"Will you agre—" Manstein began, but was interrupted as a man entered the conference room. The German and French delegates, seated opposite one another, all looked up toward the intruder.
"Sir," the soldier began, addressing Manstein and saluting briefly.
"What is it?" Manstein asked sharply.
"This just arrived," the soldier said, holding out a message.
"And this is?" Manstein asked, annoyed.
"This… you will want to read it, sir," the soldier replied clearly, his eyes piercing.
Manstein immediately furrowed his brows, casting a mixed glance at Ribbentrop before taking the paper.
His eyes flew across the lines until he slowly looked up again. He tilted his head toward the door, signaling for Ribbentrop to leave the room.
Both men excused themselves and departed under questioning looks from the French delegation.
The door closed. Manstein turned toward Ribbentrop, who adjusted his collar.
"He was right," Manstein whispered, barely audible.
Ribbentrop snatched the paper from his hand.
His eyes widened with every syllable.
"Fuck. He was."
Manstein turned back to the soldier.
"I will have to speak with Reichsmarschall Raeder," Manstein said.
The soldier nodded. Manstein left, leaving Ribbentrop behind.
Gustaf watched quietly from his truck, the second in a column of a dozen vehicles. Ahead of him were Meindl and Niemann, the latter leaning out of the window, speaking with a group of French soldiers. They stood beside a large barricade that blocked the column's advance.
It was only natural.
Before them lay the largest naval harbor of France.
Toulon.
"No, no, no. In Marseille they told us to bring…" Niemann paused, glancing around. "The gold here," he whispered, earning a skeptical look from the officer in charge of the gate.
"The gold, you say?" the officer asked. The transport was clearly far above his pay grade.
"Check if they are lying," he ordered. His men jogged toward the rear of the truck.
"Hopefully they do not check the other ones as well," Meindl muttered. Niemann nodded silently.
When the soldier gave the signal, the officer looked visibly surprised.
"Well… this. I will have to inform the base commander," he muttered, walking toward a small hut and picking up the telephone.
After countless calls, arguments, and confusion, the front gate of the Toulon naval base finally opened with a loud creak, letting through the so called lifeline of France.
Vice Admiral d'Escadre Emmanuel Ollive peered through his binoculars, observing the distant transport convoy while holding a telephone receiver in his other hand.
"HAVE YOU UNDERSTOOD?!" a voice shouted through the line. The Vice Admiral pulled the receiver away from his ear.
"I do not care if they cannot read maps or if no one in Marseille wants to transport it. It is with you now. Bring it into safety!"
"Yes, yes, Monsieur President," Ollive muttered, massaging his forehead.
"Once it is secured, our fight is finally over," the President added, almost as an afterthought. It did not escape Ollive's ears.
"Sorry? Does that mean France has officially capitulated?" the Admiral asked, completely baffled.
"Of course. The Germans have already flooded the country. They are probably on their way to you already," Lebrun replied dismissively.
The Vice Admiral shook his head frantically, his massaging growing more intense.
"Then what of our Mediterranean fleet? I cannot contact Admiral Darlan," he pressed.
"Yes, take it with you. Yes, that one!" Lebrun's voice echoed through the receiver.
Ollive stared at the phone in confusion.
"Sorry, I was speaking to… whatever. Hell, I do not even know. If you take the fleet to Algiers, perhaps the British will seize it, perhaps they will not. Such an act could provoke Germany once again and break the armistice we still have."
A heavy silence followed.
"Perhaps it is for the best. The British abandoned us after Dunkirk. Those sons of bitches. Churchill is not even returning my calls anymore."
The Admiral did not respond. He bit his lip, then suddenly slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
The sharp sound drew the attention of the other officers in the room.
"So what then? It falls into German hands or British hands. Which one is better, you bastard?" the Vice Admiral shouted at the now dead telephone.
The officers around him stood rigid, their faces filled with uncertainty and fear.
"Of course the first one."
The voice came suddenly as the door to the command center was kicked open.
The man who spoke was Niemann, now pressing a pistol against the forehead of the French officer who had let them onto the base. Behind him stood several other "French" soldiers, rifles raised. At the far back of the room, Gustaf watched everything, his demeanor cold and unreadable.
"What in the hell is this?" the Vice Admiral shouted, pointing at them.
"Niemann, translate my words," Meindl said, stepping forward from the center of the room, his pistol raised toward the Admiral.
"Germans?" one of the French officers said aloud, hands already in the air, recognizing the language.
"This base is now under the control of the German Reich. Every one of you will raise your hands, or you will be shot," Meindl ordered, closing the distance between himself and the Admiral.
Slowly, the Admiral raised his hands.
"We wish to buy your ships. We even brought payment," Meindl added with a laugh that filled the otherwise silent room.
"Men!" Meindl shouted.
His elite soldiers straightened instantly, all except Gustaf, who remained in the back.
"Arrest all officers and restrain them. They will be imprisoned in the basement," he said, never taking his eyes off the Admiral.
The Ghosts moved quickly, leading officer after officer out of the command center.
Soon, only five men remained. Meindl, Gustaf, Niemann, and two Ghosts.
"You two, guard the door. No one enters this room until I say so," Meindl ordered.
The two men immediately stepped outside, closing the door behind them. Niemann locked it.
"And now?" the Admiral finally spoke, his voice dry and almost self pitying.
"Now we wait," Meindl replied calmly, taking a seat.
"For what?" the Admiral shouted, turning toward Niemann.
"Until the rest of our forces arrive. Then we open the gates and take all your ships. Until then, not a single command of you will leave this room," Meindl said.
The Admiral's eyes widened as he slowly realized the situation France, no, he himself was in.
Then someone cleared his throat.
"I will establish contact and inform them of our success," Gustaf said, finally stepping out of the shadows, a suitcase in his hand.
He placed it on the table and opened it. Inside lay a machine. An Enigma, but not a regular one. This model had been given to him personally by Paul.
"An Enigma?" Meindl asked, frowning. "Is that the new model? The one the Führer mentioned?"
"Indeed," Gustaf replied flatly, ignoring the irritated glances from both Meindl and Niemann.
Moments later, Gustaf began typing, transmitting the message of their success.
Wehrmacht High Command, Berlin. Simultaneously.
The entire building was in a state of absolute turmoil. Grand Admiral Raeder and the other high ranking generals had received the same urgent dispatch that had reached Manstein, arriving almost at the exact same moment.
Inside the briefing room, a young officer murmured the contents of the message for what felt like the hundredth time, his voice trembling slightly under the gaze of the military elite.
INTELLIGENCE REPORT 217 Source: Gibraltar contact Date: June 1st, 9am.
I have sighted massive naval movements throughout the day. Reliable contacts within the harbor confirm that a major strike force has been formed under the command of Admiral Cunningham. At approximately 9:00 hours, I witnessed a significant number of vessels departing the British naval base and heading into open water.
The officer cleared his throat, the paper trembling slightly in his hands as he reached the final part of the intercepted message.
"I have counted and recognized a considerable number of ships: HMS Hood, HMS Valiant, HMS Resolution, HMS Ark Royal, HMS Enterprise, HMS Arethusa, and eleven destroyers of various classes."
"Sir! Sir! Message from the Ghost Squad!"
A soldier burst into the room, shouting. Raeder quickly snatched the paper from his hand, his eyes flying over the lines.
His expression hardened.
"Respond: The British are approaching from the west at full steam. Force H has cleared Gibraltar with the Hood and the Ark Royal leading the formation. Your window of opportunity is closing.
However, support is already airborne. General Student has launched a massive aerial armada. Hundreds of transport planes and heavy prototypes are inbound to your coordinates. Within these planes are not only paratroopers but also specialized crews from the Kriegsmarine. They are equipped to man the heavy batteries and warships alongside the French immediately.
Use this display of power. You must secure the heavy coastal batteries and the French battleships immediately. If the British arrive before the guns are manned, they will not hesitate to sink the fleet in the harbor. You are authorized to use any means necessary to ensure French cooperation. Failure is not an option. Hold the line!"
The Command Room, Toulon
"...Failure is not an option. Hold the line."
Gustaf's voice was hollow as he read the final words. He dropped the paper, his gaze locking with the grim stares of Meindl and Niemann. For a moment, the only sound was the distant lapping of the sea against the stone piers.
The three men turned to the windows. The afternoon sun cut through the glass, casting long shadows over the strategic maps. Their eyes fixed on the horizon where the blue water met the pale sky. Somewhere out there, thousands of tons of British steel were cutting through the waves. A wall of heavy guns and cold intent, closing the distance with every heartbeat...
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