Chapter 36: Prelude to the Invasion
It began before dawn.
Madrid’s Grand Military Rail Terminal, once a symbol of modernization and pride, now thundered with the pulse of war. Under iron beams and gas-lit chandeliers, the rhythmic clanking of steel echoed as endless crates, cannon barrels, and ammunition belts were loaded with practiced efficiency. It had taken years of reforms, discipline, and sacrifice—but now, Aragon moved like a machine.
Regent Lancelot stood on a high platform overlooking the platform yard, gloved hands resting on the rail. Beside him, Alicia leafed through a thick report, while General Montiel stood rigidly at attention, his uniform pristine.
"Our numbers?" Lancelot asked without turning.
"Eighteen divisions in total," Montiel replied. "One hundred thirty-two thousand men. Five thousand engineers, ten thousand logistical staff. All of them trained, drilled, and supplied."
"And supplies?"
"Twenty-four thousand rifles, twelve hundred field guns, three hundred siege mortars," Alicia listed, "and one-point-two million rounds of ammunition. Food stockpiles to last three months. Powdered grain, salt pork, dried fruit. Coal loads have been doubled along every rail route. Steel plates and spare rail segments in case of sabotage or disruption."
The Regent said nothing, only nodded.
Along the tracks, armored steam locomotives hissed and puffed as they prepared to depart. Only Aragon had them—these iron beasts with reinforced boilers, broad steel cowcatchers, and mechanical couplings built for heavy artillery.
Flatbed cars carried mortars protected in hay-cushioned cradles. Covered wagons held spare rifles, tents, and dried ink for dispatches. Barrels of water and coal were secured by iron chains. Every fifteen minutes, another train departed south.
Only Aragon could do this. No other nation had the lines, the scheduling, or the industrial spine to move an army this size without weeks of delay. But in Aragon, a soldier could board in Zaragoza and be in Castellón by morning.