Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 647: Stargazer

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.”

General Beaulieu, red-faced and visibly uncomfortable, shifted in his seat. “The Belgians did not inform us. Their King authorized the joint exercise in secret, only announcing it publicly once the drop had begun. By then, it was too late.”

De Gaulle didn’t flinch. “Too late for what, General?”

Beaulieu swallowed. “Too late to respond without looking like the aggressors.”

A pause. De Gaulle turned his full gaze upon him.

“That’s exactly what we should be,” he snapped, slamming his palm on the table.

“France declared that the presence of German troops in Belgium would be considered a provocation. We drew a red line. And what did they do?”

He gestured toward the footage, which now looped silently: E-25s hitting the ground in tight formation, turrets swiveling to cover sectors, infantry deploying from sleek transports in synchronized motion.

“They laughed at it. They wiped their boots on it. And they filmed it.”

Not a single officer spoke.

Because he was right.

The Reichsmarschall, Bruno von Zehntner himself, had greenlit the operation. Everyone knew it. There was no plausible deniability. No rogue general. No “training accident.” No bait to spin to the public.

The exercise had taken place in daylight, under international press coverage, and with the full approval of the Belgian monarchy.

Footage was already being broadcast across Europe of young Oberstleutnant Erich von Zehntner leading his Fallschirm-Panzergrenadiere through the Ardennes, shaking hands with King Albert, standing at ease next to German marshals and Belgian officers.

And France had done nothing.

Not because it lacked the will, but because it lacked the strength.

De Gaulle’s fingers tightened behind his back. “Bruno taunts us. His army marches where it pleases. He tests our resolve. not our capability. And we have answered him with silence.”

General Vernier cleared his throat.

“We must remember, Marshal, Germany is not what it was in 1914. Nor even 1916… Our intelligence believes they have prepared at least 10,000 armored vehicles across multiple variants of the E-series, with dedicated logistical battalions capable of moving them across the continent in seventy-two hours.”

“And who gave them the time to build such a force?” De Gaulle barked. “We all did. While we clung to the broken bones of the old republic, they restructured. The signs were already there when they crossed into France in 1916, that this was the way they were headed. And since then they armed the skies while we were still fighting over the scraps the cowards who signed the treaty of Versailles left behind!”

He paced slowly across the room. “We told the world they would not enter Belgium. We drew a line. And now?”

He gestured sharply at the wall map where red pins marked confirmed German drop zones.

Each was within striking distance of France’s eastern frontier.

“They stare across the border and laugh. They bait us to move first. Because they know we won’t. They know we cannot win a war on their terms. Not today.”

“But if we don’t move first, Marshal,” said Beaulieu hesitantly, “what message do we send?”

De Gaulle turned toward the table, his presence towering over them.

“We tell them nothing,” he said coldly. “We speak not in words, but in consequence. They want to parade across our borders? Then we show them how costly another step forward will be.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Mobilize the Sixth and Eighth Armies. Rotate them into the eastern provinces under the pretense of readiness exercises. Place our interceptor wings on alert along the Metz-Luxembourg axis. I want our artillery dug in, camouflaged, and fully supplied. No announcements. No speeches.”

He paused. “Let Berlin wonder where our red line truly lies.”

General Vernier shifted uncomfortably. “We risk escalation.”

De Gaulle nodded grimly. “That’s the point. If Bruno wants war, he must know it will not be a walk through the Ardennes again.”

“And what if he doesn’t want war?” asked Beaulieu.

“Then he’ll blink.”

The room fell into silence again as the storm continued to roll over Paris.

From the window, the Eiffel Tower could be seen half-shrouded in fog, a monument to a century slipping through their fingers.

De Gaulle spoke one last time, his voice quieter now.

“If this Reich believes it can remake Europe unopposed, it must be reminded: France does not kneel. Not to emperors. Not to marshals. Not to ghosts of old wars. We will wait… but we will not stand idle.”

—

A few weeks later, after just enough time had passed for France’s preparations ot be completed.

De Gaulle’s sat at his desk, poring over final mobilization orders, confident at last that France had made its silent reply to the German incursion.

A knock at the door.

“Entrez,” he said, not looking up.

A young staffer entered with a sealed black leather case. She hesitated, clutching it like a bomb.

“Marshal… this arrived by diplomatic courier from the Deuxième Bureau. Top clearance. Marked Immediate Eyes Only.”

He gestured impatiently, and she placed the case on his desk, saluted, and left.

De Gaulle opened the clasp.

Inside lay a series of glossy, high-altitude images, dozens of them, crisp and flawless. He reached for the first. His heart slowed.

It was a thermal image of one of the Eighth Army’s forward artillery batteries, dug in, under camouflage netting, positioned just east of Sedan.

The next: an image of the Sixth Army’s tank columns repositioning along the Meuse, timestamped yesterday afternoon. The precision was surgical. Down to individual vehicles.

Another: engineers laying wire across the Vosges.

Each photograph bore the same tiny watermark in the corner: “STERNENBLICK” Stargazer.

His fingers tensed on the edge of the last photo.

He recognized the name.

Germany’s much-publicized “orbital probes.”

A cover story. Everyone had believed it, some curiosity project to map the outer planets. Some academic stunt by the Kaiserreich’s aerospace corps.

They were the only nation capable of launching things into space. Everybody had thought it a novelty. A way to conceal their missile program that was already ahead of the world.

But these… these were not probes.

They were military satellites.

And they had been launched under France’s nose, perhaps even with her knowledge, while Paris debated budgets and borders.

De Gaulle leaned back in his chair, the photos still spread before him like cards in a rigged game of poker.

He had moved his armies like pieces on a chessboard.

But Bruno wasn’t playing chess.

He was playing from orbit.