Smith considered the channel. Taking a ferry or landing craft was a possibility. But a sea invasion, even a small one, had a limited operational viability.
Frowning, he tapped a key that converted all English words and place-names to French in the wink of an eye.
The channel became La Manche, which was French for "the sleeve," and was the name the French had given what the rest of the world called the English Channel. There was nothing else provocative or helpful.
Smith was about to log off when his gaze alighted on an unfamiliar landmark that lay across the channel.
It was a red line.
And it had a labeclass="underline" Le Transmanche.
His weary gray eyes froze. Was there something he had missed before? Smith tapped the key that restored the English tags.
And on the map where Le Transmanche had been, appeared a new word. A word Smith instantly recognized. A word that made the skin prickle and crawl along the bumps of his spine.
The word was Chunnel.
BECAUSE THEY worm no uniforms, they were not considered an army. An army comes wearing uniforms, bearing arms and marching to the threatening roll of drums.
The combined California Summer Vacation Musketeers, Florida Sunshine Guerrillas and Louisiana Costume Zouaves arrived in London, England, carrying American passports, their uniforms discreetly tucked away in their luggage.
And so they were considered tourists not soldiers.
When they showed up, in groups of two and three at London's Waterloo International railway station, they were carrying forged Canadian passports. They boarded the high-speed Eurostar trains as FrenchCanadian tourists and kept to themselves as the train rattled over the old track to Folkestone at a decorous eighty miles per hour because the brand of Louisiana Creole they spoke wouldn't exactly cut it in Paris.
Upon entering the special rapid track of the English Channel Tunnel they sped up to 186 miles per hour.
The combined forces kept their tongues still, although their hearts lifted with each mile that raced by.
French customs could be forgiven for not sounding the alarm. Who would expect an invasion force arriving by Le Transmanche, as the French called the Chunnel? It was the British who for centuries had resisted the link to Europe. It was they who feared invasion from the Continent, not the other way around.
Their passports were in order, their uniforms were neatly folded, blue and gray cottons nestled deep under their very British tweeds and linens.
And by the time they left Coquelles Terminal in Calais, bound for Paris, there was no stopping them.
For they bore no weapons recognizable as such.
And while it was unusual to bring personal universal TV remote-control units into a foreign country, it was not illegal.
AT FIRST Marc Moise welcomed the promotion to task force group leader.
"You will lead the Louisiana Costume Zouaves," he was told by no less than Bob Beasley himself. They were in a conference room in Sam Beasley World's underground Utiliduck, in Florida.
"Lead them where?"
And when Bob Beasley told him that the objective was to retake Euro Beasley to keep special technology out of French hands, Marc Moise swallowed very, very hard and said, "That sounds dangerous."
"It's for the good of the company."
"I understand that," said Marc hesitantly. "But-"
Then Bob Beasley fixed him with his crinkled father-figure eyes and whispered, "Uncle Sam asked for you by name. He said, 'I want Moose to spearhead this operation.'"
Chapter 27
Dominique Parillaud felt proud. Remy Renard, director of the DGSE, had convened a high-level meeting of the directorate's Planning, Forecasting and Evaluation Group and had invited her.
"We would appreciate your input," he had said, then catching himself, corrected, "Your thoughts, Agent Arlequin."
"But of course."
Now in the somber room whose high windows were heavily curtained to keep out the incessant clangor of Parisian traffic and to foil observers, they sat about the long oak table on which the detached eye of Uncle Sam Beasley lay. It was still attached to the penlike activator DGSE technicians had hastily devised to enable it into a weapon.
"The heart of the device is a prism," a DGSE technician was saying. "As you know, white light passing through a prism has the property of scattering into rainbow hues. This orb emits light according to cybernetique command impulses, delivering the desired supercolor."
"Excellent summary," said the DGSE chief. "Now, of what use can this tool be to French national security."
"Our agents, equipped with such devices, would be impossible to foil in the field," said Lamont Mont grande, head of the political police known as the Renseignements Generaux, who had been invited as a courtesy.
"Good, good, but there is the risk of losing the technology to an adversary nation."
"If this is American technology, as we suspect, it is as good as lost," said Fabian Rocard, the chief of Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire. "Our industrial-espionage bureau has been highly successful in acquiring American technologies, often, as you know, by procedures as simple as rooting in the unsecured garbage of aerospace companies."
"Still, if lost to others, it will be turned against our advantage," Renard said. "More thoughts, please."
There were several moments of quiet rumination as a scrumptious pork wine, cheese and crackers made the rounds of the long table.
At length the minister of the interior and nominal overseer of the French Intelligence community spoke up. "Imagine this orb magnified greatly."
The table of Intelligence chiefs focused on the orb. In their minds it grew to great size. It was not difficult to envision. They understood that this object loomed very large in their nation's future.
"Now, further imagine this orb in orbit."
"In orbit?"
"Oui. In orbit circling the globe, the eye of France."
"A spy satellite?"
"No, the fearsome protective eye of France. Imagine the Germans nibbling away at our borders again."
This was not very hard to imagine, either.
"Then imagine as they marshal their foes to storm or invade, an irresistible pink radiance spilling down from the heavens to bathe them in its quelling radiations."
This vision was much more difficult to envision, but they put their concentration into it. Scowls came, as did facial contortions.
Eventually they saw the beauty of it.
"Or should the British become even more of a nuisance than they are already, bathe them in the awful green that causes the stomach to rebel."
"Their stomachs should already be in rebellion, with the unpalatable foods that they devour."
A combined roar of laughter floated toward the high ceiling.
It was the lowly Dominique Parillaud who had the best idea of all, however.
"Imagine," she said in a soft, conspiratorial voice, "bathing the US. with the yellow radiation that brings fear and consternation. They will never vex us again."
"We could keep them in thrall indefinitely," Remy crowed.
"Unless, of course, we require liberating again," said the minister of the interior. "Then we would naturally release them. Briefly. Until they have succored us once again with their industrial might and brave but foolhardy soldiers."
"Provisions, of course, will have to be made to scrupulously avoid infecting the habitation of Jairy, of course."
"Of course. This goes without saying."
"When is the next Ariane launch?" asked Remy Renard.
"Next week. A communications satellite, I believe it is."
"It is possible to substitute this?"
"Non. A larger package must be created using this technology."
"If we have the technology, how long can it take to recreate this larger package?"
No one knew, but everyone promised to get to work on the problem. For all understood they held a power, a force greater than the atomic bomb itself. One could not nuke another nation without incurring certain lamentable unpleasantries in return. Criticisms. Condemnations. Even unsympathetic retaliations.