[b]Airspace over North Africa[/b] They had warned him about everything but [i]this[/i]. Alfonso Sotelo’s staff and bodyguards had practically begged him not to step aboard the airplane. Should he go through with joining the pilots of the 35th bomber wing for the first major bombing campaigns of the Spanish-Ethiopian war, the Prime Minister would be placing himself in great peril. Miles and miles above the ground, away from his squads of crack bodyguards and the might of the Ejercito, there would be no help for the Prime Minister should disaster strike. And disaster was a very distinct possibility on this mission, as expressed by concerned bomber pilots. “If your Excellency’s aircraft happens to be shot down over hostile airspace, you [i]will[/i] be captured. Imagine that: the Prime Minister captured by the socialists. It would be the end of the war,” Captain Estevez said as his prime minister affixed the bombardier helmet’s chinstraps to his face. That was a sobering possibility to be sure; how delighted Emperor Yaqob and his Chairman puppetmaster would be to have the nemesis himself in chains. Not even Spanish-occupied Africa in its entirety would be a sufficient ransom for the life of Alfonso Sotelo. But as horrible as that thought was, Sotelo knew it to be an impossibility. Ras Hassan’s phantom airforce, whose surprise attack at Djibouti nearly ended the Spanish invasion before it even began, was still at large, but was certainly concentrated around Addis Ababa and the core of the Ethiopian homeland – a land far removed from the target of tonight’s sorties. What Sotelo wished they had warned him of was the sheer monotony. The Prime Minister twiddled his thumbs in clasped hands as his eyes wandered about the cabin - a surprisingly claustrophobic space given the airplane's massive size. This was a Gargola, the workhorse aircraft of the Spanish military. These impressive machines could fly great distances while carrying up to twelve tons of cargo; Sotelo himself had seen such an airplanes take off with a halftrack strapped down within its cavernous fuselage, but this particular Gargola was a different beast. The Ejercito and the Armada used cargo variants extensively to maneuver and mobilize across Spanish Africa, where the Spanish-built railroads never strayed very far from the Mediterranean coast. But while the ground forces and navy used the cargo variant, the Spanish air forces possessed Gargolas built for the aircraft's original purpose: carrying heavy bomb loads deep into enemy territory. Tonight's mission entailed precisely that. Sotelo was therefore surprised that such a mission could be so boring. Two hours had passed since their takeoff that afternoon, and absolutely nothing of interest had happened. If those pilots had not extolled him on the dangers of their mission, but instead told him the flight would be dreadfully boring, Sotelo would have never stepped aboard. Sotelo was no coward, but neither was he a patient man. Having been asked to remain buckled in and seated, he could do nothing but look about at his cramped surroundings. The world beyond the aircraft seemed no more interesting. Beyond the nearest porthole window, an azure Mediterranean Sea crawled past. A cottony smattering of clouds drifting by over the sea was the only indication that the plane was moving past them at all. Not much in the way of a view. Back inside the airplane, plastic panels covered the walls and ceiling of the cabin, all of which were riddled with instrument dials. At least a hundred black, glassy dials could be seen from Sotelo's seat behind the cockpit, each one giving the viewer the exact value of some arcane measurement. The hands of some were perfectly stationary or quivered slightly while others spun wildly around their centers. He couldn't begin to guess what any of them meant. First aid kits and a small fire extinguisher were the only other objects that adorned the walls of the cabin, save for the only mark of decoration inside the airplane. Affixed just above the portal to the bomber's cockpit was a framed portrait of an angelic woman with a golden halo crowning her head. She could be none other than Saint Barbara: the patron saint of all those who earn their living with explosives. Beneath Saint Barbara's stoic gaze, one of the airmen emerged from the bomber's cockpit and approached the Prime Minister. "Your Excellency, my copilot has relieved me from the yoke. Feel free to unbuckle yourself and move around if you wish," the pilot offered as he unstrapped his chinstraps and pulled the helmet off of his head. "Oh, and you can take your helmet off now," the pilot added, who Sotelo row recognized as Captain Estevez. "We're at cruising altitude now - this is the quiet part of the mission." "[i]This[/i] is the quiet part of the mission?" Sotelo sighed, yanking his own helmet off of his head before trying to comb his pompadour back into some semblance of order with his hands. "I am beginning to suspect your exhortations of peril were all for not, Captain." "I wouldn't speak so soon, Excellency," the pilot cautioned. "We're still in transit to the target. Because of your... decision to join us tonight, we've made some alterations to the mission. Our squadron's original target was traded with a sister squadron for a somewhat safer destination. Even so, there is still potential for danger. Now is not the time for danger, Excellency - that comes later. In any case, come with me. I'd like to give you the grand tour while we're leveled out." With that, Sotelo unbuckled himself from his seat and stretched his arms out. After two satisfying pops sounded from each elbow, the Prime Minister followed his host deeper into the aircraft. Captain Estevez led him down a narrow aisle through the fuselage. Where the aisle terminated, two tiny cubicles opened up on either side. Fold-out desks were surrounded by instrumentation and still more dials, and seated at each were airmen busy with their respective roles - but not too busy to offer Sotelo a brief salute. "This is the communications suite." Captain Estevez reported, gesturing to an airman busy turning knobs on a large radio console, listening intently to some transmission through a mic-affixed headset. "Our communications officer is our contact with our squadron, fighter support, friendly aircraft, and any Republic military assets within range. He is our link with Madrid and the outside world and is in constant contact with the chain of command until we reach enemy airspace and go quiet." Sotelo regarded the communications officer with a nod before he and his host turned moved on. "And here is the bombardier's suite. The bombardier is charged with assisting the pilot and copilot in navigation until we approach the target site. At that point, his role is -as you might imagine- is the destruction of all assigned targets, and he has the most sophisticated technology at his disposal to ensure he succeeds at that role." "You've got check this out, Excellency." An eager bombardier showed Sotelo what appeared to be a periscope sight emanating from his console, inviting him to peer through the lens. The Prime Minister stooped over to peer through the binocular sight, and found himself staring through a crosshaired bomb sight aimed directly downward into the waves miles below. The bombardier flipped a knob on his console and with an audible click, the sea became an intensely bright green. "Active and passive infrared lens," The bombardier declared proudly. "Night-vision bomb sights," The captain translated for Sotelo. "The advent of this technology has allowed us to conduct bombing missions in absolute darkness as easily and accurately as those carried out at midday. The enemy can no longer rely on the cover of night to save them, while the same darkness offers us enough protection from hostiles that we can fly without fighter escort in most situations." That reminded Sotelo that Ras Hassan's pilots had apparently been trained to fly at night - presumably without the use of night vision goggles or any of the balance-tipping technology that the Spanish Fuerzas Aereas enjoyed. He thought momentarily about reminding Captain Estevez of that detail, but thought better of it. "Most impressive," Sotelo instead concluded, pulling himself away from the bombardier's post. The aisle hooked to the right behind the comms station and became a short, narrow corridor that wound around the bomb bay. Sotelo followed Captain Estevez through the tunnel-like corridor, hunching down just to squeeze through. Through a porthole window, one of the bomber's great, black wings could be seen reaching out over the Mediterranean Sea. Hanging underneath the Gargola's ebony wing were two fat engine nacelles, each one holding a propeller rotating at supersonic speed and generating the rhythmic hum that reverberated through the aircraft. "That nearest engine pod is actually quite the marvel of modern engineering," the pilot noted as he saw Sotelo's glance out the window. "A Gargola's two inner engines use what's called a contra-rotating propeller - two propeller fans rotating in opposite directions on the same shaft. They're substantially more efficient than a standard propeller." "Is that so?" Sotelo asked with feigned interest. "Absolutely. These propellers allow the aircraft to travel farther and with less fuel. If we were to get into a bind, we can even shut off the outer engines and coast on fumes with just the contra-rotating props going and extend our range by about 1,500 miles. Even one of those engines going would allow the aircraft to limp away to safety." The pilot pressed on with the tour, but -to Sotelo's irritation- not the topic of conversation. "Contra-rotating propellers are poised to revolutionize the role and capability of the strategic bomber just as the jet engine is currently revolutionizing fighter aircraft. Unfortunately, we'll probably never see a jet-powered bomber in our lifetimes, but for now, these contra-rotary propellers are the cutting edge of bomber technology," Captain Estevez continued on. Sotelo suppressed the urge to say his host was wrong about jet bombers being an impossibility. Alfonso Sotelo himself had pressed the military to discretely request bids to create a bomb-carrying aircraft capable speeds at least as fast as a fighter jet: a vehicle capable of delivering VX weaponry anywhere on the globe within hours. Preliminary reports from the [i]Motores Magdalena[/i] research department, the skunkworks responsible for the Fantasma, showed incredible potential. After navigating the narrow corridor all the way through the bomber, stooped over so as to not bonk one's head on the low overhead girders, Sotelo and his host reached the tail end of the tour - literally. The plane-spanning corridor terminated in a dome of pleixglass that extended just beneath the tailfins of the bomber. Scrunched up within the dome was yet another crewmember seated within a metal armature behind a pintle mounted machine gun. He curled around within the contraption and offered the prime minister a salute. "Why hello there, Excellency! You snuck up on me." "This is our ball gunner," the captain explained. "His duty is to ensure enemy fighters do not approach from behind and get the drop on us. That said, I'm somewhat alarmed that we were able to catch him unawares." Captain Estevez teased. "If there are are hostiles sneaking up on me from inside the plane, then we've got problems even I can't solve!" the gunner retorted in jest. "Redoubtable, to be sure," Sotelo concluded after studying the machine. "And a good thing too. Especially on missions like this one where we have to keep a low profile and fighter escort isn't an option, having some defensive capa-" "We lack fighter support?" Sotelo interrupted. "That's right. The Black Panthers fly under cover of night, not escorts. We go in flying on the deck to avoid radar detection, destroy our targets, and head home before we get intercepted." Captain Estevez added. That seemed a needlessly risky strategem, even by Sotelo's standards. And though it grated Sotelo to defer to anyone else's judgement, he understood that in the skies, Estevez was the expert and Sotelo knew essentially nothing. "Care to try the ball out?" The gunner asked, extricating himself from the turret and offering the seat within to the Prime Minister. Sotelo agreed, lowering himself into the seat gingerly. The skies opened up around him, and he came to appreciate the fact that he was truly flying in a way that could never be experienced by simply sitting within the cabin. The ocean and the clouds rolled by right beneath his feet, the curvature of the very Earth was laid out before him. Sitting in the Gargola's turret was like sitting upon a cloud. Sotelo's attention quickly turned to the machine gun. Between his knees, he found a huge firearm resting upon a pintle armature pointed out of the turret through a rubber diaphragm. Two drums laden with 50-caliber shells rested against his knees while his finger gravitated toward an enticing trigger. He couldn't resist. A succession of thunderous reports resounded through the airframe as a forked tongue of fire spewed through the muzzle and vents along the barrel. Sotelo's face wrung itself into a grin as he watched white-hot tracers arc through the clouds and down into the sea. Captain Estevez and the gunner could not help but give a hearty laugh upon seeing his Excellency's unstifled smile. Sotelo soon discovered the pedals under his seat were used to control the rotation and pitch of the ball. He spun down and fired a series of rounds straight down into the sea. //Getting some target practice in, I see,// the co-pilot's voice came in over the turret's intercom speaker. "Sure are," Captain Estevez replied. "If his Excellency loses the election come September, I think he'd like to become a ball gunner!" Sotelo's smile evaporated upon hearing that remark. Sotelo had made assurances that there would be no real competition for him in the Republic's fast-approaching election - the Partido Conservador's "opposition" candidates had been selected as regime stooges in return for Sotelo's promises of choice Sudanese mineral rights and reconstruction contracts in the soon-to-be Ethiopian Republic. But there was still a chance, however infinitesimal, that Sotelo would lose. The past four years were only the beginning. With the ultimate victory nearly in his grasp, he could not falter now. //I'd be glad to have him on our crew! But I have to tell you, Captain, the outer right engine light just came on. I have a good idea what the issue is, but I'd like your assistance with troubleshooting it.// "A restart will likely sort it out. I'll be back right away, regardless." As the Captain made his way back to the cockpit, Sotelo began to pull himself out of the turret. "Oh don't worry about that, Excellency," said the gunner. "They'll want me up there as well to keep an eye on the gauges. Sit tight, you've got the best seat in the house!" "In that case, I will remain where I am, thank you." With that, Sotelo was left on his own, watching the ocean and the clouds pass by far below. Even with this magnificent view, ennui soon set in once more. The shimmering wavecrests miles below were a soothing sight for the idle Prime Minister. A teeming agenda every single day, with scores of aides and advisers talking in his ears, with decisions to make and briefings to digest, typically gave Alfonso Sotelo very little idle time. This, coupled with a voracious appetite for [i]cocaina[/i], effected a very severe sleep deficit. The wavecrests lapping upon the Mediterranean far below him were quite soothing to behold. So relaxing to weary eyes. His eyes snapped wide open. Sotelo had no intention of sleeping no matter how boring the flight might be; Spain's cultural shift from a nation of indolent siesta-takers to ambitious investors and workmen fueling the most powerful economy in the world had been hard won over several generations. Catching the Prime Minister asleep during the flight could have severe ramifications. Nevertheless, his eyelids became heavier and heavier with each blink. Sotelo fought to keep his eyelids open, but fought in vain. His eyelids fell at last, and sleep overtook him. [i]THWUMP[/i] That sound galvanized the Prime Minister from his sleep. He was trapped within an inky fishbowl. What was this place? It took a moment for Sotelo to recall where he was and how he got here. He must have fallen asleep in the turret. The blackness of night surrounded him; he had been fast asleep for several hours. He realized that they were likely very close to Ethiopian airspace now. [i]THWUMP[/i] Another percussive burst that shuddered the airframe. A globe of fire materialized in the blackness beneath Sotelo's feet for a fleeting moment before disappearing. The frequency of these plane-rattling bursts increased dramatically over a matter of seconds. The nocturnal void surrounding Sotelo lit up with dozens of momentary flashes; like fireflies in a midsummer field. It dawned upon him that this was a flak barrage. He found himself in the midst of the war he had created. A flash of hateful orange banished the night from the Earth below, giving the Prime Minister a glimpse of the world he was flying over. A countryside of arid scrubland could be seen, all illuminated by the fireball of a Spanish bomb. A dense cluster of buildings cast long shadows as the fireball rose and dimmed into a smoldering red and disappeared into the night as ember-infused smoke. It was a city - an Ethiopian city - but where? Over the incessant rumbling of anti-aircraft shells exploding around the airplane, he heard a much more powerful blast. If the flak shells were drums of this martial beat, this sound was a gong. Curious to see where this second blast had come from, Sotelo used his foot pedals to swivel the turret around. A provincial Ethiopian city, illuminated by another infernal blast, came into view. A city center of squat buildings no higher than four or five storys situated itself on the banks of a braided river, which was surrounded by a disorganized network of slums. A single trestle bridge spanned the river - or at least it did until it was engulfed by yet another brilliant explosion. From his plexiglass-enclosed perch, Sotelo watched in awe as the blast sent steel beams that had to have weighed several tons each into the air as easily as straw in the wind. Concrete support pillars crumbled under the force as the roadway itself collapsed into the river channel in a maelstrom of dust and embers. "Excellency!" Sotelo heard the gunner call out from behind him. "The flak is too heavy, get out of there!" As irritated as he was by such a command, Sotelo had no intention of dying to airborne shrapnel. He pulled himself out of the turret and back into the relative safety of the Gargola's aluminum skin. The gunner slid into the turret with practiced efficiency and swiveled about in every direction, scanning the night for any sign of enemy aircraft. Evicted from his seat, Sotelo made his way back toward the cockpit to see the rest of the crew in action. Through a corridor illuminated only by dimmed red overhead lighting, Sotelo hobbled through the bomber, pressing against the walls as the plane shuddered from a tireless flak volley. Outside, he could hear a loud pitter-patter that sounded like fat raindrops crashing against the bomber's hull. A chill ran up his spine when he realized that the sound was, in fact, particles of shrapnel falling upon the fuselage. Through the portholes, Sotelo watched the part of the bombing run unfold. Against a city illuminated by fireballs and flak muzzle-fire, the silhouetted forms of two Gargolas could be distinguished. Against the blackness of the night, their black paint scheme made them all but invisible. From the nearest shadow, a quartet of small bombs fell away toward the Earth from its underside hatch. A spotlight flickered on from the city below and pointed itself at the farther of the two bombers. The shadowy bomber was bathed in cornea-searing white light, galvanizing it to veer away sharply from the impending flak barrage. "All aircraft must take evasive action!" Sotelo heard the communications officer speak into his headset as he made for the cockpit. "I say again, all aircraft must take evasive action! Panther Queen out!" "Fucking worthless Oficina! Their intelligence report was a crock of shit!" Captain Estevez's copilot fumed. "N'djamena was only supposed to have minimal anti-air defense!" "This is what I was hoping to see, Captain!" Sotelo declared, clutching the back of the co-pilot's seat for support as Estevez banked hard to the left to confuse the Ethiopian flak gunners. Just then, in view of of the cockpit windshield, a flak shell burst alongside another bomber. A trail of sparks manifested in the exhaust wake of the sister plane. One of its contra-rotating engines - the type that Estevez had blathered on about that afternoon - suddenly went ablaze. The Ethiopians had seen it too, because within a matter of seconds the flak around that plane intensified. Another well-placed shell hit the beleaguered plane squarely in its burning wing, blasting it apart in a burst of shredded metal and fire. It in a trail of embers, the doomed Gargola careened to Earth in a flaming death spiral. "You've seen nothing yet, Excellency." Estevez snarled through gritted teeth. "We're hitting the deck - hold on!" The pilot pulled the yoke to its absolute limit, sending the bomber in a pirouetting dive toward the Earth. Sotelo hugged the back of the co-pilot's seat as he watched the slums of N'djamena race up toward them through the windshield. Estevez chose the precise moment to push back on the yoke - a difficult feat for a relatively cumbersome Gargola - and leveled out just above the rude rooftops of the city's outskirts. Tin roofs and radio antennae flew past the cockpit at a dizzying speed. Just ahead, the muzzle flare of an anti-aircraft cannon could be seen flashing in and out of existence at roughly eye level. "Point the turret dead ahead." Captain Estevez spoke into his intercom speaker. //Looking to show them some payback for our squadmates, Captain?// Sotelo heard the gunner reply over rumble of bombs and shells. "You know it." Nestled in a vacant lot between two plaster tenements was a pickup truck with a cannon mounted on bed, Armenian-style. They were getting so close now that Sotelo could see the gun turning to face toward them. In the firelight of distant bombs, Sotelo could even distinguish the individual gunners. "[i]Dales plomo[/i]!" With that command, the underside turret thundered to life. White tracers streamed out from under the cockpit and tore into the truck; a shower of sparks and a plume of ignited gasoline assured that gun would pose never pose a threat to any airplane again. "We will now proceed to the main target." Captain Estevez announced into his microphone. "We are making our way to the radar facility, beneath the operational ceiling for their guns, but too low for the bomb sights. Therefore, you will release the entire bomb load on my mark." //Understood,// acknowledged the bombardier. The pilot banked and turned about, giving them all an excellent view of the bombs exploding throughout the riverfront center of the city. From this vantage, Alfonso Sotelo could truly appreciate the scale of this conflict. All throughout the northern hinterland of the Pan-African Empire, Ethiopian cities, fortifications, and outposts were being razed in this exact manner. Tonight, it was N'djamena. Next week, it would be Khartoum, and then Kinshasa and Malabo. And then Kampala, Dessie, Nekemte, Gondar and so on and so forth until Yaqob Yohannes was Emperor of nothing but rubble and cinders. "I have a visual on the radar masts! Arm the bombs and standby to release!" And when Addis Ababa was in ruins, and the secret weapons Sotelo had amassed over the past four years shown to the world in all their horrific splendor, the nations of the Earth would understand that resistance would accomplish nothing. "Bombs away!" Estevez ordered as the plane swooped above the enemy radar dishes. From Beijing to Berlin, from Washington to London, there would be no one left in all the world to oppose Spain. "That's a hit!" the co-pilot exclaimed as a brilliant flash underneath the plane banished the night throughout the land. For a day was fast approaching where the Spanish would be ready to make war on all the Earth and triumph. "Then we've destroyed all our intended targets. Get the rest of the squadron up to cruising altitude, we're out of here." And on that day, by conquest or capitulation, all the Earth would submit to Alfonso Sotelo.