Rain swept across the slate rooftops of Paris, streaking the tall windows of the Palais des Invalides with thin rivers of water.
Inside, the French High Command sat in stifled silence, the storm outside barely louder than the tension thick in the chamber.
Marshal Charles de Gaulle stood at the head of the long table, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the grainy still images projected before them.
German armored units, airborne armored units, dropping into Belgium like hammers from the sky.
E-25s gliding down beneath reinforced parachutes like mechanical angels of death.
It was a mockery.
A deliberate one.
And they had been invited.
"Explain to me," De Gaulle began slowly, voice deep and cold, "how this occurred without a single French boot crossing the border."
