New Order

June 17th, 1944

Normandy, France

"Hey Lane, how do you confuse a Frenchman?"

"I don't know Strike. How?"

"Give him a rifle and ask him to shoot it." Lane almost choked on his drink.

"Jesus, where do you come up with these?" Streicher gave a self-satisfied grin.

"You don't wanna know. Speaking of which, why don't you ever hear about the success of the French Navy?" Lane shrugged, "Because cardboard doesn't float." The pair burst out in raucous, inebriated laughter, completely oblivious to anyone who might've been watching. Lane and Streicher had been buddies for a good long time, and with it came a distinct disregard for the prescribed deference a subordinate was expected to show for a superior. Here, they were equals.

"So, Captain," Streicher fixed him with slightly bleary eyes, "What's it like being Jones' new golden boy?" Lane took a pull from his bottle of captured German rum.

"Oh Lord, don't get me started Strike. It's like babysitting a teenager," He rubbed his forehead tiredly, "I'll tell you what, I don't know how Carter did it." Streicher grunted his affirmation. He too had respected Carter's ability to function amidst chaos, not that he would let anyone besides Lane know that though.

"The men miss you." Lane sighed, "It just ain't the same with you being all upper-crust now. It's damn boring running things by our lonesome."

"It's damn boring running things up here too."

"Yeah? What's he got you doing? Dictation?"

"Practically. I feel like a damn secretary!" Lane put his bottle down with a bang, "Christ, do I look like a secretary to you?"

"Well, you've got lovely cursive." Lane scowled at his smirking friend.

"Yeah, laugh it up jackass," He groused, "You ain't pushing papers all day."

"Sounds better than being shot at by a bunch of second-rate marksmen," Streicher held up a hand, "Sons-a-bitches almost blew my arm off."

"At least you're out there doing something. And you know, the worst part about it is I can't say a damn thing. Jones is a general."

Streicher snorted, and with typical Streicher wit he said, "Well, if it were me I'd tell him to take his rank and shove it-

"Captain Lane, Corporal Streicher. If you're quite finished." Lieutenant Gillan stood stiffly, his eyes narrowed at the indecorous sight of two mildly-inebriated Americans before him. Lane felt himself go whiter than a sheet as embarrassment welled in his chest.

"Gillan, what are you doing here?" He asked, trying to mask the slight slur in his speech. Gillan watched him disapprovingly.

"I came to tell you that General Jones requires your presence, if you are not otherwise occupied," He said coldly. Lane winced, humiliated as Gillan turned on his heel and stalked off, pausing only once to say, "You lot ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

"That's your cue, golden boy." Streicher whacked him on the shoulder as he rose to meet his fate.

"Strike, one of these days I'm going to court-marshal your ass."

"Yeah… I'd like to see you try," He gave Lane a sidelong look as he lit a cigarette, "Now get out of here before that Tommy comes back and tans your hide."

Lane waved him off and forced his leaden feet to carry him to the command tent where Jones and his colleagues awaited him. He swiped his face several times with his sleeve in order to restore his alertness, but in the back of his mind he knew no amount of primping would restore his pride. Were they going to punish him? Kick him off his job? Gillan's disparaging glare as he entered was enough to reinforce his apprehension. Lane suddenly had an urge to turn around and walk right back out where he came in.

Fortunately, Jones and the rest of them seemed to know nothing about his slip in military etiquette, for the man smiled brightly when he saw him. Lane saluted smartly, business face back on, and joined them, thanking his lucky stars that he could hold his liquor well.

The other commanders, Kirkland and Williams, Lane had to admit he didn't harbor much affection for, or at least much understanding. Kirkland treated Jones and Williams like petulant children, and though it was not completely unjustified, to Lane it seemed like overstep of authority. What gave him the right to snub two other commanders of equal rank? And Williams, much to Lane's utter perplexity, just sat and took whatever abuse the other two doled out. It was pathetic. Add that to their incredible youth, Lane didn't know how they managed to function as a cohesive team.

"Captain, do you remember when I told you part of our job is to meet with SHAEF?" Jones addressed him, "Well we've got a meeting coming up, and we're due in London tomorrow." Lane's eyebrows shot up.

"Sir, you mean we're leaving the front?"

"Only for a day or two, we'll be back as soon as it's over." Williams, the Canadian, supplicated softly. Lane nodded uneasily, not liking the idea of leaving, but willing to do as he was bid.

In spite of the commanders' various idiosyncrasies, he wanted to make sure everything functioned as smoothly as it had before he assumed his current position, even if it meant putting his own priorities on the backburner. It was tough, as the past week had proven; Carter used had Lane to oversee the men when he was fulfilling his duty to Jones, whereas Lane had no formal second in command. Furthermore, they hadn't been in the field since the invasion of Salerno nearly a year ago; it was a hell of a lot easier to do two jobs from a marshalling camp in England than the frontline in Normandy.

"Yes, and on that note. The ship is departing within the hour, so I suggest you settle whatever affairs that you have with you men immediately, Captain."

"Yes sir, right away." Lane said automatically even though it was Kirkland who addressed him.

He left feeling like he had just dodged a major bullet.


"You haven't told him yet, have you, America?" England addressed the elephant in the room the instant after Captain Lane took his leave. America looked petulant and sheepish all at once as he turned to glare at the elder country.

"That's none of your concern, England."

"It bloody-well is my concern if you're going to undermine our operation with ignorant associates!" Every man in the room felt a need to distance themselves from the Englishman's blistering temper, "Regardless of your sentiment, Captain Lane is your second in command now. He must be informed of the reality of our situation."

"Alright, alright, I get it." America waved his hand dismissively, an action England remembered from his childhood, "I'll talk to him right now, ok? Christ."

"Grow up, Alfred," England snapped. The others just looked on as the burgeoning cockfight played out, but America left before anything more could come of it.

"Hey Lane, hold on!" The captain turned abruptly, unused to being addressed so informally by a superior. He reminded himself yet again that it was just how Jones operated.

"Sir?"

"There's a couple things we've got to talk about before we get going," Lane tensed. Was Jones going to chastise him after all? He thought he prepared himself for anything and everything, but as Jones began to speak he realized just how off the mark he was.

An hour later, Captain Lane sat stiffly on the ship back to England with his eyes glued on the unnaturally young faces of the commanders who, not long ago, he thought were simply privileged youths from prestigious military families. Oh, how wrong he'd been. His gaze shifted uneasily between the three of them, Jones, to Kirkland, to Williams, and back to Jones again.

"You ok?" Jones said, abashed concern written all over his face.

"With all due respect, sir, I'm pretty damn far from ok."

"I'm sorry Lane, really. I should have told you sooner."

"I'd say so." He said, far more pointedly than he'd intended. Jones winced, "Did Carter know?"

"Yes," Kirkland answered for him, "And I might say his reaction was very similar to yours."

"Is that so?"

This time it was Gillan who spoke, "It is. Don't worry old chap, it came as a shock to us all." He gestured then to his French-Canadian cohort, Thomas Default, a tall, red haired officer from Quebec who smiled affably from his position at William's side. Lane jerked his head in return.

Everything was coming into place. Jones' baffling youth, the secretiveness, their involvement with SHAEF. Most of all, Lane understood now Carter's unswerving loyalty to Jones, after seeing the same devotion in Gillan and Default. They were seconds to England and Canada, just as Carter had been to America, and just as Lane was now. Their duty was just that much more complicated and pivotal, he realized, for they were charged with not only advising their countries but protecting them in the field, even if that meant sacrificing themselves in the process. According to Jones such a thing was only ever rarely the case, but nonetheless, Lane was reeling with his new understanding of Carter's urgency on that last afternoon. He'd been expected to lay down his life for a single man.

"We're more than happy to answer any questions you might have." Williams nodded to show solidarity with Jones, while Kirkland just arched his brow, sniffing haughtily.

"Questions? I've got so many questions my head's gonna explode." Lane coughed a laugh, "I got up this morning thinking everyone on this earth had a time, you know? That we're all born and we're all gonna die. And now you're telling me that everything I was brought up to believe is bullshit? I'm sorry, but I have a hard time believing that you three are… countries. That shouldn't be possible. How is that possible?" He gestured to Jones' hand, where, to prove his story earlier, he'd made a deep incision with a field knife. It had healed completely in less than twenty seconds.

"Trust me, Captain, we have been trying to answer the same question for centuries." Kirkland said, "But that does not mean that everything you thought is less true now than it was before. I am of the mind that God created us with a purpose, just as he created you, and everyone else. We may operate differently, but the same divine rules that govern you govern us as well. We are not so different." Lane heaved a breath.

"I suppose it would explain a lot."

"That it does. Tell me, what was your initial conjecture?" Lane shrugged.

"I just supposed you were all from some big international military academy or something."

"It was more intelligent than my first guess," Gillan said, "I thought they were spies." The six of them shared a laugh before Lane brought the conversation around again.

"SHAEF knows?"

"Yes, and our leaders, and now you," Jones said, "But Lane, you understand that you cannot say anything about this to anyone, yes? If the Germans figure out who's who, shit's gonna hit the fan real quick."

"Yes sir, but if the Allied countries exist as men, does the Axis as well? Couldn't they identify you?"

"They could, but there are statutes of secrecy that protect the general public. Only the most high-ranking leaders know the truth and even they are sworn to secrecy. Furthermore, every government imposes different laws about allowing us countries in the field; the Krauts have no idea who's in and who's out." Lane gave a low whistle.

"Boy do I feel like a moron."

"Don't worry, Captain. You'll pick it up eventually, "As an afterthought, America added: "It took Carter a week to believe me."


June 18th, 1944

Bushy Park, Bedfordshire

SHAEF HQ

London was about like Lane remembered it. Same buildings, same roads, same people even. The only thing that'd changed was the circumstances. Last time he'd been with Major Carter on leave after their stint Salerno. Now he was here in Carter's place. It was like he was seeing it all again for the first time.

"The meeting is scheduled for noon. Maybe later if Canada drags his ass," Jones said, more to fill the silence than anything else. Lane pursed his lips, concerned instead with mastering the nervousness that sprung up in his gut. He was attending a SHAEF conference! Never in all his years, had he anticipated being allowed to attend such a meeting. The highest Allied command on the continent, comprised of people like Eisenhower and Montgomery and others whom soldiers like Lane only met in dreams, discussing the future of the war. It was glorious. He was terribly excited and nervous all at once.

They navigated through the layered security, to the north-eastern part of the park where the SHAEF headquarters was located. Jones informed Lane that they'd moved here in January, shortly after the 8th Air Force had vacated it. It was an impressive setup, Lane thought. When he wasn't fiddling with his seldom-worn dress uniform he was trying to take in as many details as he could of the place. Who knows when he might be here again?

As it would happen, they arrived an hour early; however, someone was already feverishly awaiting their arrival.

The man stood stiffly with his arms crossed over a lean torso. He wore an expensive, pinstriped suit, and his hair, dark like varnished mahogany, was combed to perfection. A gold watch chain glinted at his vest. His features were straight, strong, and honest upon first glance, but there was a certain shrewd discernment in his eyes that alerted Lane immediately as to his profession. Lawyer. Or a businessman maybe. Either way he didn't belong here. Lane distrusted him instantly.

"Louis?" Lane turned in time to see a surprised grin stretch across Jones' face. He was stunned. They knew each other? Was this man a country as well? Whatever the case, Jones greeted the man without reservation, embracing him like an old friend. They were about the same height and could have been related. A brother? An unsettling thought to be sure. Lane, head high with distaste, caught up to Jones in three strides.

"What are you doing here? Ditching Congress?" Jones jested.

"No, no, I have business here," The man smiled good-naturedly but the focused intensity in his eyes remained unwavering; he knew exactly what he was doing, "I heard about your loss."

"You did?"

"Naturally." Lane felt his eyes narrow. He bristled with animosity as the lawyer extricated himself gracefully from Jones, all poise and prettiness and audacity.

Lane was not yet old enough to really 'feel' his age, but he suddenly understood the lamentations of his curmudgeonly Irish grandfather whenever Lane and his brothers roughhoused in the living room like a pack of apes. He probably had twelve years on this young upstart and yet the man strutted about as if he owned the place. Sly, oily bastard. Lane would give anything to knock him down a peg. At last, Jones turned to him.

"Captain, this is Louis Jones, my cousin."

Lane froze.

"Pardon?" He said ungracefully. The lawyer threw his head back and chuckled good-naturedly, putting an arm around Jones. Indeed, it was impossible to deny the resemblance between the two.

"Come on, Alfred, don't bore the man with details." He stunned Lane, first by his use of Jones' Christian name, and then by extending his hand as though they were equals. Lane hesitated before taking it, "Good to meet you, Captain."

"Right."

"So, Lou, what brings you to our neck of the woods?" Jones asked.

"This and that," The lawyer meandered vaguely, "But mostly the fate of your former second in command."

"How do you know about that?" The lawyer smiled a slimy half-grin that Lane decided he hated.

"I have my ways," He sighed dramatically when neither Lane nor Jones responded, "In case you forgot, I am kept updated with news from the front. A copy of Major Carter's condolence letter happened to cross my desk."

"I see." Jones looked downward, almost shamefully.

"I was very sorry to hear what happened. Major Carter was a good man."

"You knew him?" Lane asked abruptly.

"I did."

Just then, Kirkland and Williams arrived, ending the conversation. Lane tailed silently behind his superior as he formed ranks with his fellow countries. He wondered, not for the first time, why he was even here in the first place; Lane was happy to protect him in the field, but right now what Jones needed was a paper-pusher, or a secretary, not a proper aide. The only thing he accomplished by keeping Lane around was to deprive their regiment of an experienced officer. It seemed to Lane incredibly irresponsible.

He watched Louis Jones pontificate and adulate as he appealed to America's foreign cohorts. They ate it right up. Although Lane surmised that they'd had dealings with each other in the past, something about it just didn't sit right with him. A lawyer had no business in military affairs. If Carter were here he would have thrown the bastard out on his ear. Of that, Lane was quite sure.

"Captain, are you quite alright? You seem… disgruntled." Gillan queried, startling Lane out of his mordant musings.

"You'd be right about that," He did not take his eyes off of Louis Jones, "Do you know him?"

"I do. He's not a bad chap actually," Gillan's cool gray eyes took on a hue of mischief when he witnessed Lane's dumb-struck expression, "You don't like him?"

"How can I? He's a dandy and a preener and he has no business here."

"Lane, you'll come to find that things do not work quite the same way once you've been accepted into the fold. And if you'll take my advice," He smiled wryly, "Don't fall out of favor with your nation's capital." He left Lane standing there, agog and aghast, stuttering like a fool.

Across the room, Washington D.C. smiled to himself.