“Bombs away,” Eccleston called, and released the bombs. The American-designed weapons were designed to penetrate bunkers armoured with techniques that would not be invented for years to come. They would make short work of the Spanish cruisers. An explosion blossomed upwards as a cruiser was torn apart, another followed, and another. Systematically, the entire Spanish navy and merchant marine was being destroyed, shattered beyond repair.
“Time to go home, boys and girls,” he said, as the Harriers retreated, leaving behind burning ships and oil dumps. The radar reported more Spanish fighters and he considered staying to fight, but changed his mind. The mission had been accomplished, completely without loss.
“I wonder what dad – my dads – would say,” he thought. Discovering that his father had a duplicate, a young man who’d served in North Africa, had been astonishing. He glanced down at the radar again and smiled; the Spanish were keeping their distance.
Private Harry Adama ducked low in the trench as the shells slammed into the rock, spreading tremors through the rock. Half of the bunkers had already been destroyed; the airstrip had been smashed beyond repair, including the helicopter that was supposed to be carrying some of the defenders out.
“They’re advancing again,” he muttered into his radio, subvocalising out of habit and training. Under the noise of the bombardment, the Spanish would be unlikely to notice if he’d shouted it.
“Understood,” General Flynn said. “Can you trigger the mines?”
Adama looked down at the small console in his hand. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Time detonation?”
“Yes, please,” Flynn said. Adama hit the button and for good measure stamped on the console. Its automated system took over and it burst into flames. As Adama slipped through the trench, more explosions blasted out, slaughtering Spanish soldiers with ease.
“The mines are detonating,” Adama began, and then the shells started to land again. The Germans were walking the shells over the minefield, triggering or destroying the mines as the Spanish advanced forward. Adama cowered in the trench, wondering if it would end, when it did. Picking himself up, he started to climb up, and then fell down.
Shit, he thought, as he saw the advancing Spaniard. The soldier swept round, lifting a rifle, and Adama shot him between the eyes. A second Spaniard appeared, tossing an old style grenade towards Adama, and he winced, slamming a hand down on the detonation pack in his bag. Goodbye, he thought, and then the darkness claimed him.
Cordoba gabbled in Spanish, but Becker ignored him, staring at the explosion that had devastated the entire prow of the rock. The fifth attempt to take the fortress by storm had failed; the explosion had just wiped out five hundred Spanish troopers, all of whom had been on the brink of success. If the British had deployed more of their miracle shells, the battle might have been lost.
“Continue firing,” he said, and glared at the collection of ammunition. The British hadn’t targeted his bunkers, which at least had kept his ammunition supplies intact, and there were fewer guns to pound the fortress, but he knew that he would soon run out of shells. The Spanish air force had tried to attack, but they had just been hacked out of the sky, and the news from Cadiz had been terrifying. Dozens of targets across Spain had been hit, snarling the Spanish transport and communications network, despite the best that the Spanish could do.
“Launch another attack,” Cordoba howled, as news of yet another air strike came though. Cordoba was desperate; Spain had to get something from the war, or there would be a second uprising. “Onwards to glory.”
Poor brave stupid idiots, Becker thought, as the Spanish ranks reformed and plunged into the maelstrom. A black-robed Spanish priest was with them, trying to rouse tempers for a holy war, but the sullen attitude of the troops was depressing. They knew the odds, even if their leader refused to accept them.
Flynn had lost track of time, lost track of anything, but the advancing Spanish over the isthmus. The devastated town could not put up a fight, but the Spanish were advancing carefully, blasting anywhere that looked suspicious. The Germans were howling at them to take the dockyards – carefully ruined and sabotaged – but the Spanish ignored them. The special detachment might not be quite SAS-grade, but the experience of ten years fighting fanatical enemies had trained them well for copying their techniques.
“We could have made a real fight for this place,” he said, and shook his head. He understood the logic, understood that Britain could not risk a constant running sore, but it galled him to surrender, even temporarily. Franco had already been punished; the rock would become British again, but for the moment…
“It’s time to leave,” he said. The staff didn’t argue, they closed the computers and headed for the egress shaft. In 2015, there was a tunnel to Morocco, but that didn’t exist in 1940. Instead, a submarine would pick them up from the docks.
“The self-destruct system is activated and awaits your command code,” Tom said, before he headed out. Flynn nodded and headed over to the final console; the prompt was already blinking. Quickly, he typed in the code and ran for the shaft. Behind him, a series of explosions shattered all of the 2015 technology, keeping its secrets safe from the Germans.
It was 2023hrs. Becker was surprised; he’d expected a more lengthy siege. Already, the final positions on the Rock were being taken, overrun by the Spanish troopers. Franco, on Radio Madrid, was already proclaiming a great victory, notwithstanding the nearly five thousand soldiers and the complete destruction of the Spanish Navy. The entire battle had lasted less than a day.
“Oh, shit,” someone said. Becker looked up; a final round of explosions were blossoming on the Rock, destroying anything that might have been useful, including the technology he’d been ordered to capture. For a crazy moment, the blasts grew so large he wondered if the entire rock was going to be destroyed, before they finally faded.
“The Rock is ours,” Cordoba said. “The General will be pleased.”
Becker stared at the ruined town. “I hope he’s happy with it,” he said finally.
Chapter Thirty-Three: American Pie
National Cinema
Washington DC, USA
15th September 1940
Colonel Palter would normally have given the task to an enlisted man, but this was too important to mess up. The British ruling hadn’t any validity in America – as thousands of Hollywood producers and lawyers were pointing out – but it had proven so popular with the singers and performers that they’d almost surrendered. Not quite, because a night like this was difficult enough, but the thought of the royalties from Britain alone making all of the singers independent had prompted their surrender. Singers were exploited, and now those who would be great singers, or performers, would have an independent source of income.
Palter shook his head. The 2015 United States hadn’t been able to handle the developments in wireless and broadband Internet transmissions very well, particularly the shared files, including illegal copies of songs and films. With the British starting to sell a $100 laptop, one that was almost as capable as a modern laptop, Hollywood would start losing sales very rapidly.
And the British make one hell of a lot of money, he thought. He’d been forced to assist the army, the navy and the army air force – the USAF hadn’t been created yet – to improve their doctrine, and they weren’t listening. They’d started to prepare to build the Firefly, but they wanted an American design, not the British design. Palter scowled; he’d suspected that the Firefly bore only a tiny relationship to the real Firefly, but it was ludicrous. The only real improvement that the navy had made was forcing forward the development of radar and air defence for Pearl Harbour, and developing a Philippine Army.