[b]Madrid, Spain[/b]

White-gray roads snaked across the dusty brown chaparral that dominated central Spain; the scraggly pradera grass had all been desiccated under the dry sun of a Spanish June. Highways that radiated out across the whole of Iberia, from Lisbon to Barcelona, from Santander to Tarifa, all began to converge in an urban nexus fast approaching on the horizon.

Madrid, the capital of the Second Spanish Republic, was a sprawling red city framed within a spider's web of modern thoroughfares and bypasses, the warm hue imparted by the traditional sienna roofs of the older districts of Pozuelo, San Isidro, and [i]Vieja Ciudad[/i] - Old Madrid. The traditional neighborhoods surrounded a core of ultra-dense development. High rises rose upward from the fertile soil of La Zarza, Lucero, and Plaza Abdicacion. In Manzanares and the Distrito Financiero, development culminated in towers of glass and concrete that glinted in the sunlight. Occasionally, their glittering facades were cast in shadow by a creeping eclipse - great zeppelins droned high above the reach of even the tallest skyscrapers.

Sotelo paid no attention to any of it. He bridged his hands and tapped the tips of his fingers together, ignoring the updates from his pilot as they came ever closer to his destination. His mind was in Ethiopia, where some great calamity had surely befallen his army. Some imbecile must have destroyed his [i]dreams[/i], it wouldn't surprise him. Following an attempt on his life - a botched coup, it had turned out - Sotelo combed through the republic's military hierarchy. All those high ranking officers and generals who did not strike his Excellency as utterly loyal were quietly disposed of. Seasoned brass who had served since the days of the monarchy were replaced by a crowd of underqualified officers. There was no choice in the matter for the Prime Minister; Sotelo would always prefer an officer corps of loyal imbeciles to deceitful geniuses. Of course, all choices have their consequences; Sotelo feared that this choice had already born bitter fruit.

"Making the final descent, your Excellency!" One of his pilots shouted over the roar of the propellers. "Please buckle in!" Sotelo threw the pilot a dismissive wave of the hand before returning to his thoughts.

The Prime Minister's helicopter halted high above the placid waters of the Rio Manzanares, descending gently over the Hall of the Republic. The recently-constructed center of governance for the republic was commanded by a great rotunda and collonaded annexes radiated outward from that dome-capped hub. With its dome held high by Atlean columns, its building style hearkened back to mighty Rome. And though it was officially built in homage to the Roman Republic, the Hall of the Republic had become instead a palace to Spain's Julius Caesar.

With a soft bump, the helicopter's wheels found purchase on a rooftop helipad, the propellers wound down with an audible whine as the engine was allowed to idle. Without so much as waiting to be addressed by the pilots, Sotelo stood up from his seat and slid back the chopper's passenger door before letting himself out into the swirling downdraft of the propellers. He [i]had[/i] to know how badly his invasion had been bungled.

On the rooftop, a welcoming party of aides, bodyguards, and assorted lackeys had already assembled themselves at the base of the helipad waiting to attend to the prime minister's.

"Welcome back to Madrid, Excellency!" One goon announced warmly, combing wind-teased hair back into place with him palm. "I trust Gibraltar was pleasa-"

"Dispense with the platitudes," Sotelo snapped. "Where are they?"
_____________________________

The roar of propellers on the roof had quieted. His Excellency was in the building, and they had precious little time to prepare.

The highest echelon of Spain's military commanders were gathered within the [i]Cuarto de Guerra[/i], a cavernous space dominated by a long, monolithic table with seating for twenty-one; all but one seat at the fore end of the polished, black counter were occupied. The empty space on the far walls was illuminated by the beams of projectors - for the time being the projectors displayed nothing but a quivering rainbow band signifying a lack of input. Draped about the War Room's corners were four yellow-crimson banners bearing the lion coat of the Second Republic. The white lions snarled at a massive globe suspended over the central table by a steel cable. Lighting within the glass sphere illuminated the Horn of Africa with an embery red glow.

Beneath the Earth, the high commanders of Spain's military fretted over reams of reports, documents, photocopied dossiers translated from Amharic into Castillian with notes scribbled sloppily on the margins. High Commander Velasquez, broad-shouldered and stoic, maintained a statue-esque composure, mentally preparing himself for the abuse that he would soon be subjected to. Sergio Severino, Head of the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar, huddled with his analysts, poring over reports from field personnel in Africa.

Over the din of a score of military commanders preparing their briefing, there came the sharp rapping of hard soles against cold marble tile. A menetromic 'clack-clack-clack' resounded through the corridors outside, silencing everyone at once. Alfonso Sotelo had arrived.

Armed guards escorted his Excellency into the war room and remained at the entry after closing the door behind him. Clad in pressed tunic jackets with gold-striped slacks and epaulets, the presence of the [i]Guardia Republicana[/i] served as a tangible reminder to those present that Sotelo had not yet forgotten the coup attempt of 1978. Never again would he offer his commanders a chance to destroy him. The Prime Minister occupied the vacant seat at the fore end of the table, meeting those anxious faces looking upon him.

"A pleasure to have you in attendance, Excellency." High Commander Velasquez spoke on behalf of the assembled commanders.

"Oh, I certainly hope it to be a pleasure," said Sotelo with a venomous snideness. "I was asked to leave a conference in Gibraltar 'with all deliberate haste' to be briefed on matters concerning the conflict in Ethiopia. As you might imagine, that led me to believe that something grave has transpired. How reassuring, then, that you are pleased to have me! So, by all means, share with me what I trust must be good news!"

Nervous eyes flitted about the War Room, nothing of import had been said and already Sotelo was angry. How would he react when he actually heard what had happened? The collective attention of the war room refocused on the far side of the room - the rainbow band projected upon the wall melted into flickering static before displaying a live telecall video feed. Standing before them on the bridge of a ship three thousand miles away was Admiral Santiago Santin. His lips moved about silently for a few moments before the audio feed could catch up.

//You know, Excellency,// Admiral Santin's staticky voice rasped through the War Room, //it's often said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Before these people try to explain what happened last night, let me [i]show[/i] you.// One could almost hear the worried gulps of the commanders as the projector showed Santin's meaty hands grasping his telecall camera and turning it around. The projector's view of the bridge spun about, stopping at the bridge's windshield.

Beyond the glass and the officers and ensigns scurrying about in the foreground, the wake of Ras Hassan was projected for Sotelo and his commanders to see. Half-submerged hulks smoldered above the waterline, six of them were in view of the camera staggered about the intact vessels of the Spanish Armada. Far off in the distance, a truly massive column of black smoke billowed into the air. The mammoth plume rose far into the sky, where stratosphere winds blew it far over the coast.

"How did this happen?" Sotelo asked gravely, steel gray eyes taking in every detail. "Those ships... I was told that their navy was completely destroyed. How did this happen?"

//Their fleet was destroyed at the Mandeb, yes. Their [i]air forces[/i], however, are very much intact.//

"Air forces?" Sotelo was dumbfounded.

//Those were my sentiments as well, Excellency. Our intelligence suggested that the Ethiopians had no air force to speak of. But there they were - two to three hundred fighter aircraft attacked the Armada while the landing was underway.//

"How did this happen?" his Excellency repeated. No responses from the assembled commanders. He bolted upright, knocking the chair out from underneath. "How was this allowed to happen, damn you!"

//I'd like to know the same thing.// Santin spun the camera back to face him. //Nearly 4,000 soldiers and 600 seamen lost their lives last night due of gross incompetence on the part of our intelligence apparatus.// Even Santin, watching from a television screen halfway across the planet, could see Sotelo trembling with fury.

Sergio Severino spoke up for the first time to attempt some measure of damage control. "Certainly, this was a regrettable turn of events, howev-"

//Regrettable?// Santin scoffed. //I will be signing at least 608 letters of condolences to parents and wives in these coming days. These were men whose safety I was personally responsible for. You know nothing of regret, you imbecile.//

Sotelo's soles clacked against the floor as he paced about, his face flush with red fury. His eyes widened as he remembered a critical detail he had overlooked. "Admiral Santin, was the [i]Cascabel[/i] damaged?"

//No, your Excellency. She is safe. It would seem we did see some measure of good fortune. If the Africans had known to target that ship... I shudder to think of the consequences.//

"Once our forces had landed on the beach, they did not meet enemy infantry." High Commander Velasquez began; if Admiral Santin was allowed to continue explaining what had transpired, there was a good chance Severino would see the gallows after this briefing. "Upon circumnavigating the burning city, our forces were free to rally and move forward. Even now, General Ponferrada is pressing into the Afar. Contingents of armored cavalry are pursuing the retreating Ethiopian forces as we speak."

//Only after their planes had been dispersed by our Fantasma... which I must add was shot down. If that brave bastard hadn't taken those planes on, I wouldn't be speaking with you today.//

"We lost the Fantasma?!" His Excellency bellowed. Spain's fleet of jet fighters remained in its infancy. The one lost at the battle of Djibouti had been one of only four in the possession of the Republic's [i]fuerza aerea[/i]. It would take perhaps a year to replace such a machine. "That same one shot down the Chinese jet, did it not? How did an Ethiopian plane even get close to it?"

//One managed a lucky shot, to be sure.//

"Worry not, Excellency," High Commander Velasquez assured. "Our forces remain nearly 20,000 strong. The Third Mechanized Infantry division is moving into the heart of Ethiopia as we speak. They will catch Ras Hassan's forces and destroy him. And when that happens, there will be nothing between General Ponferrada and Addis Ababa. So quickly will they besiege the capital, that the Yohannes Dynasty will be terrified into capitulation." Sotelo drew an audible sigh, perhaps of relief.

"I do not believe that to be a likely scenario." One of Severino's Ethiopia analysts spoke up, a young professional with slick, combed hair. "We have learned in the preceding days that Emperor Yaqob Yohannes' immediate family had fled the country as the Armada entered the Red Sea. Recall the combat incident report filed by the Fuerza Aerea concerning that skirmish over the Gulf of Aden between the Fantasma and the three Chinese jet aircraft. That pilot had originally been drawn into the area to engage a cargo aircraft heading for Persian airspace. It turns out that very airplane was carrying the royal family to safety. We've wondered how the Chinese fighters were so fast to respond to the engagement, and seeing as the royal family was aboard, we have a reason.

"The Emperor's family is slain?" Sotelo inquired, seemingly hopeful.

"No. The country has been celebrating the fact that the royal family found refuge on a desert island in the Gulf of Aden - Soqotra. They were rescued by the Chinese. The Emperor's wife and child are in the custody of the Chinese now. With his wife and heir safe, we can expect the Emperor to fight to the last."

"Damnable Chinese, the continent is infested with the communists!" Sotelo groaned.

"The Chinese presence in Africa is based on Pemba, Excellency; an island just to the north of Zanzibar," Severino corrected. "Several years ago, Emperor Yaqob offered the communists space on the island for a military facility. We know there to be naval facilities, runways, and housing for a substantial contingent of Chinese personnel."

"But there is another matter of interest in regards to the royal plane." The Ethiopia analyst chimed in once again, holding up a photocopied sheet of Amharic characters. "The Oficina's agents in the field have collected documents that suggest that something else was aboard that plane bound for China."

"Precisely what else was on that plane?" Sotelo demanded.

"That's just the thing, Excellency, it's never specified. But it is noted that this 'parcel' was not recovered by the Chinese. A sense of disappointment is communicated... a loss, perhaps."

"So a box of the royal crockery was lost in the wreckage," Sotelo huffed. "It is no concern of mine."

"Consider the circumstances of how that plane was intercepted. The Fantasma fired upon the plane, and without warning, this state-of-the-art aircraft had it's electrical components shut off. As if God himself had flipped its switch like a lightbulb.

"Lightning, was is not?" Commander Bodevín of the Spanish Air Forces added. "On a clear day, too. I've seen my share of aircraft and I've seen some strange things happen to them. But when I heard about that... very strange, indeed."

"You imply the Ethiopians were carrying some sort of weapon on board that aircraft?" Sotelo asked, suddenly sobered. "You know as well as I do that Africa does not have the technological capacity to realize a device with that sort of power."

"Probably not," the analyst ceded. "But who knows? And if that's what it was, then we need to find it before the Chinese decide to come back for it."

Sotelo paced silently for a few moments, sighed, and turned his attention to the projection of Admiral Santin on the far wall. "Admiral, dispatch whatever vessel you can most readily do without to Soqotra. If this wreckage is even remotely intact, I want it recovered."

//As you wish, your Excellency. If that plane is down there, the [i]Delfín's[/i] salvage divers will find it.//

"As for the Ethiopian air force, I will not permit another debacle of this magnitude. I want plans drawn up for an air campaign into the heart of the Pan-African Empire. Every airport, runway, hangar, and fuel depot shall be bombed into oblivion. I will not have enemy aircraft strafing my forces or harassing the supply lines. This threat will be eliminated. Am I understood?"

"Completely, Excellency." Commander Bodevín acknowledged. "However, I must advise you that even from the captured runways at Port Said, our bombers will only have access to fighter escorts throughout the north of Ethiopia."

"Fair enough." Sotelo propped his fallen chair back onto its legs and eased back into his seat at the head of the table. "There is the matter of this Pemba Island as well. I will not accept a Chinese foothold in Africa. I want preparations made for a bombing raid against the Chinese base."

"Excellency, I would advise against such a move," said High Commander Velasquez. "We've came dangerously close to an outright declaration of war from the New People's China with the skirmish over the Gulf of Aden. Chairman Hou might abide a lost jet airplane, but he will not be able to ignore the destruction of an entire base. We can ill afford open war with China now, Excellency."

"After this disaster at Djibouti, I admit I put little stock in your counsel, High Commander. Let the Chinese come, and we shall shock them."

"Our bombers will not be able to go that far and return to Port Said in any case," Commander Bodevín added. "There are simply no available runways anywhere near that area."

"That is not true, Commander Bodevín." Sotelo looked up to the colossal globe hanging above them all, and pointed up at the great island just off Africa's eastern coast.

"We can use Madagascar."