Chapter One 20 July 1936--outside Lisbon General José Sanjurjo was a short, heavyset man in his early sixties. He looked from the light plane to the pilot and back again. "Is everything in readiness?" he asked, his tone saying heads would roll if the pilot told him no. Major Juan Antonio Ansaldo didn't tell him anything, not right away. Ansaldo was pacing back and forth, his agitation growing with every stride. He watched as Sanjurjo's aides shoved two large, heavy trunks into the airplane. "Those look heavy," Ansaldo said at last. "They hold the general's uniforms!" an aide said, as if to a simpleton. "On the eve of his victorious march into Madrid, he can't arrive in Burgos without uniforms!" Nervously, Ansaldo lit a cigarette. Who was he, a major, to tell Spain's most senior--and most prestigious--general what to do? He'd placed himself at the disposal of the Spanish state . . . which Sanjurjo would embody, once he flew from Portugal to Burgos to take charge of the rising against the Spanish Republic. When he flew to Burgos? If he flew to Burgos! The city, in north-central Spain, was a long way from Lisbon. The plane, a two-seater, had only so much fuel and only so strong a motor. "General . . ." Ansaldo said. "What is it?" growled the man people called the Lion of the Rif because of his victories in Spanish Morocco. "¡Viva Sanjurjo!" the general's men shouted. "¡Viva España!" Sanjurjo preened . . . as well as a short, heavyset man in his sixties could preen. "Now I know my flag is waving over Spain," he boomed like a courting grouse. "When I hear the Royal March again, I will be ready to die!" That gave Major Ansaldo the opening he needed. "General, I don't want you to die before you get to Spain, before you hear the Royal March again." "What are you talking about?" Sanjurjo demanded. "Sir, those trunks your men put aboard--" "What about them? They're my uniforms, as my aides told you. A man is hardly a man without his uniforms." At the moment, Sanjurjo was wearing a light gray summer-weight civilian suit. He looked and acted quite manly enough for Ansaldo. "They weigh a lot." The pilot gestured. "Look at the pine trees all around the airstrip. I need the plane's full power to take off. I have to make sure I have enough fuel to fly you to Burgos. I don't want anything to happen to you, Señor. Spain needs you too much to take chances." General Sanjurjo frowned--not fearsomely, but thoughtfully. "I can't fly into Burgos like this." He brushed at the gray linen of his sleeve. "Why not, your Excellency? Why not?" Ansaldo asked. "Don't you think the people of Burgos would be delighted--would be honored--to give you anything you need? Aren't there any uniforms in Burgos? God help the rising if that's true!" "God help the rising." Sanjurjo crossed himself. Major Ansaldo followed suit. The general took a gold case from an inside jacket pocket and lit a cigarette of his own. He smoked in abrupt, savage drags. "So you think we'll crash with my uniforms on board, do you?" "When you're flying, you never know," the pilot answered. "That's why you don't want to take any chances you don't have to." Sanjurjo grunted. He took a couple of more puffs on the aromatic Turkish cigarette, then ground it out under his heel. "Luis! Orlando!" he called. "Get the trunks off the plane!" His aides stared as if the Excerpted from Hitler's War by Harry Turtledove All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
