Published at 19th of December 2025 9:19 am

Chapter 789: Sealing the Gap

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Wind tore across the coast like a living thing, howling between the stone teeth of the fortress that crowned the Rock of Gibraltar.

To most men, the place felt cursed, but to Heinrich Koch, it felt like purpose.

He stood atop the eastern battlements, greatcoat whipping in the gale, binoculars pressed against his eyes as he scanned the horizon where the Atlantic bled into the Mediterranean.

Storm clouds smothered the strait like a lid over a boiling pot.

Below him, the artillery batteries of the Gibraltar Coastal Defense Command bristled along the cliffs, hundreds of guns dug into ancient limestone. And every one of them answered to Heinrich alone.

A lieutenant jogged up behind him, breath frosting in the bitter wind.

"General," he said. "Admiral Metzger is requesting confirmation, he believes the American convoy we spotted earlier may attempt another nighttime push."

Heinrich lowered the binoculars slowly.

His pale eyes were calm. Calculating. A man who had spent his youth studying battlefield maps in Bruno’s shadow, and spent his adulthood turning himself into the kind of commander who needed no shadow at all.

"Tell the Admiral," Heinrich said, "that if the Americans attempt a nighttime crossing, they will find that darkness has never been an ally of theirs."

The lieutenant saluted and hurried off, boots clattering against wet stone.

Heinrich remained still for a long moment, listening, feeling the rock beneath his feet.

Gibraltar had always been a legendary stronghold, the shield of the Mediterranean, the gateway between continents.

But in the hands of the German Empire, it had become something truly monstrous.

Not a fortress, but a guillotine, and Heinrich held the rope.

Inside the cliffs, the command bunker hummed with electricity.

German naval officers stood over plotting tables illuminated by red lamps. Radio operators wore headsets like lifelines. Technicians monitored radar screens, tracking every ship that dared approach the strait.

Heinrich entered, stamping snow from his boots. The room snapped to attention.

"At ease," he said.

He stepped to the central table where a naval officer pointed at a moving cluster of blips.

"Convoy, sir. Composition uncertain. But we estimate at least six transports, two destroyers, perhaps more trailing beyond radar range."

Heinrich leaned over the map.

"The Americans must land reinforcements in Sicily," he said aloud. "They know the Americans are bleeding out in the central Mediterranean. They know the sea lanes through the Aegean are suicide."

He straightened.

"So they come for my gate."

A young staff officer swallowed nervously.

"General... should we notify Berlin? Request permission for a preemptive strike?"

Heinrich’s laugh was soft, almost pitying.

"Berlin did not place me here so I could ask permission to breathe," he said. "The Kaiser trusts me. The Reichsmarschall trusts me. And trust is a kind of freedom men like us rarely receive."

He pointed at the map.

"We strike first."

Admiral Metzger approached, cap tucked under his arm.

"Our U-boats are in position. Coastal battery six can be ready within three minutes. And anti-ship missiles are on standby for deployment. But aerial support will be limited by the weather."

"To hell with the weather, if we brought in the bombers that would be overkill. The coastal batteries, and missile platforms will be enough."

The bunker fell silent.

"Sir?" the officer asked quietly.

Heinrich’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Let the Americans see exactly who bars their way."

When night fell, the Rock lit up like a god had set fire to its veins.

Banks of colossal floodlights erupted from the cliffs, turning midnight into a pale imitation of noon. The sea glittered with steel brightness, ruining every attempt at concealment.

The American convoy faltered instantly.

From the command post, Heinrich watched through a high-powered naval scope as the ships scattered in confusion, destroyers zigzagging, transports turning in panic like cattle scenting a wolf.

And then the guns began to speak.

The first shell came from a coastal battery, a 380 mm monster buried in a cliffside cavern.

Its roar shook every stone of Gibraltar.

The shell hit the lead American destroyer at a downward angle, punching clean through the deck, the boilers, and the keel before detonating underwater in a plume of steam and shattered metal.

The destroyer folded like a crushed tin can.

Cheers erupted in the bunker, but Heinrich raised one hand sharply.

"Save your breath," he said. "There will be plenty more."

The second battery opened next, followed by the third and fourth, each shot a thunderclap rolling across the Mediterranean.

The strait became a killing field, illuminated by the glow of burning ships. U-boats slipped in behind the chaos, loosing torpedoes into the disoriented convoy. All the while missiles screeched through the air and downward towards the allied flotilla.

Within minutes, the Americans were not fighting the German, instead they were fighting the ocean.

Heinrich watched it unfold with the composure of a surgeon directing an operation.

"Target the transports," he commanded. "The warships will drown themselves trying to protect them."

A naval lieutenant hesitated.

"Sir... this will force them to reroute through West Africa. They’ll have to land in Dakar or Lagos, then march through the desert to Tunisia. They’ll lose half their strength to heat alone."

Heinrich nodded.

"That is the idea. Until now we’ve been operating under the orders of allowing them to land in Morrocco, and Tunisia. Bruno wanted their blood to flow violently and quickly on the shores of Sicily. Now, he wants the Americans to burn in the heat of the Sahara."

The young man stared at him in silence.

Hours later, the sea was quiet again.

The glow of burning wreckage faded on the horizon. Waves carried the last pieces of American hull plating toward Morocco like morbid gifts.

Heinrich stood alone at the cliff edge, snow clinging to his coat. His breath curled into the wind.

Footsteps approached through the snow.

It was Admiral Metzger.

"General," he said quietly. "Berlin requests status."

Heinrich kept his gaze fixed on the dark Atlantic.

"Inform them that the strait is secure."

"And the Americans?"

Heinrich’s expression didn’t change.

"They will attempt to land in West Africa. Then they will die in West Africa."

Metzger hesitated.

"Is that... good for us?"

Heinrich’s reply was cold, steady, carved from the same stone he commanded.

"We are at war," he said. "Anything that kills fewer Germans is good for us."

The Admiral nodded.

"And Sicily?"

Heinrich turned at last, eyes sharp with purpose.

"With Gibraltar sealed," he said, "Sicily becomes a closed fist. The allied soldiers who remain on the island will be dead within a fortnight. And then the second phase of this war begins."

He smiled faintly while Metzger bowed his head.

"Yes, sir."

Snow drifted around him like falling ash.

And far across the ocean, another portion of Roosevelt’s crumbling nation prepared to die for a continent that no longer wanted them.

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