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Chapter 103
Sevran, northeastern suburbs of Paris
10:04 p.m.
THE CHAOS OF BATTLE! Major Sauvage thought with growing pleasure and excitement. La pagaille! It’s coming, so close I can smell it. Kill them now, soldier. Vanquish them. Drive them from our land.
As all this played in his head, Sauvage was pacing inside his command post in an abandoned building, drinking coffee, and monitoring the radio traffic from the six units under him. He was waiting for one of the hot spots to gather wind and throw sparks. So far, however, there’d been little to suggest a repeat of yesterday evening’s chaos: the bombing, Haja’s burning horse, and all the violence those two masterstrokes had spawned.
He thought of Haja, and knew without a doubt that she would sacrifice herself to their cause. She was that noble. She was that committed.
Sauvage admired her greatly. To the extent that he could, the major even loved her, and it made him sick that he might never see her again.
His burn phone rang. Had to be Mfune. Seeing the junior officers inside the command center caught up in their work, he slipped outside. He didn’t recognize the number, and almost didn’t answer.
Then he did, and said, “Yes?”
“Chloe there?” a woman said in a voice thick with alcohol.
“You’ve got the wrong number, madame,” he said.
“You’re sure? I punched the number she put in my contacts last night.”
“If Chloe did that, she’s either stupid or nuts,” Sauvage said, and ended the call.
The major hesitated, and then hit redial. The other phone rang twice.
“Chloe?” the woman said.
Sauvage cut the call, and went back to waiting for a mob to appear.
It wasn’t until shortly after midnight that the first gunshots were reported around La Forêt—the Forest—a housing project six kilometers nort
heast of his position on the northern border of the Bondy Forest.
The major called Captain Mfune on the radio. “Take the convoy jammers and triangulate the entire place. I’m coming behind you with two full units.”
“Rules of engagement?”
“If fired upon, defend yourselves.”
“Roger that,” Mfune said, and signed off.
Sauvage grabbed his flak jacket, helmet, and sidearm, saying, “Let’s move, Corporal Perry.”
The major got in the Sherpa, climbed into the backseat, and pushed up the roof hatch.
Taking goggles and a radio headset from a hook by the hatch, the major wriggled up through the opening and got in position behind the machine gun.
Moments after his driver and the sergeant who usually manned the turret gun climbed in, Sauvage’s headset crackled. “Where to, sir?” the corporal asked.
“La Forêt housing project. Patch me into all radio traffic in the area.”
“Roger that, sir,” the corporal said.
They pulled out and headed north.
Sauvage loved his station in life at that moment, riding high above the streets behind La Nana and a whole lot of accurate ammunition. Was there anything better?
