3 months later
2nd of February 1941
Spain, Madrid
Francisco Franco stood at the top of the stairs, the very same stairs he had ascended four years ago. The very same place where his guest had once stood. Now, the roles were reversed.
Franco had claimed Spain and ruled it with an iron fist for the past four years. The country had recovered from much of the damage caused by the civil war, especially since it had ended far earlier than expected.
But Franco did not know that name. He had first met Heinrich Jaeger when he was still a major, already known by the nickname "the Legendary One." Today, the balance of power had shifted completely. Much to Franco's surprise, Jaeger's name had resurfaced time and again in the years that followed.
Today, it echoed once more.
A black Mercedes limousine came to a halt before the steps, large parts of the ground covered in an exquisite red carpet.
"The Führer of Germany, His Excellency Heinrich Jaeger," an officer announced, stepping forward ceremonially as he opened the door.
From it emerged the man Franco knew as Heinrich Jaeger. Yet the man before him had changed greatly over the past four years. He appeared far more mature, and an overwhelming authority radiated from him, something only natural considering his position.
Camera shutters clicked rapidly as Paul stepped out and began ascending the stairs, Ribbentrop following closely behind him as his aide.
Franco put on a wide smile. Whether it was genuine or not, only he knew in that moment.
"Heinrich Jaeger, welcome!" he called out, extending his hand.
The moment Paul reached the top of the stairs, in front of the grand palace of Madrid, and their hands met, a storm of camera flashes erupted. Shouts and calls from reporters at the bottom of the stairs filled the air as they scrambled to capture the historic moment.
Paul looked down at Franco, who was noticeably smaller than him, before his gaze drifted elsewhere, his head tilting slightly upward.
Oh Franco, will you give me what I want, or will you play hard to get? Paul thought, a faint smile forming on his lips.
His mind drifted through the endless pleasantries and ceremonies that followed, through the formal talks, until it finally slowed when Franco began speaking again.
"Spain is still licking its wounds, you must understand… we are grateful for the German…"
Paul's gaze wandered once more, Franco's words fading into the background.
It seems the player does not change, even when the game does. How disappointing.
"…we are still consider—"
"Stop it, Franco."
Paul's voice cut sharply through the air, interrupting him. Ribbentrop pressed his lips together, swallowing nervously.
"Do not play such games with me," Paul continued.
"I ended your war years before its original conclusion."
Franco scoffed lightly.
"You do not know that."
Paul only smiled before continuing.
"The world is changing. We are in the middle of a war that will decide the global balance for the next hundred years."
Paul rose from his seat.
"Everyone wants a piece. Some want more than they can take, others remain starving. That is simply how unfair this game is."
"Germany will never starve," Paul said, his voice rising.
"Franco, I doubt you are foolish enough to refuse a seat at the table."
Paul glanced at Ribbentrop.
"I will make it clear. The Africa campaign is already in full motion. We will win, with or without you. What matters is how fast we win and how many British troops we can draw away."
Franco studied Paul carefully, analyzing his words before his eyes widened slightly.
"How many troops we draw? You want to draw British troops?" he asked, clearly unsettled by Paul's statement and displeased with his tone.
Paul nodded.
"Explain the plan to him, Ribbentrop."
"I will visit the royal garden. When I return, I will await your final decision."
Paul turned and walked toward the door.
Franco remained skeptical, crossing his arms as he spoke with his advisors.
"Whether Spain starves or joins the feast is up to you. But do not blame me when I favor those who chose to dine with me."
Whatever happened inside that room, whatever Ribbentrop told Franco, it was enough to shake him.
It was late afternoon when footsteps echoed behind Paul, crunching softly against the gravel.
Franco approached, intent on regaining control of the conversation this time.
"It is a beautiful garden, is it not?" Franco asked, stepping beside him as Paul observed the vast field of roses.
"Indeed," Paul replied calmly.
Franco sighed.
"You are right. For too long, I have been satisfied with mere crumbs. Whatever role Spain will play in this war, your foreign minister has promised us vast lands in Africa. They will satisfy our hunger. But there is still one condition, Mr. Jaeger."
"I will not beg for Spain—" Paul began.
"No," Franco interrupted firmly.
"Do you think you will succeed?"
"Are you questioning my confidence?" Paul replied.
"No. I am asking the legendary major who has never made a mistake. Do you believe you will succeed in your plans?"
Paul smiled faintly, almost melancholic.
"Do you think I will not?"
Franco studied him, caught between awe and irritation at the sheer audacity of the man before him.
"Welcome to the Axis, Francisco Franco," Paul said, extending his hand once more.
On February 2nd, Spain officially announced its entry into World War II, shocking the world yet again. Newspapers printed nonstop, radio reports played on a constant loop, and everyone knew this was a stark reminder that the global conflict was far from over.
While Britain began conscripting more and more soldiers, many from overseas territories, sending them to the ever-expanding fronts in Africa, battles were already raging in Libya, Morocco, and Egypt.
"Another theater has opened its curtains," General Letow von Vorbeck said, his words spreading through the Afrika Corps sent by the German Empire.
Vorbeck lowered his binoculars, looking at the man beside him. Both stood atop a small sand ridge, a vast, dry landscape stretching out before them. It was not quite a desert, yet far from any grassland.
"Wise words, General," Rommel said, gazing ahead. Beneath the lowering, burning red sun, the first tanks of the Afrika Corps rolled forward.
Rommel reached into his desert uniform, specially prepared for the campaign. It was standard equipment issued to every soldier of the Afrika Corps.
He pulled out a kettle.
Vorbeck smiled, producing an almost identical one and opening its lid.
"To a successful campaign. May our tanks halt before the great pyramids soon."
Their words faded into the approaching night as their division reinforced the western flank facing Egypt.
At the same time the first gunshot were exchanged in marracco and gibraltar.
Buckingham Palace
A newspaper was practically thrown onto the table before the King, who looked up in surprise at the sudden movement.
"Winston, is the situation this precarious already?"
Winston Churchill furrowed his brows, staring at the photograph on the front page. It showed Paul and Francisco Franco standing side by side.
"It is still within manageable limits. Spain is still weak, but it remains a power. At the moment, I see only one solution. Support from overseas."
"America."
"Yes," Churchill replied, folding his hands.
"The Americans must supply us with more equipment, funds, and resources than ever before. And ideally… a full entry into the war."
"That would indeed be a blessing. But I hear the population is quite anti-war," the King answered wearily.
Churchill shook his head, clearly annoyed.
"Indeed. But at least they have that intelligence."
The King nodded slowly.
"I hear it comes from a former high-ranking member of Jaeger's inner circle."
Churchill cleared his throath.
"That is what MI6 has managed to uncover, yes. But beyond that, we know very little. There is, however, a rumor circulating…unconfirmed, but possible…
Churchill tapped his ear lightly.
that the Americans are listening."
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