"Halt!" a French soldier shouted, raising his rifle over the temporary roadblock. With him, a group of other French soldiers emerged, blocking the advancing military trucks.
Meindl narrowed his eyes and raised his hand. At the signal, Niemann slowed the vehicle, coming to a halt in front of the soldiers, the other trucks in the column stopping accordingly.
The French soldier from before walked slowly, almost leisurely, toward the driver's side window.
Noticing that he and Niemann held the same rank, he straightened slightly and pulled a cigarette between his lips.
"Good morning. Where are you heading?" he asked. Niemann glanced briefly at Meindl before turning toward the window.
"Good morning. This is a special transport. Our destination is secret," he replied in flawless French.
The French officer exchanged a glance with the three soldiers now standing beside him, then suddenly burst into laughter, the others joining in.
The officer stepped closer, leaning into the truck.
"Once again, where are you heading?" He paused, his eyes shifting to Meindl. "And what exactly are you transporting? I don't see any soldiers in the back."
"That is secret as well," Niemann answered, pressing his lips together, his hand slowly lowering toward his belt.
The officer sighed, winking at his men and gesturing toward the rear of the truck.
Niemann narrowed his eyes and shot Meindl a pressing look.
Meindl shook his head and sighed. Quickly, he opened the door and jumped out, giving a brief nod toward the truck a few meters behind them. Moments later, its doors opened and two soldiers stepped out.
"Oh my God!" one of the real French soldiers shouted.
"This is…" the officer muttered, his voice filled with shock and disbelief, before turning toward the approaching Meindl."You!" he shouted. "What is this?"
Meindl looked at him in confusion, tilting his head.
The officer stared back, equally confused, before hearing footsteps and turning again.
"What is this?" he demanded, now facing Niemann, who had also stepped out.
Niemann ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"Take one and leave."
The officer opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"One?" he finally said, a greedy smile creeping across his face. "Where is your generosity?"
Niemann exhaled and stepped toward the revealed mass of gold ingots. Slowly, he reached out and grabbed one.
Then, without warning, he swung around and smashed the ingot into the officer's face. The man collapsed instantly, his expression frozen in stunned disbelief as blood seeped from his shattered features.
The other three soldiers froze for a split second before raising their rifles, but Meindl and the accompanying men were faster.
A barrage of gunfire erupted, and the three soldiers fell beside their officer.
Meindl and Niemann exchanged a brief look. Niemann then placed the ingot back into its fitting place, the golden surface now smeared with dark crimson.
"Onwards," Gustaf said to his driver, leaning against the truck while watching Meindl and Niemann before climbing back into his own vehicle.
Meindl turned as well, sensing a gaze on his back. Their eyes met. There was no hostility, yet the exchange was cold as ice.
The column continued onward, its destination clear to everyone. Toulon, the main military harbor of the French Republic, home to a large part of the French Mediterranean fleet.
Trees and grass rushed past as the tires glided over the ground.
Somewhere far away
Paul watched the scenery speed by as well, though his view held no greenery or forests, only blue and white. His plane shuddered lightly as it flew straight into a formation of clouds.
"We will reach Paris Airport shortly," Ribbentrop said, seated opposite Paul.
"Good," Paul replied flatly, still not fully trusting the foreign minister before him. Ribbentrop had switched sides, not because Paul had demanded it, but because he seemed to believe the fabricated transfer of power. Or, more likely, he merely pretended to.
To save his meager life, Paul thought, tilting his head and watching the clouds once more.
Then something gleamed inside the white mass. A bright shimmer, growing larger and more intense.
Paul narrowed his eyes in confusion as a golden shape emerged.
A bird.
No, an eagle, Paul realized. The eagle shot toward him, and he instinctively recoiled from the window. In the next instant, the golden gleam filled his vision again.
Am I about to die again? Paul thought, recognizing the sensation from earlier events in Spain and at Rundstedt's estate.
"Sir?" Ribbentrop asked, noticing Paul's sudden tension.
Paul did not answer. His mind was far away.
He saw destruction. Fire. Explosions. Chaos, pure chaos.
At the center of it all stood Gustaf. His silhouette staggered through the devastation, one hand clutching his side as he limped forward. Then he collapsed. Blood burst from his mouth and torso.
Behind him appeared French soldiers. An officer stepped forward, raising his pistol.
Then darkness.
Paul jolted, his eyes snapping open in horror. Ribbentrop's face loomed right in front of him.
"Sir? Sir!"
"Yes, Ribbentrop," Paul murmured distantly, turning his gaze toward the other side of the cabin.
"Manstein," he said, meeting the concerned eyes of the general.
"Yes?"
Paul looked down for a moment, still withdrawn, then his focus sharpened abruptly.
"Operation Revenant," he began. "You will send additional reinforcements. I have a feeling this will not go as planned."
"But the plan stands as it is," Manstein replied carefully. "The Ghost Squad is highly skilled. They will secure the base with minimal resistance, from within, once the surrender of France reaches the officers there."
"No," Paul pressed. "Send them. Airborne units. They will secure the harbor. Contact General Student. I want heavy weaponry on site as well. He should use the new prototypes..."
Manstein widened his eyes.
"That is a considerable risk on such short notice. But if you insist, I will arrange it once we land," he said, skepticism clear in his voice.
Paul's thoughts returned to the vision. The chaos. The explosions. It had felt as if he stood between the buildings and the ships themselves.
"Ships," Paul said aloud, realization dawning. "They were the ones firing."
"Pardon?" Ribbentrop and Manstein asked simultaneously.
A fox remains a fox, even when the game is rigged. Churchill, I underestimated you, Paul thought.
"The British have sent their fleet to destroy the French one, together with our Ghost squad," Paul said decisively, receiving confused glances from Manstein and Ribbentrop.
Paul sighed while looking at their dumbfounded expressions.
"Although I do not wish to be as unreasonable as your previous Führer, this time I will be. Trust me. We need to start an emergency mission," he said coldly.
"If the British have really sent their fleet, then..." Manstein hesitated, still not fully persuaded. "Then we have to take over the entire harbor before they arrive. The French have massive naval defenses there. But we also have to man them. So indeed, Student has to send airborne units. That is the only possibility. But still..."
"It is not enough, right?" Paul asked calculatively.
Manstein nodded. "Most of the French ships will be lost probably, although it also depends on where the Royal Navy is right now and when they arrive. You do not know that, do you?"
Paul shook his head.
For the first time in a long time, I have to hope. I have to hope that they are still far and that my vision was premature, Paul thought, stroking his chin.
"If I may," Ribbentrop began. "I believe there is another option..."
Paul and Manstein looked at him, intrigued.
Paul's plane sped toward Paris, while the column of trucks carrying the Ghost Squad was already nearing Toulon...
And indeed there was a third variable. Paul had failed to consider it before and only now did he truly grasp its significance.
"Full speed ahead!" Admiral of the Fleet Cunningham ordered, gripping a metal rail as his battleship cut through the waves of the Mediterranean Sea.
Around him, dozens of ships followed, banners snapping in the wind, all bearing the unmistakable might of the Royal Navy.
Their distance to Toulon remained a mystery, a void in Paul's calculations that could cost him everything...
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