Plymouth Royal Navy Barracks, Plymouth, Devon, England, United Kingdom on July 3, 1940...
Sub-Lieutenant Aaron Wate walked into the barracks lounge, where several junior officers and enlisted men were playing a game of cards. Wate slid into a chair at the table next to them.
"So, what's up, guys?"
"Want a hand, Aaron?" His squad leader, Lieutenant Derek Tyler offered him some cards.
"Nah, I'm fine, just want to talk."
"Suit yourself," Tyler shrugged, returning to his game. "What do you want to talk about?"
"Word is the Nazis are gearing up for a full-scale invasion. And with France out of the picture, what's to stop them?"
"Man, I know we never really liked the Frenchies, but I never imagined they'd collapse just like that," Royal Marine Sergeant Denton Brown bemoaned.
"Quiet, Denton," Tyler chided. "Aaron, did your brother tell you that?"
"Yes, but-"
"It's always your brother says this, your brother says that. Listen up, this is why we're here. If the Fritz or their damned Italian lackeys come here, we'll kick their asses!"
"So many of our people are still fighting in Egypt and Libya," Corporal Arthur Sherman brought up. "I have a friend there. I wish they'd bring them home to defend the home islands."
"We can't let the Nazis have the Suez Canal," Lieutenant Tyler pointed out reasonably. "North Africa needs to be held."
"The Fritz even took neutral Norway," Warrant Officer Christian Withers gritted his teeth. "I have a cousin- who lost her husband fighting there. She's completely inconsolable, poor thing."
"So, um, Lieutenant, have you heard anything?" Aaron inquired tentatively.
"Not really," Lieutenant Tyler disclaimed, before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. "But something is going on for sure. The brass has been incredibly busy this past week, talking about things in hushed whispers, mobilizing us… something is going on, and they're being really secretive about...
As if to answer the questions in everyone's mind, at that moment, the door flung open, and their superior officer, Lieutenant Commander Nathan Walls, burst inside. All the officers inside froze momentarily, then hastily stood up to salute.
"Men, assemble on the parade ground!" Walls barked the order, ignoring the hasty salutes. "We have contingency orders from the Admiralty! Operation Catapult is in effect! We are moving to neutralize the French ships!"
"Holy shit…" Lieutenant Tyler muttered under his breath. "Looks like the negotiations fell apart, huh?"
"Out the window completely, looks like," Aaron muttered back. "Let's go!"
As the men in Derek's squad fell in line behind Derek and Aaron, the group marched out hastily to join the other Royal Marines gathered at the center of the parade grounds.
"Stay calm, men, just like we practiced," Aaron said sharply to the men behind him, sensing the tension and nervousness in the air.
Lieutenant Commander Walls was handing out orders to each of the squads, which ran off to execute their missions, mainly orders to seize certain French ships and personnel. When he got to Derek's squad, he handed the lieutenant a paper. "You're target is the submarine Surcouf. It's currently docked at the repair facilities on the east side of the docks, with the other submarines. Make sure you get the right one!"
"Yes sir!" Lieutenant Tyler saluted smartly, before leading his troops in the direction indicated on the map Walls had given him. The Marines had already covertly scouted the French vessels in harbor for just such an eventuality.
To their surprise, when they reached the Surcouf, a tense standoff was already underway.
A half dozen Royal Navy submarine officers were trying to reason with the French crew of the Surcouf, who were warding them off hostilely with their sidearms drawn.
"Oh Lord, what is going on here…" Derek muttered, a little miffed that the submarine officers were interfering in his job, but not about to object to the actions of those who outranked him. He hoped that things would still be salvageable. "Honorable officers and sailors of the French National Navy, we asked you to lay down your weapons and surrender your vessel to us." He nodded to Aaron, who translated the statement into French.
"Those who choose may take up weapons alongside us as comrades to avenge the fall of France to fascism. Those who refuse may be repatriated back to your homeland in France, it is your choice."
The French sailors, who gripped their weapons tensely, clearly not used to close-up, personal combat, muttered to one another. At last, one of them, an officer by the looks of it, shouted down his men.
Then he turned to the British and barked in accented English, "I am Captain Martin, the skipper of this vessel. I demand the Royal Navy withdraw the vessels blockading this harbor and allow us to leave unmolested! If I am to return to French territory, it will be by my own means!"
"I'm sorry, I can't do that," Derek replied regretfully, and Aaron translated. "France has fallen. We can't allow your ship to fall into Nazi hands, Captain. Please calm down and consider the situation."
"Come on, now!" A submarine officer, Commander Denis Sprague of the HMS Thames, spoke up, feeling a little irritated at the impasse. "My country is willing to offer more than fair terms in exchange for your vessel!"
"Tell me, Englishmen," Martin retorted. "Would you agree to terms like this yourself if it were the other way around? This is a dishonor to France!"
"Trust me, this is no dishonor to France. The true dishonor would be to let your sub fall into German hands! As one skipper to another…" As he talked, he had walked closer to Captain Martin reaching out to pat the Frenchman on the back conciliatory.
"Don't… touch me!" Martin spat angrily, knocking Sprague's hand aside and waving his pistol about threateningly. "I've heard things… things went down in Mers-el-Kebir, didn't it? Things you aren't telling us! Don't pretend… like we're friends anymore!" He shoved Sprague to the ground and jammed the pistol menacingly into the Englishman's forehead. "Try that again and I blow your brains out!"
"What the- ?!" Another submarine officer, a Lieutenant, exclaimed in horrified shock at Martin's violent outburst, and he rapidly drew his sidearm on the French captain.
BAM! One of the French sailors opened fire, shooting the Royal Navy Lieutenant, who collapsed to the ground, clutching a chest wound.
"Fuck, fuck!" Aaron shouted, returning fire and killing the French sailor who'd shot the Lieutenant.
All around them, the British submarine officers were mostly fleeing for cover, while the Royal Navy Marines began firing potshots at the French, who were themselves fleeing to secure positions behind the cover of the Surcouf and firing haphazardly.
"Stop, stop!" Commander Sprague waved his hands desperately, shouting to both sides. "Cease fire, cease-"
A stray shot from the French side struck the Commander in the back, and he crumbled lifelessly onto the dock, and blood began to pool beneath him.
"No, fuck, stop!" Lieutenant Tyler screamed. "That's an order, men!" The Royal Marines quickly stopped firing, remaining hunkered down in cover as the sporadic gunfire continued from the French side before eventually dying down.
"Corporal Sherman!" Derek shouted to one of the Marines. "Tell them we've taken hostile fire, that we need medics and backup now!"
"Yes sir!" Corporal Arthur Sherman dashed off quickly in the direction of the medical office.
"Sir, the French are advancing again!" Another Royal Marine, Warrant Officer Christian Withers warned. "Should we continue holding fire, sir?"
"They aren't opening fire, so stay calm, but stay in cover!" Derek bellowed authoritatively. "Don't make this any worse than it needs to be!"
In the darkness, they could make out multiple figures approaching. When they finally became illuminated by the dim dock lighting did they realize the French intention.
"Sir, the Frenchies are waving a white flag!" Sergeant Denton Brown shouted, unable to disguise the delight in his voice. "They're surrendering! We've beaten them!"
"Brown, Evans, head there slowly from the right and accept their surrender. But be careful!" Derek warned.
"I doubt the French have any subterfuge up their sleeve, sir," Denton commented much too frankly.
"Even so, it could be that only a faction of the French crew want to surrender," Derek cautioned. "Now go! Webb and I will approach from the left. If it's safe, we'll advance on the ship itself. Aaron, if something happens, you're in charge!"
"Yes sir!"
Sergeant Denton Brown and a Marine Seaman, Sebastian Evans, advanced slowly toward the French sailors holding a white rag tied to a stick. The French all stood still and held up their hands to show they were not armed.
Lieutenant Tyler and another Marine Seaman, Lewis Webb, approached from the left and rapidly converged on the scene.
As they did so, one of the Frenchmen spoke up in English. "I am Commander Georges Blaison, the… ahem… Acting-Skipper of the Surcouf. Captain Martin was behaving irrationally and emotionally, endangering the safety of his ship, so I was forced to, uh, relieve him of duty…"
"Did… Did you kill him?" Derek blinked rapidly in shock.
Blaison let out a guttural laugh. "Heavens, no! We were able to subdue him, disarm him, and tie him to a pier, with a couple of men to guard him." He gestured back at the Surcouf. "Not all the crew will agree with my decision, but I'm sure they'll all fall in line. So long as those who want to return to France can be repatriated. Though I, for one, want to stay and fight the damn Germans."
"Glad to hear it," Derek nodded curtly. "We're going to secure the Surcouf now. There isn't going to be any trouble, will there, Commander?"
"I don't think so," Blaison shrugged. "There might be men still loyal to Martin, but without him, they're just like scattered insects without a leader. They're unlikely to attempt a fight, but I'd still want to be careful if I were you."
"Acknowledged," Derek nodded. He yelled back to where Sub-Lieutenant Aaron Wate, Warrant Officer Christian Withers, and Seaman George Wilson were still hiding. "Wate, Withers, Wilson! Get your asses over here, we're going to secure the Surcouf while Brown and Evans guard these prisoners! The good Commander here says there probably won't be trouble, but it's not guaranteed! Don't let your guard down."
Thus the five Marines hurried forth to where the French submarine was moored, weapons at the ready.
Upon seeing a small group of armed French sailors, Aaron shouted in French, "Drop your weapons, put your hands where I can see them!"
The French immediately showed their hands but seemed reluctant to drop their holstered sidearms. "No trouble, no trouble!" One declared.
Derek immediately noticed the familiar visage of Captain Martin tied up on a pier post, face fuming with anger but not saying anything. "It's okay, men! Looks like the guards Blaison left behind to guard Martin."
The French guards gestured to the open hatch of the Surcouf, and Derek led the way in. They could see a number of rather dejected crew members milling about, discipline apparently shattered. Most were packing whatever meager belongings they had onboard- word had probably gotten around that they were going to be detained by the British.
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The Surcouf's doctor, Leon Auriol, fumed and spun on the first Seaman to enter his medical bay. "Coty, what the hell is happening out there?!"
"Damn it, everyone lost it after Daniel was killed," Seaman Jules Coty griped, referencing the French warrant officer who'd been killed by the British Royal Marines. He clutching his head in frustration. "Commander Blaison and several other officers beat up Martin and tied his ass up! Then they went to parley with the Brits… We've lost..."
"Fuck!" Leon slammed a hand down on the table. "After what happened in Mers-el-Kebir… what happened to poor Daniel... are we really going to give up just like that? The Brits aren't our friends anymore!"
"Yeah, but what can we do about it, Doc?" Jules shrugged. "Have you looked at our crew just now? No one wants to fight! And maybe they've got a point! If we fight the Brits here, we're all going to end up dead! There's no winning here…" The seaman walked off.
"Goddamnit!" Doctor Auriol ground his teeth. "Maybe… there's something I can still do…" He reached under his table for his pistol, which he made sure was loaded. "One last thing…" He walked out into the corridor.
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Royal Marine Seaman Lewis Webb walked quickly through the engineering deck. So far, it seemed the French were too demoralized after Blaison's coup to offer any kind of resistance. In order to make sure things stayed this way, Lieutenant Tyler had ordered that all the weapons stores and ship controls were to be secured. Webb was now headed to secure the weapons hold in the rear of the ship.
As he passed an intersection, a middle-aged, bespectacled man wearing a plain white shirt and overalls burst out unexpectedly, surprising Lewis.
"What the-?!" Webb exclaimed. "Watch where you going, buddy!"
The man merely frowned and looked away, displeased.
Lewis huffed in irritation, and turned away to continue his mission.
BANG! A deafening sound reverberated within the closed space of the submarine, and Lewis felt a massive, piercing bolt of agony shoot through his back.
"AAAAHHHH!" The British Seaman fell forward, writhing, as his blood spilled onto the ship's deck. In the moments before he blacked out, he realized, the bespectacled, unassuming man he'd run into, had shot him in the back.
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The violent bang of a gunshot and Seaman Webb's scream echoed throughout the enclosed walls of the Surcouf.
"What the hell?" Sub-Lieutenant Aaron Wate, who'd been closest, immediately stopped his mission and ran in the direction where the sounds had originated, weapon at the ready.
"Oh god, NO! NO!" He exclaimed upon discovering Lewis Webb's prone body bleeding on the floor.
A French crewman in casual clothes stood over the fallen Seaman, a smoking gun still in his hand. An expression of bitter triumph marked his face, though he appeared clearly stunned by the loud blast of his own gun in a sealed space.
Aaron growled with fury and wheeled his gun on the Frenchman. But his anger made him fire off his shot recklessly, and it narrowly missed its target.
Realizing the danger, Frenchman dived for cover through an open bulkhead. Once in position, he returned fire wildly, forcing Aaron to scramble for cover as well.
"No! Doctor!" A cry went up in French, as a French seaman arrived at the scene. "Stop! Stop it now!" The younger Frenchman tackled the man with the gun.
"No, you stop! I have to fight- Let me go, Marseille! Let me go, damn it!" The elder Frenchman thrashed futilely against the stronger seaman, who quickly disarmed him.
"What's going on here?!" Lieutenant Tyler demanded authoritatively, rushing to the scene.
"That fat bastard on the floor killed Lewis!" Aaron practically screamed in rage.
"Right, well we'll determine culpability for that later!" Derek hurried to help the younger French seaman named Marseille to restrain the older man, before forcibly escorting them from the room.
"Bollocks! Damn it all…!" Aaron muttered, gritting his teeth, still wishing he'd had a chance to put a bullet through the fatso, just like the French sailor he'd taken out earlier in the day.
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July 4, 1940
Brotherhood of Nod Safehouse in Lodz, Nazi German-Occupied Poland...
German Kriegsmarine Vice Admiral, and secret Nod agent, Erich Becker practically leaping from his staff car and pushed roughly through the front door of the safehouse, not waiting for the two Waffen-SS guards to fully open the door.
Once deep inside the safehouse, he encountered another two black-masked Brotherhood of Nod Guardians, and casually displayed his Nod identification booklet to them, and they opened a secret security door.
He walked into a well-fortified room where a number of Nod and Soviet NKVD personnel were busy sorting through intelligence and preparing strategic plans.
"Becker?" The woman in charge, NKVD Director Nadia Zelenkov, remained sitting in her seat, but raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You're early, I thought you'd still be in Konigsberg."
"I would've called, but too many people watching," Becker heaved to catch his breath. "I had to come early- apparently the damned Brits aren't toeing the armistice line like we expected! They enacted Operation Catapult, destroying the French fleet in Algeria and seizing French ships in British ports! They've also mobilized the Royal Navy to intercept other French vessels abroad! Looks like they're serious about using force..."
"Damn it, that's not good!" Zelenkov mumbled angrily. "If the British take all the French vessels, the Germans and Italians won't be able to use them to secure the Mediterranean!"
"I don't think it would be politically-wise to do that at this moment… the French people might…"
"I know, I know." Zelenkov bemoaned, putting her face in her hands. "But we can at least spin a media victory out of this...maybe. Sow a little hostility between the British and French people." She picked up one of the folders on her desk and flipped through it, before turning to one of her staff agents. "Korolev! Let's make a few calls to Vichy. Have our agents there contact Marshal Petain... State Minister Camille Chautemps, and Admiral Francois Darlan. Tell our people we are ready to… make a deal with France. We need to make sure they don't cave to the Brits immediately. Oh, and while you're at it, contact Southern Nod Command in Rome. They'll find out eventually either way."
She got up and dusted off her skirt. "I must… personally inform Prophet Kane of this at once. And Stalin too, I suppose. But whatever you do, don't tell Gradenko about this. At least not the details."
"Won't he find out from his own agents?" Becker frowned.
"That dumb incompetent? I doubt it," Zelenkov smirked. "The only reason he's even still around is because he licks Stalin's boots fervently. Sure there's a few like that around Hitler, am I right?"
"Yeah," Becker winced. "Still the rumors will certainly fly around…"
"If it does, I'll let him make what he will of it," Zelenkov shrugged, unconcerned. "If he really wants to find out the facts, he'll do the work himself. Most likely, he won't even notice an incident like this."
"Understood, ma'am." Becker nodded curtly. "Right, and I've got some other files I have to give you as well. Western Command is securing Sweden's cooperation for the transport of German troops through their territory, and our agents in Romania are working as we speak to install a Nod-controlled fascist regime there, we should have updates on their progress soon…"
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Irrelevant Historical Fact:
Two years ago, on February 13, 2019, two mercenary agents hired by North Korean intelligence brutally assassinated Kim Jong-nam, the older half-brother of notorious North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un, in a brutal assassination with VX nerve gas while Kim Jong-nam was returning from vacation in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia to his home in Chinese-controlled Macau.
Kim Jong-nam, the original heir apparent to the brutal North Korean regime, was exiled after falling out of favor with his father and previous dictator, Kim Jong-il, for trying to visit Disneyland. He settled in Chinese-occupied Macau, where the Communist Chinese were probably likely keeping him as a potential puppet leader should relations with North Korea sour, which they very much did in the early part of Kim Jong-un's reign, when a schism began between the two communist dictators, North Korean leader Kim Jong-un and Chinese leader Xi Jinping. It's likely Kim Jong-il calculated that the merciless assassination of his brother would derive the Chinese of their negotiating chip and force them to support his regime more wholeheartedly.
However, it also revealed the true, ruthless, and evil nature of Kim Jong-un's regime to the previously neutral Malaysia, which, like many southeast Asian countries, had long being deceived by sly North Korean diplomacy into maintaining friendly relations with the isolated, totalitarian state.