Arrest

The speedometer needle trembled as it climbed: sixty kilometers, seventy kilometers, eighty kilometers. This modified truck could carry up to one hundred and twenty kilometers, but with a five-ton load, ninety was the limit.

Behind them, the siren of a military police patrol car tore through the rainy night, its sharp, piercing sound penetrating the roar of trucks and the sound of rain.

"They saw the license plate," Jean-Louis said, his burned face contorted in the dim green light of the dashboard. He sat in the passenger seat, a map in his hand, his remaining eye rapidly scanning the route.

The original route was blocked. The D371 highway led straight to Versailles, but the gendarmes had already blocked the way. They needed to change course and find a place to hide, at least until dawn.

Pierre glanced at the fuel gauge: "It'll last another 150 kilometers."

"Not enough to reach the backup location." LeBron quickly calculated, "Where's the nearest hiding place?"

Jean-Louis's finger moved across the map: "There's a fork in the road three kilometers ahead, leading to an abandoned limestone mine. The mine has underground tunnels that trucks can drive in. But once you're in, it's a dead end; there's only one way out."

"Let's go in first," LeBron decided. "Buy some time. That kid Lorraine might still have a way."

"What can he do?" Pierre gritted his teeth and turned the steering wheel. The truck tilted at the bend, the steel beneath the canvas screeching as it writhed. "He should be sleeping in the staff quarters right now, knowing nothing."

“He knows,” LeBron said, a strange glint in his one eye. “He knows tonight is a delivery night. If the truck doesn’t arrive at its destination on time, he’ll realize something’s wrong.”

The truck sped through the rain, its headlights cutting through the darkness to illuminate the wet road ahead and the bare trees on either side.

In the rearview mirror, the police lights were getting closer and closer: 400 meters, 300 meters, 250 meters.

A fork in the road appeared.

Pierre jerked the steering wheel, the truck screeching as it sped onto a narrower, more dilapidated side road. The road was full of potholes, and the truck lurched violently, the steel beneath the canvas slamming against the walls of the truck bed with heavy thuds.

Behind them, three military police vehicles also turned onto a side road. The distance was reduced to 150 meters.

"How much further?" LeBron asked.

"One kilometer." Jean-Louis stared into the darkness ahead. "But the road conditions are terrible; we can't run fast."

Military police vehicles were clearly better suited for this kind of pursuit. Their higher chassis and wider tires allowed them to traverse the uneven terrain with ease. The distance continued to shrink: one hundred meters, eighty meters, fifty meters…

The first car started shouting. The sound from the loudspeaker was torn apart by the wind and rain, and only fragmented words could be heard: "Stop, check, immediately."

Pierre gritted his teeth and floored the accelerator. The engine roared to its limit, but the speed still wouldn't pick up; the road was too bad, and the load was too heavy.

Thirty meters.

LeBron pulled a steel pipe from under his seat—not a weapon, but a dismantling tool. He glanced at the rearview mirror with his one eye, then at Pierre.

"Remember the plan," he said, only three words.

Pierre nodded, his trouser leg, missing his right leg, trembling, not from fear, but from muscle spasms from pressing the accelerator with all his might.

Twenty meters.

The entrance to the mine appeared ahead, a dark opening like the gaping maw of a monster.

The fence had long since fallen into disrepair and collapsed, and the road surface had turned into gravel and mud.

Pierre didn't slow down at all, and the truck rushed into the tunnel entrance. Darkness instantly swallowed the headlights, leaving only the outline of the tunnel ahead barely visible.

It's wide enough for trucks to pass through, but the ground is uneven.

In the back compartment, Henry, DuPont, and two other elderly men clung tightly to the bracing. They knew what was going to happen; no one spoke, only their rapid breathing and the clanging of metal echoed in the dark tunnel.

The military police vehicle followed and rushed in. Three vehicles, nine men—a standard patrol squad.

The tunnel began to slope downwards. Pierre turned off the headlights; in complete darkness, the pursuit became difficult.

But the military police vehicle turned on its searchlights, and the strong beams swept across the tunnel walls, illuminating the outline of the truck ahead.

"There's no road ahead!" Jean-Louis suddenly shouted.

At the end of the tunnel is a stone wall, which was sealed off many years ago when mining ceased. It's less than a hundred meters away.

Pierre began to brake, and the truck slid across the gravel surface, screeching as it went. The speed decreased, but inertia still propelled it toward the stone wall.

Fifty meters, thirty meters, twenty meters...

Pierre yanked on the handbrake and simultaneously swerved the steering wheel sharply to the left.

The truck fishtailed in the narrow space, its body scraping against the tunnel wall, sparks flying. Finally, the truck came to a stop sideways in the tunnel, less than five meters from the stone wall.

The pursuing military police vehicle braked suddenly, and the three vehicles blocked the retreat route in a fan shape.

The car door opened, and the military police got out, holding pistols and rifles, their flashlight beams crisscrossing in the darkness.

"Get out of the vehicle! Put your hands on your heads!" the lead sergeant shouted, his voice echoing through the tunnel.

The driver's side door opened. Pierre slowly got out of the car, raised his hands, and his cane fell to the ground with a crisp sound.

Immediately afterwards, the passenger door opened, and Jean-Louis got out of the car, his burned face looking particularly horrifying in the beam of the flashlight.

The canvas in the back of the carriage was lifted, and Henry, DuPont, and two other elderly men disembarked one by one, their movements slow but orderly. They were all very old, the youngest being over fifty, and each had a noticeable disability or defect.

The military police were stunned. They had expected smugglers, spies, and saboteurs, not six elderly men with white hair and physical disabilities.

The sergeant stepped forward, shining his flashlight across everyone's faces, then onto the back of the truck, where the tarpaulin was completely pulled back, revealing what lay beneath.

That was a tank.

With its German grey paint job, sloping frontal armor, turret, and tracks, even in dim light, it's clear that this isn't a toy, but a real, moving piece of steel machinery.

The sergeant gasped. The military police behind him stirred, raising their guns.

"What is this?" The sergeant's voice was filled with shock and vigilance.

"Models," LeBron answered calmly. He was the last to get off the bus, his one eye shining like a bead in the darkness. "Models from amateur mechanics."

"A model?" The sergeant shone his flashlight carefully on every detail of the tank. "This is a precise replica of a German tank! Who are you? Why did you build this?"

"Veterans," Pierre said, his voice hoarse. "World War I veterans. We built this to commemorate them."

"A memorial?" The sergeant was clearly skeptical. "Does a memorial need to be this precise? Does it need to be transported secretly in the middle of the night? Does it need to not stop while being pursued?"

He walked over to the tank and tapped the front armor with his hand. A dull echo reverberated through the tunnel.

How thick is this steel plate?

"Eight millimeters," Henry replied. "Just the outer shell, no protection whatsoever."

"But it looks real." The sergeant stepped back, scanning the six old men. "Do you know that manufacturing military equipment models without authorization requires reporting? Do you know that painting them as enemy equipment could be considered espionage?"

The old people remained silent. The only sound in the tunnel was the dripping of water; rainwater seeped in from cracks in the tunnel ceiling, dripping onto the puddles and making a rhythmic pattering sound.

The sergeant gestured to his men. Two military policemen began searching the truck cab, while two others inspected the tank. The remaining four men stood guard with their guns pointed at the elderly men.

The search quickly yielded results. A map was found in the driver's cab, marked with routes and times in red, including the location at 9:07 AM the next morning.

There was also a note that read: "The General's convoy will pass by between 09:00 and 09:15."

The sergeant's expression changed. He looked at the note, then at the map, then at the tank, and finally at the old men.

"What are you trying to do?" His voice turned icy. "Show this off as the general's convoy passes by? Intimidation? Threat? Or something worse?"

LeBron met his gaze: "We want them to see."

"What do you see?"

"See what's coming." LeBron's voice was unusually clear in the tunnel. "See what the German tanks look like, see what they can do, see what our army isn't ready to face."

The sergeant stared at him for a long time. The beam of the flashlight shone on the old man's face, illuminating the deep wrinkles, the light in his single eye, and the calm that only someone who had experienced real war possessed.

"You're all insane," the sergeant said. "Completely insane. Do you know what the consequences will be? Military court-martial, espionage, at the very least, disturbing the peace and unlawful assembly."

"We know," Pierre said.

"Then why do it at all?"

Jean-Louis answered this time, his burned face resembling a shattered mask in the beam of light: "Because when we survived in 1918, we thought we would never have to do this again."

The tunnel fell silent. Only the sound of dripping water and the faint sound of wind in the distance, like the earth breathing.

Six veterans who distinguished themselves in World War I did not raise their hands in front of the enemy, but at this moment, they had no choice but to compromise.

The sergeant holstered his pistol, but his expression remained serious. He walked to the side, whispered something to his deputy, who nodded, ran back to the military police vehicle, and picked up the microphone from the vehicle's radio.

The other military police remained on guard, but their posture was more relaxed. They looked at the old men and the tank with complex emotions—warning, confusion, and a vague understanding.

They were all soldiers, wearing the same uniforms, and sworn to defend France, but some still believed in the myth of the Maginot Line, while others had already seen the impending danger.

Ten minutes later, the deputy ran back and whispered a report in the sergeant's ear. The sergeant's expression became even more complicated. He nodded and walked back to the old men.

"Orders from above: Seize all items and detain all personnel," he said, but there was no hostility in his tone. "Trucks, tanks, tools, blueprints—all are confiscated. You six need to come with us for investigation."

The old people looked at each other, but no one spoke. They had expected this outcome.

"But there's something," the sergeant added, his voice low, "My superior, the lieutenant in charge of tonight's operation, wants to speak with you. Privately."

LeBron's one eye narrowed, sensing a glimmer of hope: "When?"

"Now," the sergeant gestured toward the depths of the tunnel, "he's waiting inside. You go alone."

Deep in the tunnel, far from the military police, a kerosene lamp rested on a protruding rock.

Under the lights, a young officer stood with his back to the entrance, wearing the uniform of a military police lieutenant, but without a hat.

As LeBron approached, the officer turned around. The light illuminated his face; he was young, no more than twenty-five, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a seriousness beyond his years.

"I am Lieutenant Felix Leclerc," he began, his voice steady. "I am in charge of tonight's patrol."

LeBron nodded without saying anything.

The lieutenant sized him up, his gaze sharp: "What are you transporting?"

"You saw it."

"I saw an exact model of a German Panzer IV tank," the lieutenant said. "I also saw a map and a note indicating that you plan to display it at 9:07 a.m. tomorrow along the route the general's convoy will be passing through."

"So you already know the answer."

The lieutenant took a step forward, the light from the kerosene lamp flickering on his face: "Why? Who ordered this? What do you want to achieve?"

LeBron looked at this young man, who was too young, had never experienced war, and still believed in orders and rules.

But there was something in his eyes, not blind obedience, but thoughtful consideration.

“No one ordered us to do it,” LeBron said. “It was our own idea. As for the purpose, have you read the reports on the Polish campaign?”

The lieutenant paused for a moment: "Of course, that's a required course."

"Then you should know what German tanks can do." LeBron's one eye was fixed on him. "But do you know how our generals viewed those reports? 'Poland is plains, we are mountains,' 'The Polish army is backward, we are number one in the world,' 'We have the Maginot Line.'"

He paused. "Tomorrow, if that tank really appears in front of the generals, even for just a minute, they will understand that tanks don't need smooth roads, forests and hills can't stop them, and the Maginot Line can't stop the steel torrent rushing from the Ardennes."

The lieutenant fell silent, the flame of the kerosene lamp flickering in his eyes.

"Are you an accomplice of that young officer from the General Staff?" he suddenly asked. "The Lieutenant Lorrain who insisted the Ardennes were risky, the one Lieutenant Marchand mentioned?"

LeBron neither denied nor admitted it.

The lieutenant took a deep breath, seemingly making a difficult decision. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to LeBron.

"Open."

Leblanc tore open the envelope. Inside was a photograph of a young Felix Leclerc, dressed in military uniform, standing next to a middle-aged man with a similar face. On the back of the photograph was an inscription: "To my son: Always loyal to France, not to bureaucracy. —Your father, Jean-Baptiste Leclerc, 1918."

"My father," the lieutenant said, "died in battle in 1918, when I was one year old. He was among the last to fall, three days before the armistice."

He retrieved the photo and carefully put it back in his pocket.

"I joined the gendarmerie because I wanted to maintain order and keep France safe," the lieutenant said softly. "But sometimes I wonder, what is true safety? Is it everyone obeying orders, even if they're wrong? Or is it someone standing up before it's too late?"

He looked at LeBron: "Your tanks are now impounded. According to regulations, I should take you and all the evidence back to headquarters to await a formal investigation."

"but?"

"But perhaps..." the lieutenant turned to look at the endless darkness deep within the tunnel, "perhaps some orders need to be reconsidered."

He stepped back into the light, his expression regaining its professional seriousness: "I will impound the trucks and tanks, but I will store them in this mine and have people guard them. As for the six of you, I need to take you back for questioning, but I will treat it as a 'misunderstanding'—a group of veterans transporting personally made mechanical models. There was no malicious intent; it was just that the procedures were not in compliance with regulations."

LeBron's one eye widened: "Why?"

"Because when my father died in 1918, he probably hoped someone could do something sooner to end the war," the lieutenant said. "And also because..."

He paused, lowering his voice even further: "I have a cousin who works at the General Staff Headquarters. He said yesterday, when he was drunk, that some high-ranking officers have already begun privately preparing evacuation plans, not for the troops, but for themselves and their families. They know what's going to happen, but nobody dares to say it publicly."

The flame of the kerosene lamp flickered, as if startled by those words.

"So," the lieutenant concluded, "there won't be any tanks in front of the general's convoy tomorrow. But perhaps there are other ways."

He walked toward the tunnel entrance, then stopped. "Tell Lieutenant Lorraine he owes me a favor. Also, if he ever tries anything crazy again, at least let me know beforehand. As a military policeman, I can help him choose a safer route."

The lieutenant's figure disappeared into the dark tunnel. LeBron stood there, listening to the distant sounds of military police assembling, vehicles starting, and the calm conversations of the old men being led into the vehicles.

The glow of the kerosene lamp flickered on the rocks. Deep in the tunnel, the tank stood silently, its German gray paint almost blending into the darkness.

The plan failed. At 9:07 a.m. tomorrow, the generals' convoy will pass through that road safely, and no one will be blocked by the steel constructs.

But perhaps, as that young lieutenant said, there are other ways.