War is an entity that inevitably demands the colossal shifting of both materials and souls. Where a hundred soldiers tread, a village flickers into existence and vanishes just as quickly; where a thousand march, a road is carved into the earth. When ten thousand pass, they are a city unto themselves, a living, breathing metropolis in motion.
Consider, then, the scale of this expedition undertaken by Spain, the world’s preeminent superpower, across the vast, rolling expanse of the Atlantic. In terms of pure martial strength, sixty thousand combatants were on the move. When one accounted for the cooks, the sutlers, the merchants, the entertainers, and the myriad of hangers-on, it was no exaggeration to say that an entire small nation was being ferried across the world’s greatest ocean.
Spain was the undisputed master of such logistical feats. Had they not been, they could never have sustained a conflict against the entirety of Europe for seventeen long years. The strategy Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares, presented to King Philip IV was deceptively simple: a tidal wave of elite soldiers would cross the sea to crush the disorganized rabble waiting on the other side. As is true with all things, a simple plan is often the most effective; with fewer moving parts, there is less that can break. It is a logic as immutable as mechanics.
Olivares first addressed Admiral Antonio de Oquendo with the gravity the situation deserved. “We shall not stray from tradition,” he declared, his voice firm. “The wise look to the past for guidance, and there is always a reason for it. However, we shall also prove that we are capable of learning from our previous failures.”
“Failures?” Oquendo inquired, arching an eyebrow.
“Calais. 1588,” Olivares replied with unflinching confidence. “Fifty-seven years ago, His Majesty Philip II assembled a mighty armada and steered it toward the Low Countries to restore the true faith to the English. Before the shores of Calais, they clashed with the English and suffered a catastrophic defeat.”
“That is a matter of record, My Lord,” Oquendo noted. “But did the Lord not see fit to send storms and misfortune to plague His Majesty’s efforts?”
“Perhaps. But it is also true that it was madness to transport such a vast quantity of resources and men without adequate protection or a contingency for the unforeseen.”
Oquendo nodded slowly, conceding the point. “I suppose that is one way to look at it.”
“Today, our destination is not the Low Countries, but Cuba,” Olivares continued, circling a point on the map labeled ‘Havana.’ “There, we shall complete our preparations to strike the Continental Covenant. Understand this, Admiral: your role in this process is paramount.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“Then listen well,” Olivares said, leaning over the map. “We shall flood Havana with war materials. We will restructure the entire logistics network of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, centered on that port. It must be of a scale capable of supporting a hundred thousand souls.”
He gestured to other coastal points. “We will expand the harbor facilities in Havana, and we shall do the same in Belize, Veracruz, Campeche, and Omoa. The movement of such immense populations and supplies must be sustained without pause. The Spain of 1588 failed because their plan was hasty, and the infrastructure of the Low Countries was ill-suited for the weight of their ambition. This time, there will be no such negligence. A meticulous, cautious design shall replace the apathy of the past.”
Olivares’s eyes gleamed with a cold, administrative fire. “We shall pour rations, ordnance, gunpowder, uniforms, and every necessity of life into Havana until the city groans under the weight of it! Only then, when every bolt is tightened and every belly is full, shall we move to conquer the Continental Covenant.”
In essence, it was a process of paving a road across the sea—a strategy of maintaining a pristine state of readiness through an inexhaustible stream of rear-echelon support. When the conquest was complete, these expanded routes and harbors would serve as the gateway connecting the homeland to the new territories, cementing the victory. It was a practical, simple, and terrifyingly brute-force operation.
“We can forget about secrecy, then,” Admiral Oquendo remarked, shrugging. “With so many people and such a mountain of supplies moving over such a long period, how could we possibly hope to remain hidden from the enemy?”
Olivares offered a thin, knowing smile. “When a herd of elephants passes through a forest, only trampled trees remain. Whether the elephant keeps its path a secret or trumpets its arrival to the heavens, the result is the same.”
Oquendo grasped the Count-Duke’s arrogant vision almost immediately. Its intuitiveness left him with only one remaining question. “And what of the ‘Great Ships’?”
The term caused Olivares’s expression to turn profoundly serious. These were the largest vessels in human history, specifically engineered to counter the gargantuan iron-hulled ships of the Continental Covenant. Their design and their names were a direct manifestation of the will of Philip IV and Olivares himself—masterpieces of the era. To the Count-Duke, they were weapons capable of upending the trajectory of the war in a single stroke.
“They shall be stationed in Cartagena,” Olivares replied with a slow nod.
“In the Caribbean? Why keep them in the rear when the front lines are in the Gulf of Mexico?”
“They are not being neglected,” the Count-Duke clarified. “They are being saved. They shall shine at the most critical moment.” He nodded once more, his conviction absolute. “We shall be victorious.”
***
“There was no need to even utilize the Order for intelligence, My Lord,” Gershom reported, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Everyone knows. The details of who is bringing how many troops, and who will be leading them—it’s all common knowledge, spread far and wide.”
I couldn’t help but let out a dry, hollow laugh. The image of the Spanish expedition moving like a gaudy, oversized circus or a traveling carnival was so absurd it bordered on the comical. There was no classified data to steal; because so many people and so much material were committed to the move, there was no physical way to keep the news from spreading.
Is it arrogance? I wondered. No, it’s a terrifying level of certainty in their own victory.
I closed my eyes and imagined it: the combined might of mainland Spain and Nueva España converging on Havana, an ant-like swarm of humanity ready to plunge straight into Florida. With that kind of overwhelming mass, they didn’t even need a strategy. They could simply burn the Continental Covenant to the ground through sheer weight of numbers.
“Such a heavy, direct frontal assault…” Mansfeld mused, the silence of the cabinet room highlighting the gravity of his words. “There is surprisingly little room to maneuver.”
If they followed their plan to the letter, we would be forced to meet them head-on. We would either have to engage in a massive naval confrontation or a blood-soaked struggle on the beaches to repel them. Spain’s national power was a threat based on scale alone; had the Covenant been a European nation, it would have been erased from the map years ago.
“But we are behind the shield of the Atlantic, are we not?” I murmured, more to myself than to the room. “If we leverage that advantage, we can overcome this crisis.”
We possessed a detailed schedule for the ‘Conquest of the Continental Covenant.’ We knew their weapons, their gear, and their disposition. The Spanish had no secrets—not because they were fools, but because they were too large to hide. Like a giant that cannot conceal its footprints, every movement left a scar on the world.
Can we stop them without a catastrophe? I worried. Will the Atlantic barrier be enough? Or are they moving specifically to erase that barrier?
A thousand anxieties bloomed and withered in my mind. I was beginning to fear that my desire to end the war without civilian casualties was a naive dream. Then…
“Ahem.”
I turned to see Mansfeld stroking his mustache with a performative flair. He caught my gaze and spoke with a low, measured tone. “O Nameless One, why do we not stop reacting to the enemy and instead proceed as we discussed previously?”
“As we discussed?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mansfeld replied, a smirk playing on his lips. “The plan upon which a seasoned mercenary captain like myself and the equally experienced Chairman Oitotan found ourselves in perfect agreement.”
Ah, right. I remember now.
“The enemy is clearly planning a landing operation aimed at our destruction,” Mansfeld noted, pointing to the map. “Havana is, therefore, an indisputably hostile military base. By any logic of war, we have already suffered a preemptive strike. Any action we take against that port is inherently justified.”
The logic was sound. Our pretext was ironclad. I turned immediately to the Admiral. “How many ships do we have available that are painted in dark hues?”
“Dark hues? You mean…”
“The steam-powered fast ships,” I clarified. “The ones that weren’t included in the Great White Fleet.”
“Ah, we have quite a few. But why—”
I reached out and gripped the Admiral’s wrist before he could finish. He flinched in surprise, but I didn’t let go. “Activate them immediately. Time is of the essence. The Spanish have invited us to a traditional duel.”
“The fast ships,” I whispered, a cold smile touching my lips. “They need to make a delivery under the cover of night.”
Just because they issued the challenge didn’t mean we were obligated to fight on their terms.
***
Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares, harbored no delusions about his military genius. He had spent his life fighting with ink and paper, battling politicians rather than generals. Yet, he had sailed through Cartagena to Veracruz, then to Mexico City, and finally to Havana. The reason was simple: he had to be there.
Only his presence could resolve the fragmented command structure of the colonies. He needed to stride through these lands with an authority granted directly by the King, one that far surpassed that of the Viceroy of Nueva España. He had marched into the Viceroy’s palace, seized control over every battalion in the territory, and initiated the operation. The colonial army he had painstakingly expanded over the years now numbered in the tens of thousands.
In his own mind, Olivares had already fulfilled more than half of his duty. The remaining half was accomplished simply by his existence on this soil. The King’s favorite had come to America to personally oversee the expedition; that fact alone signaled to the world that Spain was staking its very survival on this war.
This was why he had to be in Havana. It was the beating heart of the plan to crush the Continental Covenant.
At the call of a familiar voice, Olivares stepped out onto the deck. The horizon expanded before him, revealing a lush, green coastline and the silhouette of a bustling port city. As he marveled at the sight, Admiral Oquendo joined him at the railing.
“A harbor of that scale should be more than sufficient for the task at hand,” the Admiral remarked.
Olivares shook his head. “You are mistaken. We expanded it specifically for this task. We shall not fail this time, Admiral. This is an operation where failure is not an option.”
The Count-Duke felt a surge of profound emotion. As he looked out over the harbor of Havana, crowded with a multitude of merchant vessels, he felt an inexpressible satisfaction. Those ships would be the salvation of Spain. The era of the Great Conquest was beginning anew. Once the Covenant was dismantled, their gargantuan ships would become trophies for the Spanish King, and their aluminum mines and spirit factories would fuel the Empire’s resurrection. Then, Spain would…
“Hmm? What is the matter?”
“The crew of that vessel over there,” Oquendo noted, pointing. “They are waving to us. We should return the gesture.”
Olivares let out a short, amused huff and raised his hand, waving to the sailors on the passing merchantman. Yet, despite his acknowledgment, the sailors did not stop. Their movements were frantic, their arms flailing with a desperate energy.
“Strange,” Olivares murmured. “Why do they persist?”
“Sailors are an odd lot,” Oquendo replied with a shrug. “Who can say?”
“I suppose… wait.” Olivares’s eyes narrowed. “Admiral, what is that on the surface of the water?”
Oquendo followed his gaze, looking over the railing. The water ahead was littered with a sea of oak barrels. He frowned, looking back at the Count-Duke, whose annoyance was clearly growing.
“An accident, perhaps?” Oquendo suggested. “To see so many barrels adrift… were they carrying wine?”
“I couldn’t say. But it is an insult to the treasury. To see such waste, all purchased with the Crown’s coin…” Olivares trailed off, his attention returning to the waving sailors on the other ship. As the distance between the two vessels closed, he realized he had misread their expressions.
They weren’t cheering. They looked terrified, their faces twisted in a panicked urgency.
Olivares tilted his head, watching as another merchant ship slipped past them, gliding effortlessly through the floating debris. The ship moved gracefully between the barrels until—
Boom! KRA-KOOM!
The vessel was suddenly engulfed in a colossal geyser of water and fire, its hull shattering like glass. The shockwave nearly knocked the Count-Duke off his feet; Oquendo caught him just in time. Gasping for air, Olivares scrambled back to the railing and looked out over the water.
There were dozens… no, hundreds of the barrels, bobbing rhythmically in the waves. And scattered among them were the jagged, charred remains of ships that had tried to run the gauntlet.
He looked back at the sailors on the distant ship. They were still waving their arms, their gestures now clearly translated.
Don’t come.
Hundreds of mines had been laid around Havana.
The port was blockaded.