Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 112: "We’re building the future in a graveyard."

The envelope arrived at dusk.

No wax seal.

No Ministry stamp.

Just a plain cream paper folded once and slid under Moreau’s door while he was on the firing range.

Chauvet found it first.

He picked it up, turned it over, squinted. "No sender?"

Moreau took it without a word.

Opened it.

One line.

"When the lights go out, we plan by candle. Rue Saint-Dominique. 23:00."

Beneath that, a coded cipher Moreau recognized one he had seen used only once before, in the earliest days of the pilot division’s authorization.

Presidential cipher.

He folded it carefully. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Chauvet was already pacing. "This smells like a trap."

De Gaulle, sipping black coffee near the map table, didn’t look up. "If they wanted him dead, they’d make it louder. This... is something else."

Moreau nodded slowly. "I’m going. Alone."

Chauvet barked a laugh. "Of course you are."

The Ministry of War was empty at that hour.

A skeleton night staff, one sleepy doorman, and no lights in the upper floors.

Moreau followed the directions through a side stairwell, up two flights, and down a narrow corridor where the flickering bulbs barely lit the floor.

At the end, a door creaked open on silent hinges.

Inside.

General Beauchamp.

Alone.

The same uniform.

The same slow-burning eyes.

A desk lamp cast a pool of light across a folder already waiting in the center.

Moreau closed the door behind him.

Beauchamp didn’t speak at first.

He lit a cigarette.

Sat.

Poured one glass of Armagnac and didn’t offer another.

Finally, he said, "They buried it."

Moreau didn’t flinch. "Not even little bit of leeway?"

Beauchamp nodded. "Praise in the footnotes. Silence in the minutes. Full approval denied."

Moreau stepped forward. "And you?"

Beauchamp slid the folder toward him.

Inside, a typed memo on Presidential letterhead unsigned, unfiled.

"Authorized pilot construction and tactical development of light automatic support weapons under provisional budgetary discretion.

Allocation: Discrete.

Location: Site A–23.

Status: Confidential - Black."

Moreau stared. "This is real?"

"As real as a ghost," Beauchamp said. "And ghosts don’t live long in daylight."

The warehouse looked dead.

South of the Seine, buried past the last tramline and behind rows of crumbling industrial facades, it was marked as disused artillery logistics.

The old Saint-Lazare depot.

Dust two inches thick on the door latch.

But the interior was vast steel rails, crate racks, a half-disassembled conveyor line.

And best of all

Ignored.

Loren arived the next day, grinning like a thief.

"I thought this place was condemned."

"It still is," Moreau said. "Officially."

The other two were strangers quiet men from Saint-Étienne, no names offered.

One had welding goggles.

The other brought a satchel filled with gauges, blueprints, and an old pack of Gitanes.

They unpacked the crates.

Each one labeled "Farm Equipment. Do Not Open."

Inside, barrel blanks, forged bolts, shaped wood for grips.

Loren picked one up. "We’re building the future in a graveyard."

Moreau smirked. "Then we better make it loud."

The first week was chaos.

The power died twice.

The lathe chewed up a bolt casing and nearly killed the assistant.

Loren accidentally set a cleaning rag on fire trying to siphon alcohol for the coolant tank.

But by May 22, they had their first working frame.

"Cleaner than Saint-Étienne’s batch," one of the welders murmured.

The new model was lighter polished receiver, slimmer profile, better extractor channel.

Feed system adjusted to accept straight magazines with a locking tab.

Still no markings.

Still unofficial.

Still very real.

Back in Reims, Moreau lived a double life.

By day, doctrine drills, vehicle checks, training reports.

By night, encrypted telegrams, engine parts routed through false depots, secrecy burned into every instruction.

Chauvet caught him one evening standing over a coded shipment manifest.

"You’re not going to tell me what this is, are you?"

Moreau didn’t look up. "No."

"Because you don’t trust me?"

"Because if I trusted you, I’d ask you to help carry it."

Chauvet leaned on the frame. "You don’t get to lead a revolution in shadows and call it loyalty."

Moreau looked up. "This isn’t a revolution. It’s a backup plan for when the real war starts."

"And if you’re wrong?"

"I’d rather be wrong with a gun than right with a committee."

The third prototype was tested on May 28.

Inside the warehouse, Loren grinned as he loaded the fresh magazine.

"Selector feels tight. Bolt glides smooth."

The weapon purred.

Thirty rounds in controlled bursts.

Accurate.

Reliable.

The fourth model was even better stripped to bare function.

Sling hooks added.

Trigger weight adjusted.

Welds clean.

Recoil managed.

Moreau held it up in the light.

"This one sings."

Loren grinned. "So let’s teach it to scream."

By month’s end, they had four functional units stored in false-bottom crates, listed as "marking tools" for reconnaissance units.

The rifles were tested again at Reims during night drills.

De Gaulle watched a sergeant clear a room in four seconds flat with a PAP while his rifle team still scrambled to reload under cover.

"They’ll never admit it works," he said. "But they’ll remember what it did."

Moreau nodded. "They won’t have a choice much longer."

Beauchamp visited Site A–23 on June 1.

No fanfare.

No driver.

Just a dark coat and a flat expression.

He watched the test firing in silence.

He walked the workshop.

Said nothing.

Then, alone with Moreau:

"You’ve got six months. Maybe less. Build your arsenal. Train your ghosts. But if they catch wind of this..."

"I know," Moreau said.

Beauchamp’s voice dropped. "I’ll have to bury you before they do."

Moreau closed the crate, locking the latch.

"Then I better make it worth the funeral."

They shook hands.

No salute.

Just pressure.

Later that night, Loren lit a cigarette, looking at the silent PAP on the workbench.

"You think they’ll ever call it standard issue?"

"No," Moreau said. "They’ll call it something worse. Then they’ll pretend it was their idea."

He lifted one of the new models.

No serial number.

No stamp.

Just clean steel and honest intention.

"Give it time," he said. "History likes late apologies."

And the hammer rang again.

The Ghost Division was real now.

It just didn’t officially exist.

Yet.