Alberto's fingers twitched against the obsidian railing of Versailles Palace, the cold biting into his skin. The System's latest report flickered in his vision—SC reserves dwindling, colonial governors bitching, another goddamn dungeon to clear.
Then—
A gust of wind carried the stench of burning oil from Rafa's ruins, and for a heartbeat, it wasn't smoldering stone he smelled.
November 8, 1942
0200 Hours
USS Leedstown, Mediterranean Sea
Lieutenant Alberto Bernard leaned against the troop ship's rail, the Atlantic spray stinging his sunburned face. Below decks, two hundred men of the 1st Infantry Division tried to sleep through the gut-churning swell. Most failed. The ship reeked of vomit, diesel, and the cloying sweetness of too many men packed too close for too long.
"Bernard."
Alberto didn't turn. He knew that voice. "Captain."
