Read Chapter 31: The Phantom Strikes

The thunder rolled in from the west, deep and continuous, shaking the floor of the shallow ditch where Jack lay. For a moment he thought it was the naval bombardment starting early. Then he saw the flashes on the horizon — not lightning, but artillery. Many guns. Massed batteries firing in sequence.

"What the hell…" Émile whispered beside him, his face pale from the blood he'd lost in the tunnel. He'd refused to stay behind. Jack hadn't had the strength to argue.

Jack raised his field glasses, scanning the horizon through the pre-dawn murk. The flashes came from the southwest, along the main road network. And they were moving — ripple after ripple of muzzle blasts advancing like a wave.

Not naval fire. Ground artillery. A lot of it.

"Your sister," Jack said softly. "She wasn't just talking about the bridge."

Émile frowned. "Claire killed our father. She would say anything—"

"This isn't about her. This is about Kessler." Jack adjusted the focus. "He's not afraid of a few paratroopers. He's afraid of a goddamn armored division."

Behind them, in the ruins of a bombed-out farmhouse, the six escaped prisoners huddled in the cellar. They were hungry, scared, useless in a fight, but they'd carried Émile when he couldn't walk. Jack owed them more than he could repay.

Now he understood the intelligence reports he'd scattered across the countryside over the past five days. The dummy radio transmissions. The false unit markings he'd painted on abandoned vehicles. The rumors he'd planted in the ears of collaborators he knew were German informants. He'd done it to confuse the enemy, to make them think an entire Allied force was massing in the marshes, waiting to strike at the bridges behind Utah Beach.

He'd done it for cover.

Kessler had done something with it. Something he hadn't anticipated.

A staff car raced down the road below, lights off, moving fast in the direction of the château. Jack watched as it passed the bridge roadblock, past the sandbagged machine gun nests, past the anti-tank guns that lined the causeway. The bridge was still there. Still fortified.

But something was changing. Through his glasses, Jack could see the tanks — three Panzer IVs and a pair of assault guns, the armored backbone of the bridge defense — churning out of their camouflaged positions and forming a column on the main highway. Heading southwest.

Toward the phantom.

"The tanks are moving out," Émile said, watching the same column. "They're abandoning the bridge."

"They're not abandoning it. They're redeploying." Jack's heart hammered. "Kessler just told them where the real threat is. And he's wrong."

Émile looked at him. "Your trick worked."

"Half of it. The other half is that I've got nothing left." Jack checked his satchel. Charges gone. Detonators gone. All he had was his rifle, a knife, and the flare gun he'd recovered from the wrecked supply drop two days ago. The round inside it was marked with red paint. Signal the column.

That was the plan. Get within range, fire the flare, and hope the incoming scout elements of the 4th Infantry Division — the real ones, the ones coming off the beach — would see it and push forward.

But the beach was still eight miles away. And the bridge was still standing.

"We need to move," Jack said. "Now. While they're scrambling."

He crawled to the edge of the ditch and studied the bridge. The roadblock at the eastern approach was down to four men — two at the machine gun, two on the barriers. The southern tower had a single sentry walking the catwalk. The northern tower, two more. On the causeway itself, a pair of soldiers were walking along the span, inspecting the deck for damage after the tunnel fight.

"Do you still have the key?" Émile asked.

Jack touched his breast pocket. "Junction box is under the north tower. But it's welded shut now, remember?"

"Not the main box." Émile grimaced, shifting his wounded shoulder. "Henri told me about a secondary access plate in the road surface. Right where the deck meets the northern pylon. It's small — big enough for a hand. The fail-safe line passes through it."

"He never mentioned it."

"He was saving it for a break-the-glass moment. For when the main system was compromised. He didn't expect the fail-safe to be wired separately."

Jack stared at the bridge. "So I can reach the detonator line through a maintenance hatch. If I can get across the causeway without getting shot."

"You're not getting across," a voice said from behind them.

Jack spun. Henri leaned against the broken wall of the farmhouse, one arm in a improvised sling, sweat sheening his face. Behind him, three men in civilian clothes with rifles and hunting shotguns.

"Henri—" Jack started.

"Don't." Henri raised his good hand. "I know what you're going to say. I'm wounded. I'll slow you down. I should be careful." A grim smile crossed his face. "I've been shot before, Sergeant. It's not my first time. These men are from the village. They've been hiding in the grain silo for two days, since the Germans started burning farms. They're tired of hiding."

The men nodded. Hard faces. Farmers, probably. Poachers. Men who knew the marsh better than any soldier.

"The tanks are pulling off the road now," one of them said, pointing at the column disappearing over a ridge. "Gone to fight your ghosts."

Jack looked at the bridge again. The sentries were still there. Four at the barricade. Three in the towers. Two walking the deck. Nine men. Against a wounded sergeant, a wounded partisan, and three farmers.

"Flare first," Henri said, reading his mind. "Light goes up. The men at the barricade will have to decide — hold their position or run for cover. They'll hold. But they'll be watching the sky, not the ground."

"Then what?"

"Then we clear the barricade. You take the hatch. We handle the sentries."

Jack shook his head. "The Germans at the château will see—"

"They'll see the flare and assume the attack is coming from the approach road. They'll move to defend the western side. By the time they realize the real threat is inside the bridge, your column will be within sight."

Émile pushed off the ground, swaying on his feet. "I can still shoot."

Jack looked at the three men, then at Henri. "If this goes wrong—"

"It always goes wrong," Henri said. "It's afterward that matters."

Jack pulled the flare gun from his satchel. Checked the round. Snapped the barrel closed.

The sky to the east was starting to lighten. Dawn, coming fast.

He'd made it this far against every odd the Germans had thrown at him. The bridge was still standing. The charges were cut. The only way to blow it now was from the château.

But Jack had no way to reach the château.

He had the key he didn't need. A plan that barely worked. And a miracle he didn't believe in.

The flare gun was heavy in his hand.

"This is it," Jack said. "One shot."