Cordoba shrugged. Becker suddenly realised that that was the point; the Africans had proven less and less tractable when Morocco had fallen to the British, and, unlike the Germans or even the French, the Spanish feared their servants as much as they loved them, perhaps more. The Africans had terrorised the Republicans; it was irony indeed that they were now terrorising their masters.
“Make a note of the enemy gun position,” Becker muttered to his aide. There had been so much movement over Gibraltar in the last week – Becker cursed the person who had kept putting back the attack – that it was impossible to tell where the defences were. Apart from a handful of air raids, there had been no attempt to interfere with the German build up.
“Jawohl, Herr General,” the aide muttered back.
A tongue of fire lashed out, slashing across the African troops. There was a long terrifying noise, worse than the machine guns of the Great War. The African troops were slaughtered; only two survived to crawl back to the Spanish lines.
“I told you so,” Becker muttered. Cordoba ignored him. “May I open fire, Sir Don?”
Cordoba glared at him. “Pound them into the dirt,” he demanded. “We must recover the fortress!”
Becker lifted his flare gun and fired a red flare into the air. There was a long pause, and then the guns fired as one. There was a half-second pause, and then explosions blossomed on the side of the rock.
“How long will it take?” Cordoba demanded. “How long until we should attack again?”
It was on the tip of Becker’s tongue to tell him to lead the attack in person. “Wait a while,” he said finally. “We have to soften them up first.”
The shockwaves ran through the rock, shells falling without precision. General Flynn nearly fell as a shell landed nearby; nothing in his life had prepared him for the intensity of such a bombardment. The shells that the Royal Artillery deployed were precision weapons; nothing like the semi-random shooting from the German guns.
“The towns on fire,” Tom reported. “We’re triggering the smoke bombs now.”
Flynn nodded. “Do we have good locations on their weapons now?”
Tom tapped the computer. “Yes, sir,” he said. “They’re bunched up, firing in groups.”
Flynn scowled. It was a pity that he had only a handful of precision shells; he could have really messed up the attacking force. “Transmit the location to the guns and order them to open fire.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said. “They’re firing now.” The rock shuddered again. “Sir, we just lost the automated machine guns.”
“So my opposite number isn’t a total idiot,” Flynn said. “Fortunately, we left mines there as well.”
The explosion shattered a concentration of Bruno heavy guns, and then splashed molten metal onto a Spanish position. Becker threw himself to the ground as three more shells landed neatly on other positions, concentrating on the German guns. The Spanish guns kept firing, but they were older Italian weapons, not modern German guns.
“They’re shooting back,” Cordoba shouted. Becker glared at him. “They don’t have guns facing this way!”
“And you’re surprised?” Becker asked. “Did you think that they would sit back and wait for you to slit their throats?” He waved a hand at the guns. “Keep firing!”
“I’m calling the air force,” Cordoba said. “They can bomb the guns like we did in Madrid.”
“Suicide,” Becker snapped, and gave up. The Spanish could do what they liked. “Spread the guns out,” he shouted at his remaining gunners. “Then start firing again!”
He lifted his binoculars and stared across at the rock. The town was on fire and the airstrip had been heavily hit. The slopes that had hidden the guns that had slaughtered the African troopers were burning; hopefully the dreaded weapons had been killed. The Spanish, wonder of wonders, were concentrating their fire there; hopefully there were too many Spanish guns for the British to kill.
An explosion blasted a Spanish position apart, and Becker started to wonder. Could the British hold the fortress, or not? Did they intend to hold it?
Flying Officer Mick Eccleston wasn’t fond of the Harrier. While Harrier units had performed well in the Battles over Britain, possessing a manoeuvrability that the faster Eurofighter lacked, they were only just capable of outrunning a German aircraft. Several Harriers had been swarmed by German attackers, their pilots torn to shreds by German bullets before they could escape or blast their way through the German formation.
Still, the Harrier had one great advantage; it could be flown from almost anywhere. The Spanish air force in Morocco had been destroyed on the ground, although a handful of German-built planes had fled to Spain, and the Harriers had moved in. The RAF understood Harrier tactics; the planes had been flown in off a converted Contemporary aircraft carrier and landed at the shack-like airfield.
Eccleston grinned suddenly. You would never see a high-class dame like the Eurofighter slumming it on the airfield, which had been barely capable of handing the World War One-era junk that the Spanish had used to patrol their colonies, but the Harrier wasn’t proud. At a pinch, the ground crew could take over a clearing and convert it into a miniature airport.
Still, the Eurofighter would have been at Gibraltar by now, and the Harrier was still lumbering its way over the sea. Ahead, smoke was rising, and the squadron adjusted its course to avoid the smog and the shells that were raining down on Gibraltar, close-in support would have been difficult under the circumstances. The squadron had its own orders, and Eccleston jinked west as they came in over the mainland.
“Hawk-one, we have Spanish fighters,” the AWACS controller said. The RAF had flatly refused to base an AWACS in Morocco – they’d made enough of a fuss about the one that was currently en route to Australia – but one was orbiting near Spain’s west coast, supported by tankers and a swarm of Eurofighters. Its orders were to cut and run if the Spanish detected it, which was supposed to be impossible.
“Acknowledged,” Eccleston said, checking the telemetry. The Spanish flying death traps were trying to intercept them without the benefit of radar, spreading out in hopes of catching sight of the Harriers. He considered; a gun engagement could save weapons, but they Harriers were weighed down by the other weapons they were carrying, and the Spanish might manage to hit them.
“Hawk-one, they’re altering course,” the AWACS said. Eccleston swore to himself; the Spanish had guessed their target and were moving to cover it. That was bad; even the SAS team nearby would be unable to save them, should they have to land in Spain. All of the pilots had been issued suicide pills, a quiet acknowledgement that rescue was unlikely.
“Hawks, choose your partners, and prepare to dump them,” he said. He glanced down once at the display, checking to ensure that there were no duplications. “Fox two!”
The Harrier shuddered once as it released an ASRAAM missile. In the growing light, the stream of fire behind the missile seemed somehow eerie, streaming out towards the enemy planes, which had no idea what was coming. The other planes fired, launching missiles that followed Eccleston’s missile, carrying death ahead of them. Eccleston watched dispassionately as the Spanish planes vanished from the radar, never knowing up until the end of their approaching doom.
“We confirm a total victory,” the AWACS said. Eccleston ignored him as Cadiz came in over the horizon, the Spanish Navy’s main port. The targeting sensor began to blink, reporting that it was detecting the pinpoint of laser light on the Spanish cruiser El Cid. The other Harriers followed, locating their individual targets and jinking as bursts of anti-aircraft fire began to explode near them.