July, 1960 - Madrid, Spain
Delgado was sitting with his feet dangling in the water of a Palace fountain, his pants rolled up his knees, socks and shoes neatly stacked beside him on the ground. The clear water was rippling with the effect of the fountain, making his feet shimmer and dance in the distortion. The marble beneath him was cool to the touch and the shadow that fell across him, cast by the towering edifice of the palace with its hundreds of arced windows, was a welcome respite from the late afternoon heat of the day.
"Britain is demanding we withdraw from Portugal." Said General José Domínguez Prieto as he wiggled his own toes in the cool water. A wine bottle sat open between them and a pair of empty glasses still betrayed the hint of a red wine at their bottom. It was a very informal meeting, the type that one might expect to see between two men who had known each other for years. Prieto commanded the Guardia Civil and had been a major supporter of the Coup.
"Let them. They are in no position to do anything about it." Ana Bandera Gallego, the newly minted head of the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores y de Cooperación. She was also shoeless but her legs were tucked up beneath her, long dress cascading down to the marble flagstones. She had a wine glass, still half full, cradled in one hand as she spoke using the other. "Since the Great War they have done little to try and prepare themselves for another conflict. And their alliance with Portugal is not what it once was."
"Not to mention France having its Communist meltdown just across the channel." Responded Pieto. He and Gallego were married and had two sons, Francisco Javier and Antonio Bandera. They were fervent anti-Communists and had worked hard to support Delgado in his plans to take over the country.
"It's presenting us our own problems." Delgado added as he leaned back so his hands were on the marble, still idly kicking his feet slowly in the water. A single ray of sunlight had managed to make its way into a deep courtyard and he smiled slightly as two cats appeared as if from nowhere to collapse into the warmth. "Portugal is hardly secure. Lisbon and the major highways, little else. Communist groups are causing issues in Porto as we speak."
"How long until we can secure the rest of the country?" Gallego asked, glancing at her husband, then at Delgado.
"Guardia units are moving inland with the army to secure vital areas. I know that Francisco did not want this to smack of a military occupation so as soon as a region is secured, police are replacing army units." Prieto said as he slapped absently at a black fly that had landed on his arm. "As far as I know the Portuguese police are being more or less cooperative. Most of them are to stunned to resist right now."
"I have a special army unit being deployed to Porto to deal with the Communist forces there," Delgado grunted as he shifted, leaning forward to splash some water on his face. "I think it will send a message." Neither of the other two asked him what message that might be. They knew Delgado had a long history of dealing with trouble quickly and violently. It usually served to shock his enemies into submission.
"What are we doing about the British?" This question was directed at Gallego. She took a sip of her wine before replying.
"Telling them to stay out of it. I hinted that any action on their part could lead to the incarceration of thousands of their countrymen down here on holiday and seizure of millions of pounds worth of British owned properties." She smiled slyly. "They didn't like that, but with their empire on the verge of collapsing everywhere, they are stretched thin as it is."
"The Germans?"
"Care even less. Portugal fought against them in the Great War and I suspect they are glad to see the British taking some heat from us."
"The Americans are staying on their side of the pond as usual. Though Ethiopia has just slammed their borders shut to America for some reason." Gallego shook her head slightly. "Ever time I think I have figured their Emperor out, he does something like this."
"Just America or are we cast out as well?" Delgado asked sharply, looking up at the two.
"Just America, and again, I don't know why,"
"Interesting. Alright." Delgado picked up the wine bottle poured himself another measure, then another for Pieto. "To success in Portugal." He held up his glass in a toast and the three drank.
July, 1960 - Porto, Portugal
The streets of Porto seemed to hold their breath as the sun began to sink below the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. In the "Old Town", the bodies of seven Spanish soldiers lay sprawled on the cobblestone, their blood having pooled and somewhat dried following their deaths. Five had been killed during a gunfight, the other two shot in the back of the head execution style. To the young Communists who sheltered in the Café Majestic it felt like they had won a victory. Seven Spanish soldier dead, one of their own number wounded. It was better than the army had done.
"To the revolution! It begins tonight!" Yelled one young man as he raised his glass to the crowded mass. Others cheered and drank with him. Many were armed with rifles, some with handguns, a veritable arsenal that included grenades and even a rocket launcher. Though no one knew how to use it.
Near the front window, rifles in hand, sat two Portuguese soldiers. Their unit was one of a dozen or so who had ignored orders to surrender and had fought back against the Spanish. They smoked thin cigarettes as they watched the falling darkness, the bright street lights outside giving the ancient square the type of evening that any couple might enjoy, but not this night. Not even the cats and dogs, habitual to any major city, seemed brave enough to venture outside.
"Comrades!" The young man who had called for the toast stood on one of the heavy wooden tables. Long mirrors lined either side of the Cafe, giving it the impression of holding far more people than it did at that moment. "Soon we shall be joined by our fellows from across the city and we will march on city hall! Porto will be the heart of our new Communist nation!"
More cheers shook the rafters as people drank deeply of their "liberated" spirits. Some shared long kisses, others laughed and threw dice on the tables. The only ones who did not seem quite so thrilled were those who wore uniforms, most of them clustered toward the front of the Cafe.
"Idiots. The Spanish will not let this pass. We should move now, while there is still time." Muttered one soldier and his friends grunted their agreement. As if moving by some unspoken command they all slowly began to make their way out the door and in to the street. They would take matters into their own hands.
The night air was cooling already but it stank of fear. Not literally of course, but everywhere they looked the windows were closed and curtained. No couples strolled on the stones, no peddlers played their bad guitar in the gutters, and no other lights shone from businesses around the square.
"Look!" One said, his voice strangely loud in the silence. He was pointing to the East and his friends, looking down a long narrow street, were able to catch sight of the aircraft that was moving slowly over the city. It was a massive Spanish Dirigible, lit by the dying sunlight, its two huge gasbags glowing an almost golden yellow. They knew that they were looking at the ultimate expression of Spanish power and, even as they watched, the tiny shape of a fighter plane dropped away from the underbelly of the Dirigible. It circled once and then sped out over Porto. The watching men remained huddled in their group as the airship released even more aircraft, each one dropping away from the belly of the gasbags like bullets from a magazine.
They were so mesmerized by the sight that it took them some time to take notice of the sound of an approaching engine. Laughter and shouting still came from within the cafe behind them, and this new sound was approaching from the west. They warily spread out over the square, kneeling behind whatever cover they could find. It was true they expected friends but the sight of the Spanish dirigible had reminded them that the enemy was far from gone.
The engine grew louder and a small truck appeared at the edge of the square loaded with gun waving students who wore the red band on their arms. Some looked terrified, others excited, but all of them were glancing over their shoulders and it was then that the soldiers realized the street behind them kept seeming to glow in fits and bursts. Then a smell hit them, coming from the same direction of the truck. A horrible acrid burning smell.
"Flame throwers!" Screamed one of them men in the truck as the vehicle careened into the square. It came to a halt and those packed inside boiled out like angry insects to take up positions around the square. The Old Street ran through the middle of the square, the only way in or out of the square.
The soldiers looked at each other in panic. Portugal had never used flame throwers, nor had they ever seen one in action, but one hardly needed a first hand account to understand what flame could do to the human body. They begin to retreat toward the far end of the square. They had barely reached the corner of the first ancient stone building when a bullet slammed into one of their number, throwing him backward like he had been on the end of a rope and someone had yanked on it.
"Sniper!" A soldier shouted seconds before another bullet shattered his shoulder, sending him to the cobblestone with a horrible scream. Those inside the Cafe could hardly ignore the sounds from outside and they started to boil into square like a swarm of ants. Shouts, screams, and some shots rang out, before the Cafe was stripped of its tables to create makeshift barricades, windows were smashed out and the rag tag band of Communists took up position anywhere and everywhere they could. The truck, their only vehicle, was tipped on its side to block the Western entrance.
Some of the rabble began to pound on the locked doors of the homes that overlooked the square but no one came to let them in. The square held its breath.
More flickering light came from the Old Street and the "whoosh" of a flame thrower in action told them that the enemy was getting closer. The sound of gunfire was loud now and it seemed to be coming from every direction. Communists added what they could to their barricades, passed around ammunition and booze, then settled in to wait. A few tried the Eastern edge of the Square again but a machine gun rattled this time and more bodies were thrown to the ground. They were surrounded.
Several figures suddenly burst from an alley down the Old Street and began to run for the barricades, arms pumping, feet pounding the cobblestone. One tripped, reaching out to grab another and together they both fell, tumbling in the street. Before they could stand a tongue of flame shot from the same alley and engulfed them both. Their screams were like nothing anyone in the square had ever heard before. Skin melted from their bones and the smell of burnt hair filled the air.
The rumble of a heavy engine became evident now as the front of a tracked vehicle came slowly out of the alley. Dark figures ran next to it and a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the Communist barricades. Several of the Spanish soldiers were thrown backward, one crawling to safety in a doorway. The others lay still. Communist cheers sounded from the barricade.
To the students it seemed a victory, to the soldiers who had joined them, it was a futile move. "We should have surrendered." One said as he fixed a new clip into his rifle. "The Spanish wont be taking any prisoners now."
As if in tune with his thoughts, the armoured vehicle that appeared began its slow turn toward them, metal tracks loud on the cobblestones. It had no turret, just a solid body with a fixed nozzle on the end. It completed its turn and began to roll toward the barricade. Bullets bounced off the heavy armour and sparks showed in the gathering darkness as the rounds hit home.
On it came, a remorseless, unstoppable beast, engine rumbling, the nozzle strangely silent as the machine drew closer and closer. It was no more than twenty feet from the barricade when the barrel suddenly began to glow. Then fire, hot and blinding in the gathering darkness, incinerated the barricade and those crouched behind it. The dead had one chance to scream and then the air was sucked from their lungs by the heat and they curled in on themselves until they were no larger than a child as the fire played over them. The truck exploded as its gas tank caught fire.
The Communists were losing their nerve and many were running for the Eastern edge of the square, better to die by bullet than fire. But here too fire now erupted as men on foot advanced on the square, the long lines of flame scorching the stones of the buildings and the street. Screams filled the air, the smell of burning flesh was overpowering, and those who had not died on the barricades retreated into the Cafe once more. Chaos reigned as they sought to try and escape through the rear door but they were chained shut, a common enough practice to prevent thieves. They were trapped.
The square outside had fallen silent again. Here and there flames still flickered from the dead and dying, a few storefronts with wooden frontings burned as well but no one seemed inclined to deal with that at the moment. The tank drove over the burning remains of the truck, the steel screeching pitifully as the metal chassis was crushed beneath the tracks. The tank halted in the middle of the square, its nozzle aimed at the Café as Spanish soldiers filed into the square, hugging the shadows and doorways as they did.
Those inside the Cafe had finally killed the lights and waited in silence, pressed as far back as they could go while some of the more enterprising ones smashed away valiantly at the chains that trapped them in place.
"Should we surrender?" Whispered one young woman.
"No," Said another. "The doors are almost open; we can escape still. If they want to wait, let them."
The tank engine roared loudly and the tracks creaked then clattered as moved forward. The huge metal frame smashed easily through the glass and wood of the Cafe front. Glass exploded over those concealed within as the tank halted. There was a collective intake of breath which seemed to hold forever. And then the tank unleashed hell.
Fire poured over the packed Communists. Soldiers appeared on either side of the tank with their backpack mounted equipment and added their flames to the blaze, directing their streams into the smaller corners and behind the bar. Screams, so many screams. Some turned their guns on themselves rather than burn to death, others placed a grenade at the base of the door which served to kill those standing nearby but did blow the lower half of the door off. They fought to get out, punching, kicking, biting, anything they could to try and escape as the fire crept into the kitchen and toward them.
Two eventually managed to make it halfway out the door before the fire caught them, and their screams echoed in the long alley that had before suffered little more than the muffled sound beyond.
No corner was ignored as the Spanish exhausted their supply of gasoline. Then, and only then, as their weapons died in their hands, did they retreat from the Cafe. The building was well on fire now and panicked voices cried out from upstairs windows. Spanish soldiers allowed those residents to flee, and, once they had collected their dead, they left the inferno to the fire fighters who were arriving on the scene. News of the attack would spread swiftly and so with it the promise of Spanish revenge for any attacks on their soldiers.
Delgado was sitting with his feet dangling in the water of a Palace fountain, his pants rolled up his knees, socks and shoes neatly stacked beside him on the ground. The clear water was rippling with the effect of the fountain, making his feet shimmer and dance in the distortion. The marble beneath him was cool to the touch and the shadow that fell across him, cast by the towering edifice of the palace with its hundreds of arced windows, was a welcome respite from the late afternoon heat of the day.
"Britain is demanding we withdraw from Portugal." Said General José Domínguez Prieto as he wiggled his own toes in the cool water. A wine bottle sat open between them and a pair of empty glasses still betrayed the hint of a red wine at their bottom. It was a very informal meeting, the type that one might expect to see between two men who had known each other for years. Prieto commanded the Guardia Civil and had been a major supporter of the Coup.
"Let them. They are in no position to do anything about it." Ana Bandera Gallego, the newly minted head of the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores y de Cooperación. She was also shoeless but her legs were tucked up beneath her, long dress cascading down to the marble flagstones. She had a wine glass, still half full, cradled in one hand as she spoke using the other. "Since the Great War they have done little to try and prepare themselves for another conflict. And their alliance with Portugal is not what it once was."
"Not to mention France having its Communist meltdown just across the channel." Responded Pieto. He and Gallego were married and had two sons, Francisco Javier and Antonio Bandera. They were fervent anti-Communists and had worked hard to support Delgado in his plans to take over the country.
"It's presenting us our own problems." Delgado added as he leaned back so his hands were on the marble, still idly kicking his feet slowly in the water. A single ray of sunlight had managed to make its way into a deep courtyard and he smiled slightly as two cats appeared as if from nowhere to collapse into the warmth. "Portugal is hardly secure. Lisbon and the major highways, little else. Communist groups are causing issues in Porto as we speak."
"How long until we can secure the rest of the country?" Gallego asked, glancing at her husband, then at Delgado.
"Guardia units are moving inland with the army to secure vital areas. I know that Francisco did not want this to smack of a military occupation so as soon as a region is secured, police are replacing army units." Prieto said as he slapped absently at a black fly that had landed on his arm. "As far as I know the Portuguese police are being more or less cooperative. Most of them are to stunned to resist right now."
"I have a special army unit being deployed to Porto to deal with the Communist forces there," Delgado grunted as he shifted, leaning forward to splash some water on his face. "I think it will send a message." Neither of the other two asked him what message that might be. They knew Delgado had a long history of dealing with trouble quickly and violently. It usually served to shock his enemies into submission.
"What are we doing about the British?" This question was directed at Gallego. She took a sip of her wine before replying.
"Telling them to stay out of it. I hinted that any action on their part could lead to the incarceration of thousands of their countrymen down here on holiday and seizure of millions of pounds worth of British owned properties." She smiled slyly. "They didn't like that, but with their empire on the verge of collapsing everywhere, they are stretched thin as it is."
"The Germans?"
"Care even less. Portugal fought against them in the Great War and I suspect they are glad to see the British taking some heat from us."
"The Americans are staying on their side of the pond as usual. Though Ethiopia has just slammed their borders shut to America for some reason." Gallego shook her head slightly. "Ever time I think I have figured their Emperor out, he does something like this."
"Just America or are we cast out as well?" Delgado asked sharply, looking up at the two.
"Just America, and again, I don't know why,"
"Interesting. Alright." Delgado picked up the wine bottle poured himself another measure, then another for Pieto. "To success in Portugal." He held up his glass in a toast and the three drank.
* * * * * * * *
July, 1960 - Porto, Portugal
The streets of Porto seemed to hold their breath as the sun began to sink below the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. In the "Old Town", the bodies of seven Spanish soldiers lay sprawled on the cobblestone, their blood having pooled and somewhat dried following their deaths. Five had been killed during a gunfight, the other two shot in the back of the head execution style. To the young Communists who sheltered in the Café Majestic it felt like they had won a victory. Seven Spanish soldier dead, one of their own number wounded. It was better than the army had done.
"To the revolution! It begins tonight!" Yelled one young man as he raised his glass to the crowded mass. Others cheered and drank with him. Many were armed with rifles, some with handguns, a veritable arsenal that included grenades and even a rocket launcher. Though no one knew how to use it.
Near the front window, rifles in hand, sat two Portuguese soldiers. Their unit was one of a dozen or so who had ignored orders to surrender and had fought back against the Spanish. They smoked thin cigarettes as they watched the falling darkness, the bright street lights outside giving the ancient square the type of evening that any couple might enjoy, but not this night. Not even the cats and dogs, habitual to any major city, seemed brave enough to venture outside.
"Comrades!" The young man who had called for the toast stood on one of the heavy wooden tables. Long mirrors lined either side of the Cafe, giving it the impression of holding far more people than it did at that moment. "Soon we shall be joined by our fellows from across the city and we will march on city hall! Porto will be the heart of our new Communist nation!"
More cheers shook the rafters as people drank deeply of their "liberated" spirits. Some shared long kisses, others laughed and threw dice on the tables. The only ones who did not seem quite so thrilled were those who wore uniforms, most of them clustered toward the front of the Cafe.
"Idiots. The Spanish will not let this pass. We should move now, while there is still time." Muttered one soldier and his friends grunted their agreement. As if moving by some unspoken command they all slowly began to make their way out the door and in to the street. They would take matters into their own hands.
The night air was cooling already but it stank of fear. Not literally of course, but everywhere they looked the windows were closed and curtained. No couples strolled on the stones, no peddlers played their bad guitar in the gutters, and no other lights shone from businesses around the square.
"Look!" One said, his voice strangely loud in the silence. He was pointing to the East and his friends, looking down a long narrow street, were able to catch sight of the aircraft that was moving slowly over the city. It was a massive Spanish Dirigible, lit by the dying sunlight, its two huge gasbags glowing an almost golden yellow. They knew that they were looking at the ultimate expression of Spanish power and, even as they watched, the tiny shape of a fighter plane dropped away from the underbelly of the Dirigible. It circled once and then sped out over Porto. The watching men remained huddled in their group as the airship released even more aircraft, each one dropping away from the belly of the gasbags like bullets from a magazine.
They were so mesmerized by the sight that it took them some time to take notice of the sound of an approaching engine. Laughter and shouting still came from within the cafe behind them, and this new sound was approaching from the west. They warily spread out over the square, kneeling behind whatever cover they could find. It was true they expected friends but the sight of the Spanish dirigible had reminded them that the enemy was far from gone.
The engine grew louder and a small truck appeared at the edge of the square loaded with gun waving students who wore the red band on their arms. Some looked terrified, others excited, but all of them were glancing over their shoulders and it was then that the soldiers realized the street behind them kept seeming to glow in fits and bursts. Then a smell hit them, coming from the same direction of the truck. A horrible acrid burning smell.
"Flame throwers!" Screamed one of them men in the truck as the vehicle careened into the square. It came to a halt and those packed inside boiled out like angry insects to take up positions around the square. The Old Street ran through the middle of the square, the only way in or out of the square.
The soldiers looked at each other in panic. Portugal had never used flame throwers, nor had they ever seen one in action, but one hardly needed a first hand account to understand what flame could do to the human body. They begin to retreat toward the far end of the square. They had barely reached the corner of the first ancient stone building when a bullet slammed into one of their number, throwing him backward like he had been on the end of a rope and someone had yanked on it.
"Sniper!" A soldier shouted seconds before another bullet shattered his shoulder, sending him to the cobblestone with a horrible scream. Those inside the Cafe could hardly ignore the sounds from outside and they started to boil into square like a swarm of ants. Shouts, screams, and some shots rang out, before the Cafe was stripped of its tables to create makeshift barricades, windows were smashed out and the rag tag band of Communists took up position anywhere and everywhere they could. The truck, their only vehicle, was tipped on its side to block the Western entrance.
Some of the rabble began to pound on the locked doors of the homes that overlooked the square but no one came to let them in. The square held its breath.
More flickering light came from the Old Street and the "whoosh" of a flame thrower in action told them that the enemy was getting closer. The sound of gunfire was loud now and it seemed to be coming from every direction. Communists added what they could to their barricades, passed around ammunition and booze, then settled in to wait. A few tried the Eastern edge of the Square again but a machine gun rattled this time and more bodies were thrown to the ground. They were surrounded.
Several figures suddenly burst from an alley down the Old Street and began to run for the barricades, arms pumping, feet pounding the cobblestone. One tripped, reaching out to grab another and together they both fell, tumbling in the street. Before they could stand a tongue of flame shot from the same alley and engulfed them both. Their screams were like nothing anyone in the square had ever heard before. Skin melted from their bones and the smell of burnt hair filled the air.
The rumble of a heavy engine became evident now as the front of a tracked vehicle came slowly out of the alley. Dark figures ran next to it and a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the Communist barricades. Several of the Spanish soldiers were thrown backward, one crawling to safety in a doorway. The others lay still. Communist cheers sounded from the barricade.
To the students it seemed a victory, to the soldiers who had joined them, it was a futile move. "We should have surrendered." One said as he fixed a new clip into his rifle. "The Spanish wont be taking any prisoners now."
As if in tune with his thoughts, the armoured vehicle that appeared began its slow turn toward them, metal tracks loud on the cobblestones. It had no turret, just a solid body with a fixed nozzle on the end. It completed its turn and began to roll toward the barricade. Bullets bounced off the heavy armour and sparks showed in the gathering darkness as the rounds hit home.
On it came, a remorseless, unstoppable beast, engine rumbling, the nozzle strangely silent as the machine drew closer and closer. It was no more than twenty feet from the barricade when the barrel suddenly began to glow. Then fire, hot and blinding in the gathering darkness, incinerated the barricade and those crouched behind it. The dead had one chance to scream and then the air was sucked from their lungs by the heat and they curled in on themselves until they were no larger than a child as the fire played over them. The truck exploded as its gas tank caught fire.
The Communists were losing their nerve and many were running for the Eastern edge of the square, better to die by bullet than fire. But here too fire now erupted as men on foot advanced on the square, the long lines of flame scorching the stones of the buildings and the street. Screams filled the air, the smell of burning flesh was overpowering, and those who had not died on the barricades retreated into the Cafe once more. Chaos reigned as they sought to try and escape through the rear door but they were chained shut, a common enough practice to prevent thieves. They were trapped.
The square outside had fallen silent again. Here and there flames still flickered from the dead and dying, a few storefronts with wooden frontings burned as well but no one seemed inclined to deal with that at the moment. The tank drove over the burning remains of the truck, the steel screeching pitifully as the metal chassis was crushed beneath the tracks. The tank halted in the middle of the square, its nozzle aimed at the Café as Spanish soldiers filed into the square, hugging the shadows and doorways as they did.
Those inside the Cafe had finally killed the lights and waited in silence, pressed as far back as they could go while some of the more enterprising ones smashed away valiantly at the chains that trapped them in place.
"Should we surrender?" Whispered one young woman.
"No," Said another. "The doors are almost open; we can escape still. If they want to wait, let them."
The tank engine roared loudly and the tracks creaked then clattered as moved forward. The huge metal frame smashed easily through the glass and wood of the Cafe front. Glass exploded over those concealed within as the tank halted. There was a collective intake of breath which seemed to hold forever. And then the tank unleashed hell.
Fire poured over the packed Communists. Soldiers appeared on either side of the tank with their backpack mounted equipment and added their flames to the blaze, directing their streams into the smaller corners and behind the bar. Screams, so many screams. Some turned their guns on themselves rather than burn to death, others placed a grenade at the base of the door which served to kill those standing nearby but did blow the lower half of the door off. They fought to get out, punching, kicking, biting, anything they could to try and escape as the fire crept into the kitchen and toward them.
Two eventually managed to make it halfway out the door before the fire caught them, and their screams echoed in the long alley that had before suffered little more than the muffled sound beyond.
No corner was ignored as the Spanish exhausted their supply of gasoline. Then, and only then, as their weapons died in their hands, did they retreat from the Cafe. The building was well on fire now and panicked voices cried out from upstairs windows. Spanish soldiers allowed those residents to flee, and, once they had collected their dead, they left the inferno to the fire fighters who were arriving on the scene. News of the attack would spread swiftly and so with it the promise of Spanish revenge for any attacks on their soldiers.