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.
