The rhythmic thrum of propellers still echoed in the bones of the city.
Though far from the flames of Albion, Berlin had not slept.
Bruno stepped into the war room, rested, but haggard.
His officers rose at once, but he waved them down.
"Spare me the formalities," he muttered, voice gravelly from the flight back.
"Let's begin."
A massive operations map flickered under amber lighting, centered on the British Isles.
Red dots marked bomber squadrons.
Arcs of engagement and kill zones were sketched in thick ink across the Atlantic approaches.
The Channel had become a chessboard, and the pieces were moving fast.
"Status," Bruno said.
Generaloberst Hollenberg stepped forward, steel-grey mustache twitching with restrained pride.
"Initial wave of P.1108/I Fernbombers crossed into British airspace at 01:17. Altitude: 14,000 meters. No enemy intercepts. Target packages acquired. Bombing commenced at 01:33."
