Read Chapter 9: The Plan

The farmhouse kitchen smelled of damp wool and woodsmoke. Claire had pushed the table against the wall and spread a stained map of the region across its surface, weighting the corners with a lantern and three chipped cups. Outside, rain pattered against the shutters. Jack leaned over the map, tracing the twisting ribbon of the Mézières road with his forefinger.

“We hit it tomorrow night,” he said. “That gives us roughly thirty hours to get everything we need.”

Henri stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out into the dark yard. He hadn’t moved much since they’d come in from the marsh. “And what do we need, exactly?”

“Explosives,” Jack said. “Enough to cut the bridge clean if we can’t disarm the charges. Cutting wire and tools to strip the detonators. A way to get to the bunker on the east bank without being seen.”

“You want to blow it yourself,” Henri said, turning. “After all this—after walking half of Normandy with your boots full of water—you want to destroy the very bridge you were sent to save.”

Jack straightened. “If we can’t stop the Germans from blowing it, we beat them to it. A cratered bridge is no good to anyone, but it’s better than letting them drop it at the exact moment our tanks are crossing.” He paused. “But that’s the fallback. The first plan is to cut the charges and get the detonator out of that bunker. Disarm the whole thing. Leave the bridge standing.”

Claire looked up from the map. “And to cut the wire, you need wire cutters. To get into the bunker, you need to deal with the sentries and whatever’s inside. To disarm the charges, you need to know what you’re looking at.” She tapped the map near the château. “And for any of that, you need equipment you don’t have.”

“Which is why I’m going to the château,” Henri said quietly.

Jack shook his head. “You said it yourself—Claire’s visit put the place on edge. The Baron’s under watch. Walking up the front drive and asking for a cup of sugar isn’t going to work.”

“I’m not walking up the front drive,” Henri said. “The Baron has a wine cellar that opens onto the river side of the grounds. There’s a hidden room behind the racks. He’s had it since before the occupation—he used to hide deserters from the last war there, or so my father said.” He crossed to the table and ran his finger along a small tributary that fed the main river, past the château’s grounds. “If I come in by water, through the old drainage channel, I can reach the cellar without setting foot in the main house.”

“And the Baron just happens to keep a cache of explosives in his secret wine cellar?” Jack asked.

“He’s a collector,” Henri said with a thin smile. “Of art, of wine, and of certain items that might prove useful when the Germans finally lose their grip. He’s been hiding weapons since 1941. Compassion and self-preservation have made strange bedfellows.”

Claire nodded slowly. “It’s true. Marcel—my contact at the château—has spoken of crates in the cellar. Marked as champagne, but heavier than any crate of bottles I’ve ever lifted.”

Jack was quiet for a moment. He looked from Claire to Henri and back. “And what happens if the Baron says no? What happens if he’s not the man you think he is, and he turns you over to the Gestapo the moment you’re inside?”

Henri’s jaw tightened. “Then I don’t come back out. And you go to the bridge alone, with whatever you can scavenge from the farm.”

“That’s not a plan. That’s a wish and a prayer,” Jack said.

“It’s the only plan we have,” Henri said. “Unless you have a better way to get half a dozen blocks of TNT and a box of detonators before tomorrow night.”

Jack turned back to the map. His finger traced the road from the farmhouse to the château, then back up toward the bridge at Mézières. “We go together. I’m not sending you in alone. If the Baron’s loyal, we’re in and out in an hour. If he’s not, we both have a fighting chance to get out.”

Henri shook his head. “Two men are twice as visible. The château’s being watched by the Germans—they know the Resistance is operational in this area. They’ll have eyes on the approach roads.”

“Then I’m not going up the approach roads,” Jack said. “You said it yourself—the river. I’ll cover you from the treeline while you go in. If you’re not back in thirty minutes, I’m coming through the cellar door after you.”

Claire raised a hand before Henri could argue. “He’s not wrong to want backup,” she said. “And you’re not wrong to want to go alone. But the bridge is the priority. If Henri is caught, the Germans will know something is coming. They’ll blow the bridge early. Everything else falls apart.”

Jack looked at her. “So what do you suggest?”

Claire folded her arms. “You need three things. The explosives from the château. Wire cutters and tools that can be found anywhere. And a way to reach the bunker without crossing open ground.” She leaned over the map, her finger tracing the line of the river to the east bank. “The bunker sits on the bank, but there’s a culvert that runs beneath the road approach. It empties into the river about fifty meters downstream. It’s narrow—a man would have to crawl—but it leads directly behind the bunker’s blind spot.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “You know this how?”

“I grew up here,” Claire said. “I swam in that river as a girl. I watched the Germans build that bunker from the upstairs window of my cousin’s house, and I know exactly how far the foundations go.” She looked up at him. “The culvert’s entrance is hidden by reeds now. The Germans don’t know about it—they built the bunker too fast to learn the land.”

Henri stared at her. “You never told me this.”

“You never asked,” she said. “And you never needed to know until now.”

Jack let out a low breath. “So the plan is this. Tonight, Henri and I go to the château. We secure the explosives from the Baron’s cellar. Tomorrow, at dusk, we move into position at the bridge. Claire, you stay here and keep the farmhouse quiet. Henri, you take the culvert and get to the bunker—cut the firing line and deal with whoever’s inside. I cross the bridge from the west bank, take out the sentries, and start cutting the charges from the girders. We meet in the middle, strip the detonators, and get out before the dawn patrol comes through.”

“And if the Baron refuses?” Claire asked.

“Then we take what we need and leave him to sort out his own conscience,” Jack said. “But Henri’s right. He’s been holding the line for four years. That kind of man doesn’t switch sides with the Allies on the doorstep. We have to trust him.”

Henri looked at Jack for a long moment. “You trust him?”

“I trust your judgment,” Jack said. “I’ve seen you fight. I’ve seen you lie to a German patrol with a face like stone. You’re not a man who misreads people easily.”

Henri nodded slowly. “Then tonight, we go.”

Claire began rolling up the map. “I’ll get you the tools you need. Wire cutters, a wrench set, fuse tape. There’s not much, but it’ll be enough.”

Jack moved toward the door and looked out through the rain-streaked glass. The moon was barely visible behind the clouds, a pale smear of light. Somewhere out there, German engineers were finishing their work on the bridge at Mézières. And farther east, the invasion fleet was already moving through the Channel.

He turned back to Henri. “One more thing. If the Baron’s compromised, if there are Germans in that cellar waiting for us—what do we do about Émile?”

Henri’s face went tight. “We don’t. We can’t. The bridge is the mission.”

“He’s your brother,” Jack said quietly.

“He is,” Henri said. “And he would tell me the same thing if he were standing here.” He paused, and his voice dropped. “I’ll get him out if I can. But if I have to choose between my brother and the bridge, I choose the bridge. That’s what he’d want.”

A knock came from the front of the farmhouse—three quick raps, then two more. Claire’s hand went to the pistol on her belt. Henri motioned for Jack to move to the corner of the room.

“That’s the signal,” Claire said. She crossed to the door and spoke through the wood. “Who comes?”

“A friend of my father’s,” a voice answered—a woman’s voice, low and urgent. “From the château. Marcel sent me. They know about the marsh. And they’ve moved Émile.”

Claire opened the door.

A young woman stood in the rain, wrapped in a dark shawl, her face pale. She looked past Claire and saw Jack and Henri, and her eyes went wide with fear.

“They’re taking him to the bridge tomorrow,” she said, breathless. “The Germans are going to use him as a laborer while they finish wiring the charges.”

Jack felt the floor shift under him. He looked at Henri, whose face had gone white.

“They’re going to have him on the bridge,” Jack said slowly, “when we go in.”

Henri said nothing.

The woman stepped inside, dripping water on the flagstones. “There’s more,” she said. “The Baron is hosting a dinner party tomorrow night. The German commander of the sector will be there. He’s bringing a demolition crew with him—reinforcements to guard the bridge overnight.”

The plan Jack had built was crumbling before his eyes.