Silence. Alexander remained fixed on Trevor’s eyes, until JB tugged at his sleeve.
“My father is telling the truth, Mr. Alexander.”
Alexander closed his eyes, considered, and then opened them again. He first nodded to Trevor, then walked toward Armand.
“Prepare the cavalry.”
Trevor thought of Stonewall McAllister and his gallant horsemen galloping through a cloud of smoke to rescue him, Nina, and Danny Washburn when the Duass had trapped them in a bank building a few miles from the estate during that first year.
Trevor mumbled, “We have cavalry where I come from, too.”
Alexander glanced at Trevor then to Armand. The two Europeans shared a silent communication. Nearly a laugh.
Armand faced Trevor.
“Not like this you don’t.”
Armand’s war horses roared to life filling the garage with a chorus of mechanical screams and the smell of sizzling oil and smoky exhaust. Among the drab gray walls and naked fluorescent lights of the gritty pen, skins of red, black, yellow, and blue glistened.
The steeds wore badges: Kawasaki, BMW, Yamaha, and Triumph.
Riders wore racing gear complete with body armor branded Fox, Thor, Fly and more. They hurried in the call to arms with stops first at the armory at the rear of the chamber and then to their bikes. They grabbed machine pistols of varying types including Micro Uzis, Tuma MTEs, and Czech-built Scorpions. Everyone grabbed handfuls of grenades, a few satchel charges, and some larger packets that appeared to be homemade explosives. A few toted short-range mortar tubes with ammo crates strapped to the rear or sides of their bikes.
Most road singles; a few doubles. Most men, several women; some of the riders young and eager slapping high-fives and punching one another’s arms; others older and cautious checking safety straps and body armor.
Fifty bikes readied for war in the garage. A dozen of them-mainly touring style motorcycles-displayed modified windshields made from some kind of heavy plastic that seemed more to Trevor like a shield. Those riders wore the thickest body armor and carried large metal cylinder-like devices that enveloped one entire hand in a type of grip.
Trevor walked into the noise of the garage following Alexander and Armand with JB who plugged his ears with his fingers.
Armand-a FAMAS rifle slung over his racing gear-spoke as he fiddled with a red helmet. Trevor noticed the helmet came equipped with a transmitter and receiver and realized he was not dealing with a bunch of Hell’s Angels wannabes but a sophisticated force. Cavalry like Stonewall’s, except on steel horses.
Armand said to Alexander, “Hammer and Anvil, yes?”
“Exactly. Anvil will be ten minutes behind you, just as we have trained.”
Armand added, “The other regiments will meet us along the way in Saint-Nectaire and Montaigut-le-Blanc. We will number two hundred by the time we get on the A75.”
One of the riders-a burly fellow with a scruffy beard-paused on his way from the armory to his bike in order to ruffle Jorgie’s hair, apparently amused in a fatherly way at the kid blocking his ears.
JB responded with a smile and dared to pull a hand from his ear long enough to give the soldier a thumbs up. The fellow returned the gesture just before fixing a black and white helmet on his head and straddling a Yamaha Raptor ATV that carried several bundles of supplies strapped to its frame.
Jorgie blocked his ears again but watched the man prepare his ATV for riding. Trevor spied a glaze of awe on his son’s face. He realized he and JB had spoken often of battles, but Jorgie had never been so close to the front lines. At least, that is, other than his mysterious work at The Order’s base last year. But an actual full-scale battle? Nothing like this.
Trevor returned his attention to the two men and shouted over the revving engines, “Sounds like you have a plan.”
Armand turned to him and explained, “We have always known how to take out the Duass roadblocks. The ducks are nothing. It is the other son of a bitches camped out in Clermont-Ferrand that are the problem.”
Alexander clarified, “That is where The Order is held up, in what used to be a major city. From it they can react to any breach of the Duass checkpoints in southern France.”
Armand pushed his helmet into Trevor’s chest just hard enough to grab his attention.
“I will get us past the ducks. Then you had better have a plan.”
“We are committed,” Alexander said loudly before Trevor could respond. “Plan or not, we have voted to fight.”
Armand smiled at them as he answered, “That is what I do best. I hate this sitting around shit. If nothing else than at least the America has given me something to do.”
One of the bike soldiers approached Armand. He was a man of a very black complexion and lanky.
“Armand, what do you want me to do?”
“Take your scouts to Clermont-Ferrand while we kill ducks. I need to know enemy strength there. Meet us at the Duass base after it is our base with whatever you can find.”
“Done.”
The man walked away. Alexander explained, “That was Gaston. One of our better scouts.”
“Gaston is what we call him,” Armand corrected. “No one knows his real name. He was Russian intelligence spying on the French navy when the invasion came. We no longer hold that against him. It is all the same anymore anyhow, right?”
“Armand, be careful,” Alexander cautioned as the entourage came to halt and Armand climbed into the saddle of a red Ducati 999 superbike.
“I can only promise that I will be lethal, not careful. It is a tradeoff, no?”
Trevor stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Good luck, soldier.”
Armand shook it while flashing a cocky smile beneath the tinted black visor of the helmet.
“Good luck or good aim, I will take either.”
He revved the bike, kicked away the stand, and the garage door opened to let in the sun of a bright day.
Armand’s motorcycle cavalry swerved around a bend on the wide pavement of Highway A75 and sped north in a mass of some 200 riders on a variety of crotch rockets, cruisers, dirt bikes, and ATVs.
Fields of tall grass, dirt, brush, and burned foliage flanked the cracked and neglected pavement. Ahead waited the Duass checkpoint. A solidified, blurry but mainly clear gel four-feet-high served the Duass as sandbags often served human infantry. The substance stretched in a long wall from a hundred yards to the west of the highway, across A75, and then another hundred yards to the east.
The strange, duck-billed aliens on three thick legs drew plasma rifles that resembled a cross between a musket and a mega-sized squirt gun. As they approached, Armand and his riders also spied jumbles of heavy weapons, some kind of scanner atop a twenty-foot metal tower, and square temporary buildings built from thin metals.
No doubt the Duass had picked that particular spot due to thick woodland that started just to the north of their wall and reached to the east and west as far as the eye could see. Most likely reinforcements, munitions, and additional threats lurked in those dark woods.
One thousand feet south of the checkpoint the Route de Saint-Sandoux crossed overtop the A75 on an overpass. Atop that overpass lurked several Duass snipers wearing something akin to an American football helmet with a dark visor, a cord from which extended to a long-barrel rifle; a targeting mechanism of advanced design. Most of the Duass soldiers also wore a type of body armor that resembled chain mail.
Armand dared to use his short range radio knowing that the Duass would not waste one of their radio-tracking rockets on smaller targets such as the bikes. They reserved those for bases and command centers.
“Heavies, take point and execute the first phase.”
The ‘heavy’ cavalry formed a tight line across the front of the swarming bikers. Their engines roared with renewed enthusiasm. The scenery to either side of the highway became a blur.