The Maids of Chateau Vernet

by Steven Landry

  “Thirty-one if you include me.”

  “I don’t know if we can include you in this state. What happened to you this time?”

  “It’s nothing. I’ve secured the weapon we need. Took a chance.”

  “Are you suffering from radiation poisoning?”

  Hiram smiled. “Nothing like that. I just need a few minutes to recover.”

  She looked into his eyes as if she searched for a deeper truth. “Still, there are so many of them and so few of us.”

  “Sarah, we have an unending supply of weapons more advanced and powerful than our enemies could imagine. And yes, it is some bomb.”

  “What about the civilian casualties?”

  “Hundreds of thousands. But that’s nowhere near the casualties suffered during the Allied invasion. And if you consider the millions that will die in camps before the horror of the Holocaust ends, wouldn’t that number be justified?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “And we’ve got another problem.”

  “What’s that?” She stared up at the sky.

  “In my past, the Russians, the Americans, and the British met in the middle of Germany in 1945 and pretty much divided up Europe from there. Right now, the Russians are battling the Germans near Stalingrad, and the British are fighting them in North Africa. The Americans are preparing an Anglo-American invasion of Morocco and Algeria called Operation Torch in November, so they aren’t close to invading Europe yet.”

  “Hiram, what are you trying to say?”

  “Well, if we strike too quickly, the Red Army will overrun the Nazis, push all the way to the Atlantic Wall, and enslave the whole continent for generations to come.”

  “Oh, I see,” Sarah said. “What can we do?”

  “You can convince General Eisenhower to abandon Operation Torch and commence Operation Overlord as soon as we set off the first atomic bomb.”

  “You are joking. And, why would this General Eisenhower listen to me?”

  “No, I’m not. You’re the best woman for the job.” Hiram pointed to the C2ID2. “You understand the technology, or at least you will.”

  “Say I agree to talk to this man and tell him all about this advanced technology,” she said. “Why General Eisenhower?”

  “He’s the American general that Churchill and Roosevelt put in charge of Operation Torch and in two years – assuming I don’t demolish the timeline – he would be in charge of Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion of France. He’s the only American general in Europe that knows about the Manhattan Project, though it might not be called that yet.” Touching the display, he continued. “You’ve got the manual for the Mark XII and the pod. You can read the basic nuclear science section to advance what you already know of physics. By the time you get to Eisenhower, you’ll know more than enough to convince him the bomb really exists and that we have one.”

  Sarah paged through the open Mark XII manual and stopped at one of the schematics. “This is the contraption that’s going to end this war.” She stared at the screen. “And how do you propose I get to England to arrange an audience with this general?”

  “Have you heard of the Spanish Maquis?”

  She shook her head and looked up from the display.

  “I’ve got a plan. It’s going to be dangerous. But, as someone said, nothing worth doing is easy.”

  13

  1730 hours, Wednesday, July 29, 1942, Perpignan, Pyrénées-Orientales Department, Vichy France

  Louis Petain sat at his desk idly tossing one of the strange finned bullets from one hand to the other. Such a small thing, and yet it could easily kill a man, or perhaps my career.

  This particular slug had been extracted from the body of a sailor killed when the good ship M.V. Calais was seized by a group of armed women. The small relic presented physical evidence connecting the thirty escaped maids from the internment camp to the disaster at Port Leucate, proof of his team’s failure. The women roamed free with their Jew-loving dog, leaving six mangled gun emplacements and eighteen dead sailors in their wake.

  No, not my team’s failure. Locard’s failure. Locard had enough time and every resource Petain had the authority to provide. He had spent hours in his laboratory fiddling with the damn bullets, looking at photos of mud, and drawing inaccurate conclusions. The man had nothing to show for it. Still, the criminalist was on Petain’s payroll. Authority can be delegated, but leaders can never be relieved of responsibility. He had heard his uncle say those words once. He set the slug down on his desk. But responsibility can be shared, and Locard has few friends in high places.

  “Sir, Monsieur Locard is here to see you,” his secretary announced from the doorway. Petain swept the bullet into a desk drawer.

  “Well send him in,” he said. Ten seconds later Locard stood in front of Petain’s desk.

  “You asked to see me, sir?”

  “Do have any useful information regarding the missing prisoners?” If the story told by the crew of the M.V. Calais held truth, a subset of his escaped prisoners had been put ashore in Catalonia, Spain along with a mysterious soldier. Petain wasn’t going to tell Locard. The fewer people that understood the connection between the two events, the better.

  “I interviewed several of the detainees that had been housed in the same barracks as the Halphen woman. They claimed she had no living relatives remaining in France, just as the records indicated.”

  After a pause, he added, “I would like to have questioned the women that were left behind myself.”

  Petain heard the criticism in Locard’s voice. He wanted to rebuke the man, then reconsidered when Locard changed the subject.

  “We may have another lead,” Locard said. “I learned one of the other women, Rosette Bertrand, has family living in Vichy.”

  “Why weren’t they detained with her?”

  “Her husband and two children were not identified as Jews. Her husband requested that she be detained. Appears she has just enough Jewish blood to be considered by the Nazis.”

  “Have you had her husband brought in for questioning?”

  “No Captain. If this man is involved, we might collect better results if we keep an eye on him for a while. The missing prisoners may show up. Perhaps he’ll take us to them.”

  “You may have a point. Do you have anything else to report?”

  “Nineteen days ago, a hunter from Vingrau disappeared in the woods northeast of town. His wife claims he is an experienced woodsman.”

  “And I’m just hearing of this now?” Petain slammed his fist on the desk.

  “The hunter – Boudreaux – was reported missing by his family this morning,” Locard said.

  “Does Boudreaux match the description of the mysterious soldier?”

  Locard considered the question. “No, sir, not at all. I’d like to send an armed patrol into that area. Perhaps our maids and their accomplice are hiding out in the vicinity.”

  “See to it. What about the missing guard from Camp Joffre? Any indication he was involved in the escape?”

  “No reason to believe he had any involvement at this time. On the day he disappeared, guards performing a routine perimeter sweep found a recently repaired hole in the fence. The work was precise and intricate. I’m surprised the guard noticed. They neglected to report it since all of the prisoners were accounted for. But the location of the repair lined up with the direction where Boudreaux went missing.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in coincidence. Get a patrol out tonight.”

  “In the dark?” Locard seemed surprised at the notion.

  “It’s cold in the mountains at night. Those women are frail and probably very hungry. They’ll have a fire to keep warm and cook whatever food they’ve found. Fires are easier to spot at night,” Petain said. “Now get out of my sight. You’ve got work to do.”

  Locard turned and left without another word. Petain’s irritation compounded. Seven policemen dead and one missing. Eighteen shore battery sailors dead. Two civilians de
ad. And now another missing civilian. Six heavy guns destroyed. One ship with a full crew hijacked right from under the Navy’s nose. The mystery soldier certainly was resourceful. Petain opened the drawer and pulled out the finned bullet. And if I can get my hands on him and his weapons, I just might be able to repair the damage this whole affair has done to my career.

  * * *

  0550 hours, Friday, July 31, 1942, West of Vingrau, Pyrénées-Orientales Department, Vichy France

  Locard’s patrol, which had been dispatched on Wednesday evening and searched for a day and a half, claimed to have discovered something of substance. Once again Louis Petain found himself in the damn woods accompanied by Lebeau, this time a half-hour before sunrise. At least it wasn’t muddy, the result of a hot and dry week.

  “Bonjour, Captain.” Locard spoke with a distasteful amount of cheer for such an early hour.

  “Bonjour,” Petain said. “You got me out here. Now, tell me what you found.”

  “It appears to be an abandoned campsite for a few dozen people,” Locard said. He motioned for Petain to follow him as he headed deeper into the woods. “I’m guessing either it is the missing prisoners or another group of Spanish refugees. None of the usual trash the Spaniards tend to leave behind though.”

  Petain looked around the site, paying particular attention to small tread impressions that weaved through a few of the trees. The tracks sank deep into the soil, left behind before the ground dried.

  “The tracks bare similar characteristics to those found near the ambush site two weeks ago. I’ll verify my observations when I get back to my office,” Locard said.

  “And where are our squatters now?” Petain said.

  “Tracks lead away from the site in every direction. No way to determine where the prisoners headed. I sent for hounds about an hour ago.”

  Petain and Locard turned to the sound of several braying dogs approaching the former campsite.

  “Ah, here they are now,” Locard said.

  “Send the hounds out in every direction. Call in more if these mutts fail.” Now we’re getting somewhere. The prisoners and their Jew-loving pig must not escape again.

  “By the way, I heard from my contact at Drancy,” Locard said as they watched the hounds sniffing around the campsite. “The Jews sent there from Camp Joffre will be relocated to a labor camp somewhere in Poland around the middle of next week. If we want to question them again, we’ll have to do it soon.”

  “Any reason to believe they’ll provide any additional useful information?”

  “No, sir. I think I got about as much information from them as we’re going to get.”

  “Very well, have them keep my office informed of their deportation schedule. Soon enough they’ll be out of our hair.”

  An unfamiliar whump silenced the braying of the hounds. The air grew still and behind them a man screamed. His scream ended as suddenly as it had started.

  “What the hell was that?” Petain said. He ducked, certain the mystery soldier planned to send a finned bullet through his chest.

  “Look!” Locard pointed up the gentle slope of the hillside. Petain stood and stepped around Locard for a better look. Erupting out of a thick stand of pine trees, a ball of fire expanded quickly in the dry forest. The fire engulfed the pine trees in seconds, and, propelled by a considerable breeze, descended towards their position. His men were in danger.

  “Run!” Petain yelled.

  Locard moved fast. Petain followed. They headed north across the line of the fire rather than directly away from it.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Petain gasped between breaths. His chest burned. The smoke grew thicker by the second.

  “A wide stream about three hundred meters north,” Locard yelled. “Our best chance is to get across it.”

  Petain didn’t argue. Five minutes later they splashed across the stream and collapsed on the far bank. Other men joined them, all breathing heavily as they made their way to the shore.

  “Booby trap,” Lieutenant Lebeau said when he joined them. “I sent one of the men to check out that stand of trees. Then the whole thing erupted in fire. I don’t think he made it out.”

  Petain coughed, trying to clear the building irritation in his lungs. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Lebeau,” Any indication that his missing maids spent time at this campsite had been erased, along with any evidence that might lead to the next one. “Anyone else missing?”

  “Not sure, sir. About half our men are here, and the other half headed back to the road. The fire seems to be burning itself out. A couple of the dogs outran the handler. He’s sure they’ll turn up.”

  “They aren’t much use now anyway,” Locard said. “All the scents will be gone.”

  14

  1400 hours, Friday, July 31, 1942, Catalonia, Francoist Spain

  “Hell of an ambush location,” Hiram said as he took up a position next to Sarah.

  “You can thank Maxime for the view,” Sarah said.

  Stretched out below them lay the Figures-Perpignan Highway, running north to the French border and south towards the Costa Brava. The highway was carved into the steep mountainside, with a sheer drop on the far side of the road and a hard climb up to his position, accessible via a well-hidden path one hundred meters east of the road. Hiram’s vantage point provided a clear view of an easy target. Two hundred meters to the north, a team of Spanish Maquis waited to destroy the goods in an approaching convoy, unaware that Hiram and Team Two were about to pre-empt the ambush with one of their own. Up until this morning, Hiram wasn’t even sure they would have the weaponry needed to accomplish the feat.

  After traversing his pod into Jacob’s, Hiram had suffered a nagging headache and found himself walking away from the group to excise the demon that seemed to have moved into his belly for two full days. He had avoided going back into his pod since then and only this morning decided he had the guts to climb down into his pod. He was terrified of going back into Jacob’s pod and almost as scared to go into the one he had been issued. Parts of him still didn’t feel quite right, but they now had the tools they needed to put on a hell of a show.

  Hiram’s C2ID2 displayed the long column of approaching trucks from a drone feed. The drone also captured images of each individual vehicle. The drivers appeared to be civilians. A single guard rode shotgun in each vehicle. Earlier, the drone had captured the Spanish rebels digging their rifle pits and planting an explosive charge in the roadbed. He deduced that the rebels planned to blow up the lead truck and riddle the rest of the convoy with rifle and light machine gun fire. Hiram had a better plan.

  Maxime adjusted a six-shot Milkor grenade launcher, sliding the barrel through an opening in the low brush. The grenade launcher, designed in the late 20th century, was the only weapon in the pod’s arsenal older than Hiram’s sniper rifle. Later designs proved to be no more effective and less reliable. Although a few bells and whistles had been added, the weapon remained nearly unchanged. Eight more launchers were trained on the roadway below. Team Two awaited Hiram’s order to open fire.

  The trucks hauled wool destined to be fashioned into German military uniforms, probably by slave laborers. The material would not mix well with the 40mm incendiary grenades about to descend on the convoy. Destroying such a load would cause quite a headache for the poor soul responsible for clothing Hitler’s minions.

  Hiram waited for the last truck to enter the kill zone. “Fire!”

  Around him, 40 mm grenades sailed out of the launchers in near silence. Every sixth truck in the forty-vehicle convoy exploded into flames. One of the women nearest him laughed. The sound was unnerving amidst the destruction.

  A driver emerged from of one of the undamaged vehicles and examined the flames coming from the truck in front of him. He looked up the hill toward Hiram and his team as a grenade made contact with his vehicle. The explosion picked up the back end of his truck and sent his body a few more feet from the mayhem. The women worked their way through the rem
aining trucks, turning each one into a pyre. Within a few minutes, the fires slithered toward the woods on Hiram’s side of the road. Flames climbed upward toward them, determined to engulf everything in their path.

  “Time to move,” Hiram called. Trailed by the nine women of Team Two, Hiram sprinted north along the deer trail, heading away from the flames. The path took them into the flank of the Maquis ambush position. As they approached, Hiram slowed and signaled the women to spread out on either side of the trail, while he, Maria and Sarah continued at a walk. The rebels waited for them, weapons at the ready.

  “Hola,” Maria said to the first man they saw. She had volunteered to negotiate with the rebels.

  Maria said a few more words to the man. Another man stepped up to the front, his weapon slung over his shoulder. He spoke to Maria, gesturing to Hiram more than once.

  “This is Jose,” Maria said. “Says he’d be happy to discuss a trade if it means he’ll be able to put on a show like yours.”

  Hiram smiled, stepped forward. “Tell him what we’ve got.”

  Maria discussed the terms of the arrangement. Hiram only picked up a few words, mostly those he’d heard in another time.

  It was a simple trade. In exchange for eight Milkor grenade launchers and one hundred and sixty rounds of ammo, the Maquis would agree to transport Sarah and Maria to Gibraltar, along the same routes they ferried downed Allied pilots from Southern France. Once Hiram received word that Maria and Sarah arrived on the Rock, he would provide the Maquis with another three hundred and sixty grenades.

  “He’ll take us as far as Gibraltar for eight of the grenade launchers, but he wants one hundred rounds per weapon,” Maria said. “Eight hundred total.”

  Hiram feigned reluctance. “Tell him the grenades come in crates of ninety-six. I’ll agree to give him one crate per weapon when the two ladies reach Gibraltar.”