The crate came in under night sky, quiet and unannounced, just as it was meant to.
A lone truck, no markings, rolled through the south gate at 0340.
No ceremony.
No lights.
Just the sound of tires over cold dirt and the occasional bark of a chained dog from the outer fence.
Moreau stood waiting at the bay door, coat buttoned to the top, leather gloves tight.
Gaulle was with him, silent, a cigarette dangling from his lip though he hadn't lit it.
No words were needed.
They both understood what was inside.
Four men offloaded the crate.
No inspection.
No clipboard signatures.
The metal box thudded on the warehouse floor, then was wheeled in on a dolly and locked away in Storage Room 6.
They left it there, untouched, while Moreau briefed the trainers.
By dawn, the first ten recruits were inside the old brewery building on the south edge of Reims.
The place had been shut since '29 dry rot in the rafters, broken tiles underfoot, paint peeled like dead skin from the walls.
