[h3]"Desperta Ferro!" - Part II[/h3]

Admiral-General Martín Fernández de Navarrete stood with hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, swaying gently with the motion of the ship. The ever present smell of cleaning solvents, gun powder, tonnes of steel, and the salt sea air combined to create a comforting and familiar bouquet. He could feel the hum of the ships huge engines as they drove Eastward, the slam of the ocean as the ship drove its bow into the ebb tide and pushed through. 

"Come right five degrees, steer nine zero degrees." The Officer of the Watch was standing near the slanted bridge windows, a sextant in one hand as he glanced down at the numbers again to verify his math.

"Steer nine-zero degrees, aye sir." The helmsman echoed as he turned the ships wheel, the bow of the [i]Don Quixote[/i] responding quickly to come around to the new course.

As Navarrete watched the [i]Don Quixote[/i] buried her bow in an oncoming wave, the ocean shedding across her deck and through the brightly polished bronze scuppers. The 15inch guns, held in place by their massive weight, were surrounded by a swarm of men who were buffeted by the waves, one or two slipping until they were caught by their lifelines. Sailors straddled the big gun barrels, working carefully to free the leather caps that protected the muzzles from the salt water. Other sailors bustled about clearing the heavy pins that would prevent the guns from turning.

On either side of the [i]Don Quixote[/i], hidden from Navarrete's view, twelve 6inch, sixteen 4inch, and sixteen 1.5 inch guns, as well as twelve anti-aicraft guns, were receiving similar treatment from the remainder of the [i]Don Quixotes[/i] 2,000 crew. 

On the forecastle the crew had released the blocks on the huge anchors, preparing let them run free should the flagship lose power while transiting the Strait. Those on the main guns had finished their work and began to vanish below decks, or through the steel doors to the rear of the turret.

Navarrete looked down his watch. Four minutes and thirty seven seconds had elapsed since he had ordered the fleet to battle stations. He expected the best from the crew of the [i]Don Quixote[/i] and they did not disappointment as confirmations of battle stations flooded in from across the ship. 

"Four minutes and fifty three seconds. I like it." Navarrete snapped his watch closed and turned to look at a nearby flag officer who was holding a radio headset to his ear. "The rest of the fleet?"

Behind them, spread out in formation, were the fifty two other vessels of the [i]Don Quixotes[/i] battle group. Two more Heroe-Class battleships, four aircraft carriers, sixteen cruisers, dozens of destroyers and minesweepers. The largest Naval force assembled by Spain since the Grande y Felicísima Armada sailed against England 372 years before. 

"All indicate they are closed up."

"Good. The Admiral has the con." Naverrete returned to the centre of the bridge, his voice carrying easily to the assembled officers and crew. The Officer of the Watch saluted and stepped back to join his comrades. Navarrete glanced over at the damage control board and then snapped the next order. "Load."

"Gun crews to load." The metallic voice echoed throughout the steel hull. Deep below them, stripped to the waist as they began to sweat in the heat of the lower decks, sailors would be rolling huge gunpowder bags in to position to ram them home behind the 15inch projectiles. 

"Number One gun standing by." The Deck Officer intoned from the nearby weapons table. A moment later; "Guns two, three, and four standing by."

"Aim."

"Aim!" 

Navarrete watched as the huge barrels began to swing to the North, elevating until they were pointed into the distance where the Rock, Gibraltar herself, stood out against the morning sun. The final sliver of the Iberian peninsula to remain in enemy hands, but for how long? Britain had once ruled these waves without question but the Great War, and the subsequent chaos within the Empire, had reduced the British presence in the Mediterranean to a mere whimper until the Spanish sailed with immunity through the Strait. 

The warships around the [i]Don Quixote[/i], some far closer than the huge battleship, turned their turrets to add to the threat of implied violence. A radio operator sitting nearby looked up suddenly and waved to catch Navarrete's attention.

"Radio message from the English, Admiral. Their Garrison Commander wishes to know our intentions."

"We intend to pass through the Strait without harassment and will retaliate in kind should any be forthcoming."

The radioman nodded and returned to his radio set as the fleet plowed Eastward. The tension on the bridge was intense. The Spanish rarely sailed more than a dozen ships past the Rock at any one time, and never before with a force this size. Navarrete knew that the British would be looking down at them through binoculars, their radio probing the size of the fleet, setting ranges for their own 9.2inch guns that dominated the peak of the rock, easily able to reach out and touch any ship in the fleet with devastating consequences. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time until Spain retook the Rock, it was impossible to defend from the landward side, and the garrison lived in fear of that day.

"Compliments of the Garrison Commander, he wishes us excellent weather and fine sailing." The radio operator interrupted Navarrete's thoughts. 

"Please return my compliments. You may stand down the gun crews when we are clear of the Strait. I am going below." Navarrette returned the salutes of the bridge officers and made his way toward the ladder at the rear of the bridge, the noise and hubbub returning as his presence faded.

The heat of the lower decks reached up to welcome him, so different than the wind cooled bridge. He descended two decks to the main command centre, his own space on the ship where none but his officers would come without invitation. A chart table lay in the centre of the room, it could be swapped out for new charts as they sailed into new regions. At this time it bore a chart for the Western Mediterranean with two hash marks carefully laid out.

One lay off the South coast of Spain, it was here that the battlegroup would pickup several hundred troop ships and their air escort, a dozen of the great airship carriers that had yet to be fully tested in a military operation. The second mark showed the landing zone in Algeria. 

Navarrete laid a finger on that second mark. It was there, on the wild coast of Africa, that the first step towards rebuilding Spains African possessions would be taken.