July 17, 1936.
Spanish Morocco
The heat rolled off the tarmac at the Melilla airfield like waves from a furnace.
Captain Alejandro Ortega wiped the sweat from his brow and stared toward the Rif Mountains.
His uniform clung to him, dust-stained and his body stiff from days of tension and pressure.
He could feel it something was about to give.
At 5:23 in the afternoon, a jeep tore down the perimeter road, engine howling.
Lieutenant Carrillo jumped out before the vehicle stopped, waving a crumpled paper above his head.
"They've moved in Tetuán. The coup has begun. We're greenlit."
Ortega didn't respond right away.
He reached for the holster on his belt and pulled the sidearm free.
"Sound the order. All barracks commanders report to Field House B. We deploy in thirty."
"Understood, Capitán."
Within the hour, the garrison was alive with motion.
Boots slammed against concrete.
Ammunition crates rattled.
A heavy machine gun was dragged to the roof of the main guardhouse.
