Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion

by DeCosmo, Anthony

  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 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 wom
an—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.

  The terrace looked over a shaded park. In that shade lurked several pickup trucks, a pair of cargo containers, and piles of supplies. Trevor saw crates of bullets and artillery shells, fuel drums, stacks of tires, and boxes of canned rations. He knew that some of those items—particularly the tires and fuel—had traveled across the Atlantic from Omar’s Hivvan matter-makers.

  The convoy kept driving through the crowded streets. A pungent aroma mixing smoldering fire with filth and petrol vapors lingered over the entire village. It smelled to Trevor like too many people crowded into a small spot with too little sanitation and too few supplies, but a palpable feeling of excitement carried in the air, as if the carnival arrived in town.

  They left the village along a road rising up a gentle slope to the north where forest and grassland claimed the scenery again.

  Armand spoke to Alexander in what Trevor thought to be French, but the meanings of the words came through so clear to his library-mind that such a trivial thing as language did not matter. “Looks like the damn Italians are here.”

  Armand—sitting behind the driver’s wheel in the front left of the car—glanced to a path on the west side of the road. There Trevor saw a line of horse riders, the leader wearing a wool sport snap hat with a bandolier across a peasant’s shirt. He eyed the convoy as they zoomed past as if both envying and disapproving of motored transport.

  A chopping sound diverted Trevor and JB’s attention to the right. They swung their heads around and watched a green Eurocopter 135 transport displaying the stylized iron cross of the Bundeswehr fly in.

  Alexander gave the helicopter a look and then returned his attention to the papers on his clipboard noting, “And the Germans, too.”

  Trevor eyed the helicopter’s flight to the north as it flew parallel to the road they traveled. That road climbed a steep basalt outcropping as it snaked through light woodlands toward an impressive sight that overlooked the town and everything else for miles: the Château de Murol.

  The castle’s large curtain walls had suffered greatly with age, but still stood although a layer of creeping ivory climbed the gray and brown stone.

  It lacked the glitz and shine of a Hollywood scripted castle but Trevor found the gritty realism even more awe-inspiring. The Château de Murol stood defiantly for all the world—and all the invaders—to see. Weathered, bruised, but still ready to fight. Like the people of his Empire; like the people of Murol.

  The road swept around, pushed through a patch of woods where Trevor spied a Harrier jump jet hidden under green netting, and emerged at a medieval gatehouse and a steep stone stairway. A machine gun behind sandbags covered the approach. Trevor also noticed a man with a sniper rifle at one of the higher windows on the curtain wall as well as a cluster of rectangular box-like structures atop the primary castle tower that he suspected to be anti-air missiles.

  “Very impressive,” Trevor complimented.

  Armand spoke in French, “What did you think? Did you think we were sitting around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for you Americans to ride in and save the day?”

  “I am not an American, and you are no longer French,” Trevor corrected in the land’s native tongue. “Countries do not mean anything anymore.”

  Armand snorted in either disgust or amusement.

  The cars stopped and the passengers disembarked under the staring eyes of several sentries whose expressions suggested thoughts along the lines of “this is it?”

  Alexander said, “Trevor, why don’t you come with me. The rest of your people can relax in the dining tent. I have to believe they’re hungry.”

  At that moment Trevor’s stomach groaned and he realized he had eaten only canned rations over the last 36 hours or so. Still, he knew eating would have to wait, at least for him.

  “That sounds good.”

  “No! I want to go see, Father.”

  Trevor placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy looked at his dad through those determined blue eyes of his.

  “If it’s okay with you, Alexander, I’d like to have my son come with us. I think he deserves as much.”

  Alexander glanced at Armand who shrugged either to say he did not understand what Trevor meant or he did not care. Whatever the case, Alexander nodded to the boy and the group ascended the stairs leaving Hauser and the two sailors in the care of the garrison.

  The first stretch of stairs led into the gatehouse. Inside loitered a group of soldiers of various ethnic shades in a collection of helmets, berets, boots, sneakers, BDUs and jeans. Folding tables hosted radios and CCT monitors; a weapons rack offered a collection of rifles and shotguns.

  Another set of open-air stone stairs climbed along the curtain wall. Small puddles on the steps spoke of rain earlier.

  At the top of the stairs came the entrance to the courtyard above which loomed an ornamental lintel depicting knights in armor as well as a pair of griffins prancing above a coat-of-arms. Jorgie caused the procession to halt as he studied the crude bas-relief with wide eyes of wonderment. His father tugged his arm encouraging him onward.

  A few militia men lurked in the courtyard among crates of supplies. A mess of replica shields, swords, and helmets were piled into one corner, certainly remains from the days when the Château drew tourists instead of warriors.

  They crossed the courtyard and entered a wood-trimmed doorway a little small for the average modern man but perhaps just the right size for the knights of the dark ages. The interior offered cool, musty air as might be found in a cellar. A handful of windows allowed enough sunlight to prove they remained above surface.

  Alexander led them underneath a stone arch and into a long rectangular room with a sloped ceiling three stories overhead. Light entered through high windows located on either side.

  Two of the best-dressed soldiers in the place stood to either side of that entrance arch. Trevor immediately recognized the insignia of the British Royal Marines: a lion atop a crown, a globe, and banner with the words Per Mare Per Terram.

  The soldiers closed ranks and blocked entrance.

  Alexander explained, “No weapons.”

  Armand, knowing the rule, un-slung his FAMAS, a side arm, a big knife, and a pair of anti-personnel grenades. Trevor came unarmed; Alexander handed over a revolver. The soldiers let them pass.

  A long oval table hosted eleven persons in garb ranging from formal dress to military tunics to th
e clothes of farmers. Yet the way they sat formal and rigid—their icy stares at the newcomer—the confidence in their eyes—Trevor knew they may wear different dress, but all were cut from the same cloth.

  Alexander turned to Trevor and told him, “Welcome to Camelot.”

  No trumpets. No applause. No cheers.

  Stares. Judging eyes. One tapped his thumb on a table top. Another absently stroked her hair.

  They waited for Trevor to speak. He turned first to Alexander who remained by his side. Armand moved to one wall and casually leaned with a smirk that suggested he enjoyed the moment of awkwardness.

  “English,” Alexander told him. “English is the language we use in groups.”

  “Do you know why?” Armand asked but he answered his own question: “Because for years in most of our countries we got to know English as a second language so that we could sell you cars and wine and take money from your annoying tourists every summer.”

  It was Jorgie who spoke to the group first, ignoring Armand’s venom.

  “Hello!” And he waved with his arm that did not clutch Bunny. “This is a really neat castle you have here. Is it really the Camelot castle from the days of King Arthur?”

  Trevor nearly did not recognize his son’s voice, not with all the enthusiasm and ordinary-kid awe in his tone. Such things did not come from JB’s lips. In an instant, Trevor understood that his boy—his nine year old son—had taken the lead in breaking the ice.

  And it worked.

  “Um, well, no,” answered an elderly man with a white beard wearing a sport jacket. “That was in England, and no one really knows exactly where. Besides, we have many of these places. Camelot is no longer one castle or building, but an idea.”

  “My name is Jorgie,” the boy spoke directly to this man with the white beard and balding head. “What is yours?”

  Alexander answered for the man, “You are addressing Sir Hadwin. He represents the survivors in England. The southern stretch of the British Isles, that is.”

  “I thought that would have been you,” Trevor said to Alexander.