Gaston Marceau: 6 June 1944

Artillery from both sides pounded the beaches of Normandy, a massive flotilla of Allied landing craft inching their way to shore in the rough seas. Occasionally, a German shell got lucky, pulverizing a landing craft and the soldiers within. At other times, one of the high swells would catch a landing craft just right, swamping or capsizing it. Many men would die in the water, and many more would die on the beaches and the arduous marches that would follow on the relentless road to Berlin.

The events of the D-Day Invasion are well known. Less well known by far are the deeds of the men and women of Great Britain's Special Operations Executive, a group of the best and the brightest individuals who fought and died to prevent the most dangerous and horrific weapons imagined by the Axis from being put to use.

The Immortal currently going by the name of James Chase was a pilot with the rank of Flight Captain in the Battlehawks, an elite special operations fighter squadron within the Royal Air Force. Behind the scenes in such locales as Dunkirk, Midway, and on to Normandy, the Battlehawks had helped ensure Allied victory from behind the scenes.

James Chase was having a busy day. His keen eyesight caught the typical flash of a Wasserfall missile being launched in his direction...meaning he had approximately two seconds to break hard, throwing his P-51 Mustang into a quick series of loops and rolls intended to throw the devious missile off him before it could track it'sway to the target.

Blinking a few times and shaking his head vigourously, Chase called out to his wingmates. "God damn if those things won't make you dizzy! As if our job wasn't tough enough, leave it to the krauts to think up a missile that'll chase you through the sky."

"Now now, yank, you're getting too excited, as always." Responded Commander Rork as his Gloster Meteor dove in and obliterated the Wasserfall launcher with a precicely aimed cannon burst. "There. One less missile launcher to pester the rest of us."

Flight Captain Trevor surveyed the immediate terriroty on their line of attack towards the German airfield slowly coming into their weapons range. "Looks like those are the last of the Wasserfalls, gents. We did such a great job softening up their ground defenses and taking out their ackacks, it would seem they weren't able to bring in reinforcements in time. Good show! We've got a clear run to the airfield."

As the flight of three Meteors and two Mustangs roared on to their next target, it was quickly discovered that the time the Germans hadn't spent on shoring up airfield defenses had been spent well on getting their own objectives ready. Six lethal looking jet fighters (which would be later identified as the He-1078, a prototype boasting several improvements over the Me-262) tore their way into the sky, flying escort for a massive Ju-390 bomber.

"So we meet again, Battlehawks!" Came a German accented voice, a Colonel Krieger by name. "And I see you are tagging along as always, Amerikaner. This is one weapon you have been unable to stop, and today we will finally see who is the better man."

"Good Lord!" Came the voice of Pauline Armstrong, currently the only female RAF pilot allowed behind the controls of a fighter. "It's a Junkers 390! I thought we got them all when we smeared their prototype airfield."

"Yes well, apparently we missed one." Rork responded. "I would be more interested to know why a high profile Oberst in the Luftwaffe has taken such a specific interest in our man Chase."

"I'll explain later." Chase said. It was true enough. Ever since they first encountered one another at Dunkirk, flying so close to one another in a dogfight, that it became apparent they were both Immortal, Krieger had always made it a point to call Chase out when he was nearby.

In the meantime, the Battlehawks had more pressing concerns. Shortly after taking off, the six German jets scattered quickly, using their superior speed to immediately begin jockeying for position to take down Chase and company. "Break and attack, ladies and gents!" Rork commanded. "The 390 is ponderously slow compared to these monstrosities, so we can take it down after we deal with the fighter escort."

After taking a quick moment to acknowledge the order, Chase banked his Mustang into a turn so sharp, he could feel the powerful fighter struggling back against the controls. Completing the turn, he shoved the throttle back up to maximum, the souped up engine propelling him along at nearly four hundred miles per hour. Quickly drawing a bead on an He-1078, Chase opened fire with a burst from the machine guns, tearing into the jet, but not inflicting enough damage before it's superior speed pulled it away. It was just as well, as another 1078 had maneuvered it's way onto his tail. Tracers passed within inches of Chase's canopy before the movements of both aircraft sent German ammunition into his left wing, just barely missing the control surfaces.

While the Mustang was nowhere near as fast as the 1078 pursuing it, it was by far more maneuverable. After banking himself out of the Germans line of fire before his wing was shorn off, Chase throttled down and went into a Split S, finishing the maneuver with just enough airspeed to prevent a stall. By this point, the incoming 1078 was within 500 feet and far too close to dodge as Chase opened up. The steady stream of machine gun fire coupled with the veritable wall of metal hurled forward by the 57mm cannon mounted under each of Chase's wings caused the German jet to disintegrate in midair even as it's volatile fuel ignited, sending a ball of fire careening across the sky. As Chase's plane glided just below the inferno as a result of the near stall, the Mustang was buffeted by small bits of debris and turbulence sent outward by the explosion.

"Bloody hell!" Came the voice of Lieutenant Toomey, "One of the damned Jerries got me! I managed to tag him good, but not good enough. Would one of you gents care to finish him off? I regret to announce I'm hitting the silk."

"Not to worry, Leftenant," Trevor responded, "I've got him. Hunker down a bit until we can send in a rescue team. You're still behind enemy lines for the time being."

A few seconds later, two more He-1078's were destroyed. Both Chase and Trevor had taken some light damage, but aside from that, the Battlehawks were holding their own.

"As always, your skills are impressive, Amerikaner." Called Krieger again, as he started coming at Chase from above. "But the men you and your fellows have over come are mere recruits. Amateurs only." Chase rolled his eyes at the Oberst's continuing arrogance. "But let us see how well you do against a veteran, shall we?"

By this point, Chase was able to determine Krieger's line of attack and dodge out of the line of fire. After the first pass, both men came banking around, Krieger's He-1078 giving him a slight advantage, coming out of the turn a fraction of a second before chase. The German pilot was quick to open fire, drawing a neat line of bullets across the forward portion of the Mustang's fuselage. Soon, a line of thick smoke came spewing from the side of Chase's engine housing. Muttering a curse, Chase yanked hard on his control stick, bringing the wounded fighter in line with the enemy. Krieger opened fire a second time, but the smoke trail obscured the Mustang a bit, and the German was slightly off target.

Chase, on the other hand, now had the sun behind him, and Krieger's plane was showing quite clearly. As the 1078 banked around to try to get a better line on Chase, the Mustang opened fire; the right hand cannon obliterating Krieger's tail assembly even as machine gun fire tore into the jet engine at the center of the 1078's fuselage, quickly lighting it on fire.

"Well done, Chase. Yet again, you prove yourself to be a thorn in my side." Even as his aircraft began breaking up around him, Krieger maintained his calm. Such a cool demeanor was one of the many techniques he used to inspire fear in subordinates and enemies alike. "But you, too, are wounded. I will yet have you." Krieger then slid open his canopy, leaping out into the sky a moment before his He-1078 exploded.

The engine on Chase's Mustang sputtered once, already nearing the point of failure. As he banked around to bring himself back towards the other Battlehawks, he heard Rork's voice once again. "The last of the German fighters is down, leaving that 390 unprotected. Chase! I can see your smoke trail from here...are you all right, old boy?"

"Yeah yeah, I'll be fine. Took a hit to my oil line though, so I doubt I'll be able to keep up." Chase's engine sputtered twice more, and he made an annoyed face. "On second thought, looks like I'll have to put down. You guys move on with out me, eh?"

"As much as I hate to do it, we have little choice." Rork responded. "If these Jerries managed to hide a 390 from us, who knows what she's carrying." Not a month earlier, the Battlehawks had wiped out a research station close to Peenamunde where the Germans were reputedly working on the development of atomic weapons. Things would not go well for the Allied invasion if that 390 was carrying a nuke. "Very well, Captain Dadigan's flight is close by and angling in to rendezvous with us now, giving us more than enough firepower to take that bomber down. Hunker down with Toomey, and good luck! We'll get some paratroopers in after you as soon as we can spare the manpower."

Even as Chase acknowledge the order, Pauline's voice came over the radio a second time. "Hey Chase, watch your a** down there, you hear me?"

Chase grinned. "Truth be told, I'd much rather be watching yours, Pauline."

"Make it back to the O Club in time, and you might just get the chance, flyboy." Pauline responded, a laugh in her voice.

"Now now, Pauline, enough of that." Added Trevor. "Chase needs to concentrate."

As the other Battlehawks continued with the mission, Chase looped his plane back around, catching sight of Krieger's descending parachute. With his engine sputtering much more frequently now, Chase didn't have much time, but he was able to make a single slow pass close in to his nemesis...close enough so that both Krieger and Chase could feel the familiar tingle that another Immortal was nearby. The message was clear: someone's head was about to roll.

As luck would have it, the terrain in the immediate area was relatively clear: tall grass, slightly hilled, with the occasional tree spread about for good measure. Not the ideal place for an emergency landing, but when a pilot is considering an emergency landing at all, he cant afford to be too picky. Chase lowered his flaps and landing gear, reducing his airspeed to just about nothing, descending inexorably towards the ground. The aircraft hit hard, the right side bouncing back up slightly as it crested a hill. Veritably standing on the brakes, Chase managed to bring the Mustang to a stop with the left wingtip within a foot of a tree. Certainly not his best landing, but once could do worse with a failing engine.

By this point, Chase could see that Krieger was only about fifty feet off the ground, floating in to land about a hundred yards way. The pilot nonchalantly shut his Mustangs electronics down (the engine having died on its own after the first bounce) and proceeded to strip off the majority of his flight gear. Once he was down to just his flightsuit, Chase exited the craft, drawing his katana from its place nestled against the cockpit wall.

Krieger approached to find Chase leaning against the tree by his plane, sword resting casually against one shoulder. He looked disdainfully at the brightly polished steel of the katana, and the intricately wrapped hilt. He preferred his own blades to be more function than show, carrying a utilitarian sword more resembling a three foot machete than anything else.

"So James Chase...after four years of dogging one another in the skies all over the world, we have finally come down to a duel in the Norman countryside." Krieger remarked with a leer. "How pastoral. A pity no painter can be found, yes?"

Chase smirked. "If you say so." He stood from the tree, letting the tip of his katana sink towards the ground. "And to avoid confusion, James Chase is but an alias Ive been using recently. My true name is Gaston Marceau. I wanted to make sure your death certificate would contain all the correct details."

Krieger ignored the barb to make one of his own. "Marceau? A Frenchman, I see...a spineless breed, the French. It is remarkable that you have survived this long, coming from such impotent stock."

Gaston chuckled dryly, although his eyes betrayed a marked lack of amusement. "Ive always done well enough against you, havent I? By my count, this is the fourth time Ive taken you from the sky."

"Paltry details, Frenchman, but you are not typical of the breed." Krieger replied. "You and I, we are superior...the true master race. Not these mindless goosestepping automatons my countreymen have marched throughout Europe, certainly not the mustard gas addled fool who would call himself Furher. Only those like us, the Immortals, are destined for true greatness. You and I are destined to bring countries to their knees, to gather the power of the world in our hands and use it as we will. Think of it, Marceau, the Immortals coming to rule the sheep of the world, bringing it all together into a true New Order."

Gaston was quickly growing tired of Kriegers diatribe. By the time the German pilot had finished his speech, Gaston had stretched from head to toe and settled into a fighting stance with katana forward and at the ready. "What a pity it is, then, that there can be only one."

Krieger gave an evil grin, bringing his own sword to bear. "Indeed. But it shall not be you."

Then there was no need for words. Gaston easily parried, Kriegers initial attack, but it was a measuring strike only. The two men began methodically circling one another, blades clashing together with increasing frequency. Krieger went for Gastons knees, only to have him leap straight into the air, and come down with a heavy overhand slash leading the way. Barely getting his sword up in time, Krieger went down to one knee with the force of the blow, both of his hands just barely keeping Gastons weapon at bay. Rising again, he drew Gaston into a clinch, yanking out his bayonet, aiming for the Frenchmans eye. Luckily Gaston had been around the block a few times, and was able to free one of his hands quickly enough to yank out his tanto and deflect Kriegers bayonet out wide. Pushing back, the two pilots separated themselves for a moment.

Krieger was now enjoying himself. "You are skilled with the blade, Frenchman."

Gaston shrugged. "Ought to be after two hundred years."

This time, it was Gaston who charged, katana and tanto weaving together into a lethally hypnotic flurry of folded steel. Kriegers grin rapidly faded as he was pushed back step after step, the ring of clashing steel sounding out even more rapidly than before. Now with his back to a tree, Krieger power blocked Gastons latest strike and threw the Frenchmans arms out wide. Lunging forward, he brought his bayonet forward, intending to make a disabling stab into Gastons heart. Gaston frantically bent himself over backwards, taking a painful gash across the side of his face, but otherwise unharmed.

Not willing to relinquish his momentum, Krieger lunged forward again, the two men exchanging heavy hilt punches. Finally seeing an opening, Gaston snapped his head forward, butting Krieger with enough force to shatter his nose. As the dazed German staggered backwards, Gastons tonto snapped forward, taking Krieger solidly in a lung, then twisting the blade savagely as it was yanked out.

Nearly overcome with pain and coughing gouts of blood from his mouth, Kriegers weapons fell to the ground. As the German sank slowly to his knees, he fixed Gaston with a glare of utter hatred as his katana rose upwards, then came down in a mighty circular slash, rending Kriegers head from his shoulders.

With a short sigh of relief, Gaston lowered his katana as the headless body collapsed into the grass. He had just enough time to raise his hand to the stinging cut to his face before the Quickening took him. Kriegers body hovered just above the ground, sending arc after arc of ethereal lightning into Gaston, transferring the victims, memories, knowledge, and power into Gaston. Sparks flew from the end of the katana in Gastons free hand, setting small fires in the grass nearby. Bolts of lightning struck Gaston with increasing rapitidy, lighting the tree aflame, and lighting off the remaining fuel in his fighter. The Mustang exploded just as the Quickening reached its climax, throwing an exhausted Gaston to the ground.

A few moments later, Gaston came to his senses and found that the gash on his face had nearly closed, now conveniently resembling a scratch one might receive in a particularly rough landing. He was a little bruised and battered, but he would live to fight another day. Gaston wiped the blood from his katana and secreted it away in the leg of his flightsuit. As he walked past the burning hulk of his P-51, Gaston saw Lieutenant Toomey running into view.

"My God man!" Toomey exclaimed. "When I saw the explosion, I feared you were a goner! Looks like you were lucky to climb out when you did. So those kraut bastards downed you too, Chase?"

Gaston chuckled. "Yeah well, first time for everything. Not to worry, buddy, I gave as good as I got."

By now, Toomey was by his side and the two men began walking towards the woods in the distance. Both Kriegers parachute and the exploding Mustang would draw some unwanted attention, and the two RAF pilots would need to keep their heads down for a but. "Thank Providence for small favors, then."

Gaston nodded and clapped his wingman on the back. "Yes indeed. Not too bad of a day, if I say so myself."

(This tale of Gaston inspired by the video game Secret Weapons Over Normandy.)