[b]Argentina[/b]

While the leaders of other South and Central American countries applauded and licked the bum of Brazils new government, President-General Peron of Argentina was slowly pacing down a vast expanse of a vast factory floor, the measured “click” of his heels seeming to echo across the space. He could feel the breath of the men who stood silently beside their massive machines and he mused quietly to himself about how much effort it must have taken to make concrete gleam in a space that would ordinarily be filled with billowing steam and covered in the sparks of welding crews.
 
It had been a long time since he had been anywhere near a factory but now, with the news from Africa, the small idea at the back of his mind was becoming a reality. And that reality was, Argentina was a nation longing for greatness. For as long as they had could remember they had languished under the watchful eye of the Brazilians or the Americans, always someone trying to impose their foreign policy and direct Argentina in a direction that best suited them.
 
Well, no more. Argentina would forge her own path.
 
It would begin here, in this long factory, its usually roaring machinery and shouting men deathly quiet as they all waited. The President-Generals visit had been sudden and unexpected, announced only twelve hours before his arrival. There had been a panic as the management rushed to ensure that the facility was spotless for his visit. It was impressive, if he was honest with himself, but it was not the gleaming floors he had come to see, not the newly washed and pressed workers uniforms. It was the machines they built he was interested in.
 
Rows of half built aircraft filled the factory floor. Some looked ready to fly that moment, only a few touches of paint left, while others were nothing but skeletal frames. Each had a small snub nose and a powerful engine on either wing. These aircraft, nicknamed the Mosquito, were the product of the brilliant mind of George Volkert, an Englishman who had fled the United Kingdom during its trials and internal conflict. He had virtually launched the Argentine aircraft industry himself almost twenty years before and now, as he planned to retire, the Argentine Republic found itself more in need of his skills then ever before.
 
So far only thirty of the aircraft had been built, those on the factory floor would make sixty and after that the project had been slated to end and the factory to return to producing civilian aircraft but that could change, in fact it would change, on that very day.
 
The Mosquito was a fighter-bomber, fast, agile and well-armed. It was like everything else that the President-General considered useful in a military machine, adaptable, light and fast. Not for him the interest in heavy battle tanks. He had seen in the various conflicts around the world how air power could dominate even the most heavily armoured tank and so he had steered his nation away from getting caught up in the main battle tank frenzy and instead focused on small, highly mobile fighting forces. He had yet to test this theory but it seemed he would be given a chance after all.
 
“Impressive!” He had halted, raising his voice so that it seemed to echo in the vast building. “Very impressive! I am delighted to see so many aircraft on the verge of completion!”
 
His eyes darted down the length of the manufacturing line again and in his mind’s eye he saw the aircraft darting through a smoke filled sky, the landscape below them shifting from desert, to jungle and eventually to a small series of islands surrounded by an angry sea. He took a breath, paused, and then changed the course of his nation forever.
 
“I am delighted to announce that his factory has been chosen to produce another one hundred and twenty aircraft!”
 
There was a stunned silence and for the first time the workers moved, glancing around at their compatriots. For them this was good news, it meant work for the next year at least. But the underlying meaning had not escaped them, something was brewing.
 
“You are Argentina!” Said the President-General. “And with your help she will grow strong again!”
 
Then he turned and walked swiftly down the long rows he had just traversed, his staff officers running after him to catch up. He did not stop until he stood before the plant manager, a burly local man who had gotten rich off this government contract. He was staring at the President-General in amazement.
 
“Mr. Monreo, I expect this plant to be running at full capacity within a week.”

Then the President-General was gone and silence fell across the space again until Monreo started as if waking from a dream. 

“You heard the man, get to work!”

*********************************************************************** 

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

“The sky is burning.” Said the policeman, his hand clutching at the worn grip of the revolver at his waist. He, along with the rest of the villagers, were clustered on the western edge of their tiny town staring towards the flaming sky that had replaced the normally placid nightly glow of Djibouti. 

“It sure seems like.” Replied one of the village elders. He held his own weapon, a short-barrelled rifle that his grandfathers grandfather had passed down the family until it came to him. “The Spanish have great ships that can burn the very ocean itself.”

As if to prove his point the burning trails of fuel from the smashed Spanish warships had caught fire and the ocean seemed to dance with a thousand red gems. If they had known anything about war, or warships, they have realized that not all the fighting was one sided. 

“Will they come here?” Asked a small woman, she was the bakers wife, only 5’7 and almost 300 pounds and her chins shook slightly as she talked. It might have been comical but for the intense fear in her eyes.

“Probably, it is the only coastal road.” Said the policeman. He was lost in an inner thought. Would he resist? It would be futile he was sure but he did not want to disappoint his Emperor. But then, would the distant emperor even hear of or care if a lone policeman tried to stem the invaders, wouldn’t it seem more foolish than brave, a revolver against a tank. Foolish. Definitely foolish. 

“Listen.” Snapped a youth, he was tall and lanky and wore a basketball jersey showing some American sports team called the “Bulls.” They had always called him “Little Bull” as a joke but now his voice was deadly earnest. “Engines.”

They all fell quiet and sure enough they could hear the growl of engines in the darkness, coming towards them from the north. The policeman glanced behind them to where a small knot of militia were huddled together. He wondered if they would surrender or fight. 

Their officer looked towards him as if reading his mind, gave an apologetic shrug, and the militia melted into the darkness. The policeman supposed he hadn’t considered running away but he couldn’t leave his home, two wives and nine children, they would forever regard him as a coward.

The noise grew quickly until, quite suddenly, a vehicle loomed out of the dark. It wasn’t what they had been expecting. The Ethiopian soldiers had long told them stories of the huge tanks the Spanish had, how they could breath fire and crush men with their treads. Instead this vehicle was not much larger than an army truck. It had four tires and an armoured head that rotated from side to side, the long muzzle of the gun blackened to match the night. 

“What are you going to do?” The elder asked the policeman as they stood together, their weapons clutched tightly to their chests. 

Headlight snapped on, blinding them, and the vehicle stopped. They were aware of other shapes moving in the darkness around them now. Men on horseback, and behind the armoured car more engines growled like lions on the prowl. 

“Drop. Weapons.” The words were poorly pronounced and barely understandable but the policeman got the gist of them and, staring into the horribly black muzzle that suddenly seemed to yawn bigger than any cave in the world, he felt his bladder let go and he hastily threw down the revolver. The elders weapon hit the ground at the same time his did. 

“Behave, no harm will come. Where soldiers?” The voice called from the vehicle again and the policeman shook his head violently, gesturing towards the darkness and doing his best to make the unseen voice understand that they had gone. 

There was a long pause and then a voice called from the darkness in a foreign tongue and a horseman rode passed along the edge of the headlight beam. He was tall, well dressed and wore a cloth cap rather than a helmet, a sword dangled from his hip and the policeman could see a carbine thrust into the saddle holster. There was a brief exchange in a language he did not understand and then suddenly the light went out.

There was a click of hooves against the roadway and then the horseman loomed over them in the dark. He leaned down and the policeman could just make out a large bird clutching a skull and crossbones on the mans cap badge. 

“You will behave?’ The question was in marginally better accent and the policeman could only nod. “Good. No behave, we shoot. Bang bang.” He made the motion and the two local men only nodded harder. “Good, my thank, now move.”

He waved them to the side of the road, engines roared and the armoured car tore off into the darkness. More came, more than either man could count though neither had any schooling, but it seemed like an endless parade of armoured cars, cavalry, lines of marching infantry and artillery pieces. When the last of them had vanished into the darkness the two men breathed a sigh of relief. 

They would be dead two hours later when regular Spanish army units, following on the heels of the Condor Legion, secured the village and shot everyone they could find.