He punched the compartment door again. This time it swung open. The edge of the wooden box his father had given him all those years ago sat inside. Memories of his family◦– past, present, and now future◦– sat inside. Their imagined doubt and judgment gnawed at him, magnifying his dark mood.
Every scenario for saving the families of the women he had rescued seemed impossible now. He could take Rosette, little Leverette, Deborah, and Danette, and as many as of the other women willing to leave their loved ones behind and make a break for the Swiss border. Sarah’s contacts provided a means for passage to London. Operations Torch and Overlord could certainly benefit from Hiram’s nukes, but it would still be months before the Allies managed to mount a European invasion. Too late to save the families.
Besides, Barbara would never agree to leave. And, she would round up anyone else willing to stay behind and continue fighting. He suspected they would all stay and fight. Deborah would be at the front of the line◦– right beside Barbara◦– encouraging the others to put up a fight regardless of the consequences, her refusal to accept defeat acting as a torch for the others to follow. He smiled. Even he would follow her.
Five hours later, his C2ID2 chimed. A dull, consistent ache had settled into his head. The throbbing in his injured ankle had once again intensified. His knuckles had transitioned into a tender, purple black, from where they had come in contact with the compartment door. He wondered if his body would ever be the same again after this continued and repeated torture inside the pod. His cells were dying, and he was not familiar enough with the equations to determine how long he’d need to avoid the pod to get back to normal. Whether or not he had a plan, the pod no longer provided a safe haven. He brushed past the open storage door and prepared for a daylight jump through the aerial portal. Hopefully the Germans have left the area.
Hiram dropped a surveillance drone through the aerial portal. It took the little aircraft a moment to stabilize. Then, as instructed, the drone began a slow downward spiral centered on the burned-out wreckage of Locard’s car. The military convoy was gone. The command vehicle lay off to the northern side of the road, as charred and mangled as the dead inspector’s car. Further east, a grey Citroën Traction Avant sat in the shade of several pine trees that bordered the road. He sent the drone in for a closer look.
One man leaned against the car’s right front fender, a cigarette between his lips. Inside the car, one man sat behind the wheel and a second in the back seat. The smoker opened the back door of the sedan and the rear seat passenger made an awkward advance toward the outside in dark slacks and an untucked, white undershirt. As the smoker assisted him, Hiram noticed the man’s hands cuffed behind his back. He was led into the trees. Either they’re going to let him take a piss or they plan to shoot him.
After a few minutes, both men emerged from the woods. The smoker forced the prisoner to take a seat on the ground near the car. Hiram zoomed in on his face. Well, that can’t be a coincidence!
Hiram recognized the prisoner as Garon Bertrand, Rosette’s husband. Rosette had once shown him a picture of the family in happier times, back before the man had turned his own family over to the French police. His current wary appearance seemed crafted out of annoyance more than fear. He could only speculate on the policemen’s interest in Garon. Had he and Locard been followed? He hadn’t noticed a tail, but he hadn’t been really looking for one. Without mirrors to see behind the vehicle, it would have been difficult to spot a tail from the backseat. Perhaps the sniveling dog of a man had made a deal with the police. That didn’t explain the handcuffs, however.
Another chime from the C2ID2 reminded him that he needed to get out of the pod and back to the real world.
1610 hours, Saturday, August 15, 1942, Lapalisse, Allier Department, Vichy France
Hiram dropped through the aerial portal into France five thousand meters above Garon Bertrand and his captors. He angled the wingsuit to land in a clearing near where he’d eaten fresh bread and homemade cheese with Oster and Locard. He managed a rather gentle landing though his ankle felt as though it folded beneath him despite the support of the cast. The sudden, intense pain made his eyes water and he clenched his teeth to avoid screaming. He could not afford to announce his position. He shed the wingsuit and stuffed the fabric into a thick patch of brush out of sight. He contacted Teams Charlie and Delta on the C2ID2. “Meet me in Mamirolle, over.”
Once each team responded, he headed towards the men in the Citroën. Dry branches and leaves crackled beneath his feet as he crept through the woods. He sent the little recon robot in close enough to pick up the conversation between the three men in the car.
“How much longer?” the driver asked. “We’ve been here for hours.”
The smoker said, “I don’t know. With the German column hogging the road, delays are inevitable.” He blew a stream of smoke upward into the air, not seeming to mind the afternoon break.
“Why am I here?” Bertrand demanded. “I’ve done nothing wrong! Turned in my wife just as soon as she showed up. I even turned in her Jew whelps.”
“Following Captain Petain’s orders. He said to pick you up, and that’s what we did,” the smoker said. “He’ll be here soon enough. You can ask him directly. For now, shut up and sit still.”
The name went off like a firecracker in Hiram’s head. He clenched his fists, sending his fingernails biting into his palm. Captain Petain had shot little Solange. Charlotte’s report about the girl’s death during the assault on the death train had been quite clear. And according to the late Inspector Locard, Captain Petain had initiated the search for Hiram and his team of escaped prisoners. Petain needed to pay. This time, Hiram would be prepared. He deployed four combat robots.
44
2200 hours, Saturday, August 15, 1942, Lapalisse, Allier Department, Vichy France
Louis Petain cursed the darkness. With only the blackout lights to lead the way, the truck made slow progress across the Allier Department. He understood the restriction and wanted to avoid drawing an Allied night fighter or dive bomber down on them, but every moment of delay allowed the situation in Vichy to spiral further out of control.
“There sir.” Corporal Chabot pointed to a sedan parked just off the road up ahead, a few meters from a blackened pile of twisted metal.
“Pull over.” Petain looked forward to riding the rest of the way in Lieutenant Lebeau’s Citroën. His body complained about the long, bumpy ride in the truck. As Chabot brought the vehicle to a halt, Petain opened his door. He climbed out, ran his hands over his wind tousled hair, and considered stretching to work out the irritating stiffness in his back. He could not afford any more delay and instead approached Lebeau.
“What do you have to report?” he said, without waiting for the man’s salute.
“Sir,” the lieutenant said, snapping to attention. “Inspector Locard and his companions encountered the military convoy at this intersection. I’m not exactly sure what happened. The German officer travelling with the Inspector got out of the car and waved down a command car. A few minutes later the Colonel◦– I think he was a Colonel, hard to tell from where we were watching-,” Lebeau said.