ever more intense.

"That bastard!" General Ponferrada snarled, joining Santin's side in watching the great fire. "I knew he'd do something of this caliber."

"Communists would sooner see their country burn than allow it to fall from their grasp. I'm not at all surprised either. It does complicate your landings. How does this affect your plan moving forward?"

"It doesn't." Ponferrada decided matter-of-factly. "The only thing that they've accomplished with this feat is sparing us the munitions to destroy Djibouti. It was never my intent to engage them in urban combat, and it seems that Hassan is no more interested in guerrilla warfare than I am. A career of fighting Belgians and separatists in the bush has made him fond of a more open field of combat - I must assume he's forgotten that Ethiopia proper is a land devoid of cover. The Fuerza Aerea will burn his forces out of any hole he tries to hide in, and he cannot win a set piece battle against the Ejercito. 

The Barracudas will take the forward guard into their midst and dispatch their artillery without difficulty. Forces arriving on the beaches will simply have to pick a path through the city, or perhaps await aerial extraction if the fires get too expansive. This stunt might have impressed that [i]maricon[/i] Demessie, but it will take much more than napalm shells and a few hundred liters of kerosine to faze me."

General Ponferrada glanced furtively about the bridge, ensuring the officers and ensigns were occupied with other matters. Satisfied no one was paying particularly close attention, he leaned into Santin's ear. "On the subject of impressing these savages, we have the opportunity to spare ourselves any combat here. We can avoid all confrontation for this landing," he whispered. He took one more glance over his shoulder before continuing.

"I know as well as you do that the [i]Cascabel[/i] carries nerve gas shells, and that the Prime Minister has granted you permission to use them at your discretion. Their artillery batteries and formations could be dispatched with a handful of shells..."

"No," Santin curtly denied. "Those will be sorely needed before this war is finished. I have no intention of wasting them on Ethiopian artillery battalions of all things."

Before he could continue, the Admiral took note of a sudden uptick in the chatter amongst the officers at their consoles. Santin approached the communications officer to be appraised of the situation at hand.

"The [i]Cimmarón[/i] has reported radar contacts moving overland. Attempting to confirm...," an epaulet-sporting officer informed the Admiral in between conversations through his headset.

"I can confirm: unidentified contacts on radar moving in at 220 knots, heading of 105 degrees!" A white-clad ensign reported. "Aircraft and lots of it!"

"I want every fixed-wing aircraft on the carrier airborne in the next seven minutes." Admiral Santin snapped. "Get those flak guns firing." A chorus of 'Aye's and '[i]Entendido, almirante[/i]'s responded to each order. "General, do I understand that there are gunships moving inland?"

"That's correct." With this, the General's face drained of color.

"Then you turn them the Hell around."