Karima had been tasked by Colonel Lejeune to oversee the destruction of the Neuilly Bridge, located north of Puteaux. It was a remarkable structure spanning the Seine and resting on a long island, the Île du Pont de Neuilly, or simply the Île du Pont. There were other bridges to destroy, but that wasn't her mission.

The Neuilly Bridge, like all the others between Boulogne and Saint-Denis, had to be severed, which was easier said than done.

It was very wide and sturdy to support the daily passage of several hundred thousand vehicles. There were eight lanes to which the metro lines had to be added.

A train was actually immobilized in the middle of the bridge. Passengers had forced the doors open and evacuated it when the outage surprised them at the end of that fateful day. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing of value inside.

It was precisely at this spot that Operation "Rupture" would take place.

"Madam, we are ready," said a thin man in his fifties with rosy cheeks.

She had met him a few days earlier when the general had made his decision and the colonel had formed the teams. His name was Édouard Louvain, and he was an engineer. This man, who appeared to be at least ten years older, was tasked with helping her achieve her objective by targeting the weak points of the bridge.

"Good, start lighting the fires."

The man nodded gently and leaned over the safety rail to signal the team under the bridge, which was mainly metal.

If the young woman had leaned over the river, she would have seen a few volunteers in a small boat, ready to assist the team tasked with setting the bridge on fire from below.

For days, they had been sliding tons of wood and oil barrels between the metal frames invisible from the road. The arches were filled so that the metal would be exposed to intense heat for a long time. The same had been done on the bridge deck until it formed an almost impassable high barrier. There were cars, furniture, pallets, tires, planks, trash cans, cardboard boxes, doors, plants, rolls of insulation, and many other things.

If the winter hadn't been so harsh and the residents hadn't burned so many things to keep warm, she could have made an even higher mountain of waste, which was very unfortunate. She was still satisfied with what she had managed to do.

I hope it works. The bastards still in Paris will understand what we're trying to do after this. They probably won't let us get away with it.

Shortly after, increasingly black smoke rose in front of the gendarmes and volunteers surrounding Karima.

Then the high mountain on the Neuilly Bridge was set on fire. Initially timid, it quickly became uncontrollable until it formed an immense wall of fire.

The smell was powerful, a mix of different burning products, all covered in fuel. Despite the distance, the young gendarme could feel the heat of the flames caressing her face. These caresses seemed to linger on her cheek. The horrible scar left by the Molotov cocktail she had received grew hotter and hotter as the blaze intensified.

The red flames were reflected in Karima's dark eyes, making her appear entranced.

Gritting her teeth, she did her best not to back away from this infernal vision that reminded her of the riots and the excruciating pain she had endured.

Fuck, it's hot! I may be far from the fire, but it feels like I'm a meter or two away!

The black smoke rising in the clear sky could be seen from afar. Along the river, other columns were visible. It seemed to her that this one was the most imposing.

"Do you think it will really work?" she asked Louvain.

"It's a solid bridge, madam. But it's mainly made of metal. With a bit of luck, it will fall on the first attempt. At worst, the fire will weaken it enough to help you bring it down with your own hands. It will melt the surface asphalt, but it will also attack the steel frames within the concrete. But the most important thing is what's happening under the bridge. That's where the greatest forces are exerted, after the abutments, of course.

"The abutments?"

"The part on either side of the bridge that consolidates it. Unfortunately, the small metal saws we had couldn't do much damage before we started the fires."

"At least we tried. So? What are our chances of success?"

"I'm not a bridge specialist, you know?" said Édouard Louvain, raising an eyebrow. "All I can tell you is that you need to make sure your fire lasts as long as possible and is as strong as possible. You didn't choose the best season for this."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Oh, yes, probably. To be sure of success, how hot does it need to get?"

"Hmm, something like 600°C (about 1100°F). We can reach that with everything we've put in, but it's not certain. We're in the middle of winter and outdoors… If you want to destroy it for sure and without wasting time, you should use explosives."

"If only it were possible…" sighed the gendarme, staring at the flames devouring her mountain of combustibles.

Behind her, they continued to amass fuel to keep the fire burning.

Yes, if only we had explosives… I would have blown it all up, and that would be the end of it.

She knew their camp had some explosives, but they were military supplies that had become more precious than gold. Before the blackout, the army wasn't rich in this area, like in all others according to critics. It was said that France could only conduct a high-intensity war for a few days before running out of bullets, grenades, mortars, and missiles.

Some were still being manufactured in France, but it was negligible compared to their needs, and even more so to what it would take to be fully capable of resisting an enemy attack. Since the blackout, the French army, dispersed over a territory that now seemed enormous, had to make do with what was left.

From the first days, they had been ordered to conserve their bullets. Today, they were forbidden to use them. All firearms were closely monitored.

If only we had bulldozers or anything to smash the asphalt… Given everything we've piled up here, it will burn all day.

The members of the team tasked with setting fire to what was under the bridge joined them, happy not to have fallen into the water. In this season, it couldn't be warm. More than the cleanliness of the water, that's what worried them the most.

The Seine had become quite clear after so many months without boat traffic. The silt had had time to settle at the bottom, and God knows how much there was. It would probably take years for it to return to its former state.

"Welcome back. Happy to see you all here. You can rest for a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, then you will join the others to feed the fire."

"At your orders!" the volunteers responded in unison.

Karima turned to Édouard Louvain, who was waiting to be dismissed.

"You can go, Mr. Louvain. No need to keep you any longer. Thank you for your help. I'll let you know if we need your services again."

"Hmm, you're staying here?"

"Yes. I can't leave my men like this. I'll stay until there's nothing left to burn."

"Very well. But be careful. When exposed to high heat, steel loses half its strength. It will bend, and everything will collapse quickly."

The old man left, leaving the young gendarme with the few dozen men and women near the fire.

As expected, the fire lasted many hours, being regularly fed by particularly motivated volunteers, likely happy to be warm and to burn things. Some smiled as they worked.

They had gathered a lot of things and hadn't stopped going back and forth to bring more fuel.

Before the flames had time to weaken, the bridge began to tremble.

A long metallic noise, like a wail, rose into the air, causing everyone to freeze.

"Back up! Quickly!" barked Karima, her eyes filled with terror.

The asphalt cracked and split in all directions like a mad snake.

The bridge's wail intensified. Finally, a huge section of the deck collapsed under its own weight. About half of the Neuilly Bridge thus fell into the river in a great splash under the stunned gazes of the spectators. The metro train hung halfway in the void and began to tilt dangerously to the side. The iron wheels left the rails, and finally, with a great crash, the flaming train also fell into the Seine, where it disappeared completely.

Only half the bridge remained, connecting the two banks. Despite everyone's efforts, it did not collapse. The flames, initially intense, calmed down until they disappeared. But even though the flames had ceased to leap, the heat remained, and it was intense.

The asphalt around the fire had become liquid, like resin or a strange sticky paste, merging as it cooled with the ashes and charred remains of the fire. The metal barriers had held up fairly well to the high temperatures. They were a bit twisted, but that was all.

Karima, followed by her volunteers, went to fetch tools to finish the job. They had gathered picks, sledgehammers, and iron bars for this purpose. She took a heavy pickaxe with a yellow and black handle that looked new with both hands and cautiously approached the site.

She could feel the heat in the air and under her feet. The sticky ground gave her the impression of walking on a giant piece of chewing gum. The smell was unpleasant too, reminding her of the times she had seen workers pouring hot tar on the ground. A grimace of disgust distorted her face.

It stinks so much! I don't want to breathe this! I'm going to throw up!

Despite the awful smell, she continued to advance, and when she stopped, she gave the first pickaxe strike.

She lifted her tool high above her head before bringing it down on the deformed asphalt.

CLANG!

Ugh!

A violent vibration ran up her arms and through her entire body. Her muscles, surprised by this effort, twitched at the impact.

Oh, wow! This is harder than I thought!

As if a signal had been given, her volunteers started working. Quickly, they found a rhythm, a cadence.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Karima wanted to keep up the pace, but soon she had to stop. Her uniform hindered her movements, making her feel suffocated. She wasn't the only one, as most took off their coats despite the cold.

This physically demanding work made them sweat like oxen. From the top of her head, large drops of salty sweat ran down her broad, shining forehead like a lightbulb and fell into her eyes. She immediately felt a stinging sensation that made her want to cry and close her eyes. When she stopped again to wipe her face, she took the opportunity to look at her comrades. All seemed to be suffering, but less than her. Some even took the time to chat between pickaxe strikes. She then had an image in her head: she saw herself in a penitentiary like in the previous century, breaking rocks.

The difference was that here she had a clear objective in mind.

Her hands were hurting, and after only a few minutes of work, blisters formed.

Damn it! Ah, it hurts!

Her hands, arms, legs, and back were hurting. Never had she been in so much pain all over her body. Yet she had been through many trials, especially to get up to speed when entering the gendarmerie.

I'd rather train a thousand times at the barracks! Fuck, get me out of here!