The Spaniard cursed the days those men were born. They would die under her threads or as the shells from her cannon crashed upon the top of their heads!

She growled at the hit that registered on her screens, red light filling the fighting compartment as she forced the tank to turn her hull towards the offender. The tank said: "Target - destroyer - 687 meters and closing - locked on."

"Fire."

And the cannon roared, another shell escaped the barrel at very high speeds, a line of red light following the shell until it struck the destroyer's bridge; the warship groaned painfully as it got hit, sparks flying out of the burning bridge as shrapnel from the shell caused fires nearby. 

"Again, fire." She said. The cannon reloaded, aimed at a different point of the ship, and fired, a shell striking the hull, penetrating, and exploding once it found its way in the engine room. The mighty ship was crippled, and it was on fire. The Spaniard finished it off with another round through the hull, this time, for where she thought the ammunition stores were. 

After she let the ship die, she turned to engage the marines with her machine guns while the main cannon engaged the other destroyer.