Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

In addition to piles of crates draped beneath camouflage netting, Trevor noticed a pair of Leopard 2 main battle tanks under tents; one lacked treads the other lacked a main gun. Both sported well-worn Danish insignia. A couple of sour-looking mechanics stopped their work on the armor to stare across the field at Trevor’s entourage.

Raised woodlands blocked his view to the east and the field stretched on to the south. From the west came two vehicles. At first Trevor thought them to be Hummers but the Renault badge on the front grille said otherwise. The lead vehicle lacked a roof but did have a sturdy-looking roll bar between rows of seats.

Both cars came to a halt behind the fuel trucks, kicking up a small cloud of brown dust in the process.

The man driving the second car wore plain clothing and a dark-colored trilby hat. He sat and waited like a taxi cab driver.

From the lead vehicle emerged another man who eyed Trevor with a mix of awe and curiosity. This man stood average height with strong shoulders and the hint of a pot belly. He wore sandy blond hair combed across but without much thought to style. His clothes consisted of a dark leather jacket over an even blacker shirt and brown pants hiding all but the tips of work boots. He held a clipboard under one arm and Trevor thought the concentration of his stare suggested an analytical mind.

Armand approached the newcomer and whispered in his ear. For a moment the man’s stare left Trevor and focused on Armand. He nodded to the Frenchmen and then walked to Trevor.

“Welcome to Europe, Mister Stone,” the man spoke English with a hint of midlands cadence but he tried hard to hide any accent. “My name is Alexander,” and the man offered his hand without losing grip of his clipboard.

Trevor returned the grasp. Alexander sported large hands and Trevor felt strength there, but at the same time Alexander did not try to impress with his grip. No test of power; no test of egos. Instead, Trevor immediately sensed a mildness to Alexander. He could sense immediately that here was a sturdy leader, one with both patience and strength.

“Armand tells me that you did not arrive as planned.”

“No,” Trevor answered and he recalled the conning tower of the Newport News slipping beneath the Atlantic on its final dive. “We ran into-difficulties. I am grateful for the ride, Alexander, but I do not like leaving so many of my men behind at the beach. Armand refused to radio for a second transport.”

“With good reason. The Duass have deployed technology that allows them to hone-in on radio transmissions. You would have been just as likely to find a missile coming your way as a second helicopter. But I am surprised you did not know of this. They developed the weapon last summer. I know I forwarded a written report to your government.”

Trevor thought about last summer. He thought about President Evan Godfrey. If Godfrey had even bothered to read the report he probably discarded it, given that he cared little about the world outside of America.

Regardless, this bit of information suggested that the Duass occupying large sections of Europe were better equipped than the force The Empire had encountered in Ohio. Yet another sign that the gateways which brought the invaders to Earth did not always hit their targets, leaving some of the extraterrestrial forces separate from their main bodies.

Seeing no reason to recap all that, Trevor gave Alexander a succinct yet honest answer, “I did not read that report. I was unavailable at the time it came through.”

Armand, in rough English, asked bitterly, “Too important to bother with our little reports. More important things, yes?”

Trevor answered, “I was dead.”

Alexander said, “Oh. I see.” But of course he did not. “And is this your son?”

Jorgie volunteered, “Hello, Mr. Alexander. I read a lot about you over the years and what you were doing over here. I really liked your raid into Algiers two years ago. That was brave. And the Italian Alpine soldiers? I would really like to meet some of them after what they did in Zurich.”

Jorgie turned to his surprised father and explained, “Mr. Knox reads me the intelligence reports when you are not around, Father.”

A chuckle by Armand partially disrupted the conversation. Apparently the man knew enough English to follow along.

“We should get going,” Alexander changed the course of the conversation. “There are people waiting to meet you.”

They loaded into the Renault Sherpas with Armand taking the lead vehicle’s driver’s seat, Alexander in the passenger’s side, Trevor and JB in the rear. Hauser and the two crewmen boarded the second car.

After a quick U-turn the cars drove a dirt road heading northwest until it connected with a paved one. At that point they turned north and traveled toward the center of the small village.

Murol lived in the elevated region of France referred to as Massif Central, an area shaped by substantial volcanic activity an eon prior that left its mark in the form of mountains and plateaus rippling across the landscape like frozen, angry waves. Clumps of thin forests blanketed many of the slopes but sharp cliff faces and stone peaks held their share of the high ground as well, making for a diverse and dramatic collection of terrain.

Murol might have once been a sleepy tourist village, but on that day it buzzed with life.

As they approached an intersection on the edge of town, Trevor glanced to his right and saw a collection of tents complete with tin pots cooking over camp fires, drying laundry hanging from rope strung between metal poles, and a parked water buffalo where a line waited with jugs in hand.

Among the tents loitered people wearing a variety of clothing ranging from well-worn coveralls to bright-colored sun dresses. Men and women, old and young, white, black, and brown. Some carried side arms, some carried buckets or shovels, one middle aged woman struggled with a pile of stacked books and her hurrying gait made Trevor think of a school teacher late for class.

To his left he saw an old farmhouse and barn from the outside of which hung a white sheet with a big red cross stenciled upon it. An old-style Peugeot ambulance sat outside the main entrance. A large dumpster around the side appeared full of bloody linens and old furniture. A man and a woman-both dressed in dirty white-stood near that dumpster smoking some kind of cigarettes.

Trevor glanced at a street sign and saw that they crossed over Rue Pierre Celeirol as they followed Rue de Jassaguet. The open fields and view of the imposing mountains disappeared, replaced by quaint shops, homes, and hostels along a tight street that wormed its way through the village.

The convoy slowed to weave around a series of vendor carts selling less-than-fresh fruit and questionable meats to a boisterous crowd. Trevor made eye contact with a chubby, older woman who reflected his stare with tired but resolute eyes. He saw dirt caked beneath her fingertips and a strawberry scar on her cheek.

The Sherpas continued on. Trevor noticed that no one else traveled by car, but he did see an old man pulling a donkey laden with sacks along a side street as well as several people riding bicycles.

Jorgie tugged at his father’s sleeve. When he held his dad’s attention, the boy pointed to a three-story building with a blue awning announcing it as the Hotel le Parc.

The hotel had turned in its ‘visitors welcome’ matt in exchange for status as an army barracks. An anti-aircraft gun sat atop the roof, the tennis courts now served as parking spaces for an AMX armored Infantry Fighting Vehicle with a 20mm cannon as well another Sherpa with an anti-tank gun mounted on its roof.

Several soldiers congregated on the terrace in a variety of camouflage outfits including what Trevor recognized-through his bank of genetic memories-to be the old pattern Swiss Leibermuster. Other emblems on shoulders and chests suggested fighters from Denmark, Spain, and the Netherlands.