covered his lower half in leather pants that featured a variety of zip pockets as well as strategically-placed padding.
The man in front sort of sneered at Trevor’s wet and tired group, turned to his closest comrade and sarcastically muttered, “The Normandy landings were more impressive, I would think.”
Trevor snipped, “My grandfather fought at Normandy.”
His words surprised the men. The leader’s eyes widened and his mouth nearly dropped, but he quickly regained his composure and replaced his surprise with what appeared to be his natural expression: a sneer.
He said to Trevor, “I thought you were going to bring an army.”
Trevor glanced at his son and then answered the man, “I did.”
Again, they appeared surprised.
“You were supposed to be here yesterday.”
“We almost didn’t make it at all. But that’s another story. My name is Trevor Stone. Thank you for meeting us.”
The leader took great pains to sound neither friendly nor antagonistic: “My name is Armand.”
Jorgie jumped, “Hello, Armand. It is very nice to meet you.”
“I was told I would meet Alexander,” Trevor said.
“Well you got me, instead. How lucky am I? We will shelter in what is left of the beach houses for tonight and then take a helicopter out in the morning. It is relatively safe in this area except for the bats. They will eat you if they get a chance. I do not like bats. So we had better get under cover for now. Follow us.”
Trevor addressed his crew, “Okay, you heard them.”
The sailors glanced nervously at one another.
Rick Hauser spoke for them all when he said, “Heard them? Not really. You, that guy, even your son, you were all speaking French.”
The Fennec Eurocopter’s blades blew waves across the grassy field. Trevor kept his head low and jogged away from the transport while holding JB by the hand. He, in turn, clutched his wrapped up Bunny tight, afraid the raggedy stuffed animal might blow away in the wind.
Hauser and two seamen from the Newport News followed Trevor who, in turn, followed Armand. He led them a short distance to a dirt road that ran between the grass and a gentle, forested hill. Two fuel trucks sat idle on the road. Several men-most older-wearing caps, jeans, and work shirts took hold of a hose and dragged it toward the waiting helicopter.
Trevor eyed the men as if hoping his glare would cause them to hurry; the Executive Officer and ten more of the crew waited to be ferried to where Trevor had just arrived: the small town of Murol located in the south central French administrative region of Auvergne (not that such designations meant anything anymore). Regardless, he did not appreciate his party being split.
The men struggling with the fuel hose returned Trevor’s glare with what might have been contempt. A glare from Trevor Stone in Europe did not mean nearly as much as a glare from Trevor Stone in North America. For the first time since his trip across dimensions, Trevor felt out of his element.
Dampness carried on the mid-morning air. Gray clouds combated patches of blue sky for control of the heavens.
To the southwest he spied rows of small buildings between rows of decorative trees. The precise spacing between the structures suggested either a planned community or a more commercial purpose but in the post- Armageddon world the buildings worked as an ammunition dump and motor pool.
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
