A gentle humming reverberated back and forth in the church, echoing across the concrete and steel with a beauty that clashed against the strength that the surroundings exuded.

Adrian’s habitually silent steps paused as he came up to the door from the courtyard. Somebody had propped it open, allowing a gentle and cooling breeze to swirl towards it like a vacuum, accelerating and forming a subtle vortex that seemed to beckon to him as he regarded it.

The melody he heard was light and frivolous. It possessed this air of vitality and exuberance that emulated the vigor and carefree splendor of a youthful summer. Visions of his teenage years sprang to his mind. For some reason, the strongest memory at the forefront was of an afternoon in his 10th grade year. He’d been on the tennis court all afternoon and the stifling Georgian July air was threatening to suffocate him in its moisture filled embrace.

It was at that moment that he had felt tendrils of cool air come drifting through the netting that served to dampen the very currents that he was feeling then. Wayward winds could cause havoc on a tennis ball’s trajectory if it was too much, so that netting had been placed there to try and give them a constant state of play. But on days like that, he cursed their function below the sweltering sun.

The breeze he’d felt that day was like a passing salvation.

His skin breathed in the colder air and his body sighed with relief. Drifting over, he had stuck his face against the fence and reveled in the sensation of the breeze on his cheek. He ignored the heat radiating from the black mesh. He toned out his practice partner across the court who was trying to tell him to serve it up. Adrian, under some unknown compulsion, could only silently withdraw and appreciate the small euphoria that was swelling in his mind.

That was one of those moments in his life where he’d felt especially real, like a sudden epiphany had crept up on him in the form of an apparition and merely whispered, “You’re alive... and that is a wonderful thing.” Complexity can sometimes detract from the appreciation of a moment. Enlightened to this fact, he had shut out everything he could and wholeheartedly acknowledged the simple joy that came from a cool breeze on a hot, Georgian day.

It was beautiful.

This was the effect of the dainty humming drifting into his ears. It inspired the same feeling. He knew that, whoever it was, they were feeling what he had at that moment. Adrian couldn’t be certain of who it was beyond the fact that it was one of the girls, so he stalked closer, being careful to not cast a shadow or create noise that could alert the other party.

Peeking around the doorframe, he saw the coast was clear and deftly crossed the threshold. At that moment, however, a petite figure came into view around the nose of the Spectre and Adrian couldn’t help but to pause his steps as he stepped into the church.

It was Heather.

Gone was her demeanor filled with ice and derision. Gone was the blank veneer of an expression with which she normally masked herself. Since the day he’d irrevocably shot her down, she’d subtly withdrawn from her normally flirtatious personality until all that was left was this calculative efficiency. She turned mechanical towards him, like she was trying to exact a price upon him for what he had said.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he eyed her beautiful, silvery figure that was adorned in gym shorts and a t-shirt. Adrian fervently hoped that she would recover with time. He didn’t want to go back to how things were of course, where he constantly benefited from her attentive advances without being able to give her what she wanted, but he still hoped that she would revert back into the girl that he knew.

That beautiful tune continued emanating from her in its melodic perfection. Heather daintily balanced on her tiptoes as she walked around the Spectre while performing maintenance checks, her bare calves and heels poised like a ballerina. Seeing this, Adrian’s eyes turned into slits as he cracked a huge, contented smile.

This was Heather. This was the girl he’d fallen for in college.

She used to tiptoe around the kitchen just like this whenever they cooked together, joking and flirting as they attempted to team up on a particularly difficult recipe. Remembering the feeling of those sky blue eyes turning towards him as she asked him where he kept a particular pot in the cabinets, a helping of warmth and bitterness assaulted his heart.

If only she hadn’t…

The smile gradually faded on Adrian’s face. A rash desire to bust in and ruin her good mood with his presence, the effect on her he seemed to have achieved as of late, crossed his mind before he resolutely squashed it. Despite their history, he was unwilling to deprive her of such a moment. It’s okay to remember one’s transgressions, but it’s not okay to be vindictive to someone who is close.

The times ahead were only going to get more trying. Blood would be shed like a monsoon unloading its water-laden clouds in the coming years, so he was unsure how many of these moments they would get where they could just be happy with the pleasure of that profound inkling of a fleeting, existential joy.

Settling back onto the balls of his feet, he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

At his back was a world that needed to be changed, regardless of its vehement stubbornness to remain the same. At his front was a microcosm of something more natural and profound that he wanted to preserve. Caught between the two, he felt himself forced to neither advance nor retreat.

Like this, his eyes closed and his thoughts stilled as he listened to the beautiful hum that drifted across the dead space of concrete and steel. Lost in the medley, Adrian felt time freeze.

And, bit by bit, a small crack in his heart healed.

***

“Mr. President, we -”

“Gentlemen, that’s enough for today.”

Behind the desk, a stout golden-haired man with greying edges sighed as he looked at his folder. Contained within was a comprehensive report of the when’s and how’s behind the greatest debacle of the American military in recent memory, but it lacked who. There was nothing inside those documents that pointed towards the culprits behind the drone hacking and the false tipoffs.

There were speculations of course. Nearly everyone in the Department of Defense (DoD) were unanimously pointing their fingers at the artificial intelligence who kept appearing sporadically to eviscerate his government from the inside out. He’d lost dozens of officials from abductions, and most likely killings, that focused on the offenders that Apollo identified.

His gut told him that he was missing something vital, something that hadn’t been made known. The pressure from his presidential duties, and all of the issues that had cropped over the past months since the day he stepped into office, had only served to exasperate him in light of this realization.

And all of this just had to happen during his presidency. Never before had there been such a wanton disregard displayed for the rule of law and the federal government’s sovereignty.

How... unsurprising. Perhaps it was karmic retribution for the duplicity he fed the American public for 30 odd years.

Donald J. Young looked at the Joint Chiefs of Staff assembled before him and overbearingly said, “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, what separates the winners from the losers is how a person reacts to the blows that life throws at them. This is one such moment. What are we? I want to hear you say it!”

The chiefs twisted their heads to look at each other in exasperation before grumbling, “Winners.”

“I’m sorry, I seem to have heard the cries of losers fervently wishing for the top just now. What are we?”

Mustering a bit more force, the chiefs ground out hatefully, “Winners!”

“Alright, gentlemen, that’ll do. Now get out there and find conclusive evidence of who did this!”

Very quickly, almost as if the men loathed even being in the same room with him, the group evacuated the oval office. The only ones left were the president and his vice - Mike Sterling, a silver haired man with a face lined by age.

The vice-president looked at the man behind the desk disparagingly and commented, “Of all the people who work beneath you, it still baffles me that you don’t let them in on the secret that you’re just acting, and are actually dependable.”

At those words, the arrogant and dominant countenance on the president’s face melted away, replaced by a thoughtful intelligence. Shifting through the papers before him more carefully this time, he finally sat back and shook his head.

His simplistic and haughty tone was gone as said smoothly, “I will not have thirty years of work towards a persona destroyed because I was loose-lipped around white house officials.” He flitted his gaze towards the VP. “You should know that you’re one of the few that do know simply because I needed to convince you back then to run with me.”

Sterling snorted as he took a seat on one of the couches. “I still don’t know if it’ll be worth it in the end. I’m getting meme’d to death by the internet. Have you seen the last one? Mike “the gay swirling” Sterling? It’s a photoshopped picture of me giving a kid a swirly in the toilet of a school bathroom. It’s unbelievable what these idiots come up with.”

A grin crack Young’s face as he snickered, “Ah, that reminds me.” He whipped out his phone and thought for a second before bringing up the twitter app and posting:

Mike’s phone buzzed in his pocket. With a sigh, he pulled it out and read the tweet before inevitably whipping his head towards the president. “Jesus, Donald, do you have no shame? The outlets are already reporting that it was a hacking. You sending out something like that does nothing.”

“Am I supposed to care? Do I need to go out and make a statement condemning the bombings and vow to find the perpetrators? How pedantic. How boring. ”

Sterling stared at him wide-eyed. Gritting his teeth, he finally stressed out, “I think you’re forgetting that this isn’t. A goddamn. Game.”

The grin suddenly fell off of Young’s face and he turned to the VP, his tone of voice completely changed. “And I think you’re forgetting that line you shouldn’t cross when speaking to the President of the United States.”

Sterling heaved a large breath and replied crisply, “Sorry, sir.”

“Mhm.” The president's tone had lost its previous flippancy. “In any case, you’re wrong, Mike.” He added quietly, almost to himself as his blues eyes drilled into his VP a few feet away, “It is a game.”

Hearing Marine One crank up outside, President Young yelled towards the Oval Office’s door, “Margaret, are we clear for the afternoon?”

A tidy middle-aged woman opened the door after a split second and bent her head down, peering over her glasses on the bridge of her nose. She sighed. “By clear, you mean me trying to gracefully explain to Prince Hans-Adam how the President of the United States had to inexplicably change his schedule and could no longer see him? Or how about the... ”

Young waved a hand dismissively as he smirked at Mike. “Liechtenstein.”

“...utin?”

His smirk turned strange as he cut his eyes back towards Margaret. “Um… what was that?”

“You have a conference call with Russian Prime Minister Putin and Secretary of State Rex Tillerson to discuss the revised energy sanctions that are due to go into effect next month.”

“Ah, that…” he murmured. Looking back up at Mike who was still leaning on his desk, President Young shook his head and then directed his voice towards Margaret. “Reschedule it for the next available time slot for all three of us. Tell him there was a matter that required my immediate attention.”

The secretary pursed her lips for a moment before tersely nodding. “Yes sir. Thank you, Mr. President.” She quickly left the office to go call Moscow.

Mike watched the door close before turning back to the President. He asked curiously, “What have you got going on?”

“It’s not what I’ve got to do.” Young stood up, straightening his jacket as he walked to the door that led to the White House lawn. As it was swung open by a guard on the outside, the chopping of rotor blades filled the room, making the President raise his voice to add, “It’s what we’re going to do, and we’re going to go on a field trip.”

Stepping outside, he immediately felt 15 pairs of eyes alight on him for the briefest of moments before going back to scanning the surroundings. Whispers were passed between earpieces, and, like a well-oiled machine, the secret service in the surroundings morphed their defensive positions to cover his path towards Marine One.

Walking over those blades of grass that were immaculately maintained, simplistic lifeforms that crisply crunched beneath his heel, Young couldn’t help but chuckle to himself over the symbolic significance.

Sometimes, the best-laid plans of mice and men… can come true.

In a few minutes, both the President and the VP had boarded Marine One, lifting off and flying to the northwest in the standard 3-pack flight pattern that constantly shifted.

Tearing his eyes away from the half-hearted waves of those drifting around Pennsylvania Avenue, he sighed in contemplation. Some were tourists while others were media affiliates constantly stationed nearby for the next breaking story that could happen at any moment. It was an interesting mix of those absorbed in the reverie of the political world and those who only wanted to see what it was like before going home to tick the visit off of their bucket list.

“Mike, what do you like most about the U.S.?”

The VP started, looking up from his cell phone that he’d immediately started reading when the two sat down. A dull drone in the background indicated the rotorcraft’s noise which couldn’t be totally soundproofed against.

“What do I like?” He cleared his throat. “I’d have to say the culture and values.”

“Culture and values, huh.” The President looked back with smiling eyes that didn’t seem to portray the sentiment. “Even though we’re so divided right now, I still agree.”

“Did you know, Mike…” he continued on after thinking for a moment. “That my very first international deal in the Middle East was with Kuwait Petroleum Company? No? Well they have access to nearly 104 billion barrels of crude, and, at the time of the 1979 oil crisis, were an option we thought we could pursue to capitalize on the hysteria and possibly drive back down the price, pocketing the difference. Unfortunately, they lacked the infrastructure and workforce to handle the increased output.

“Even though the world supply of crude only dipped 4%, Americans still went nuts, wasting almost 150,000 barrels a day simply by idling in lines at the gas stations. It was… amusingly sad.” He chuckled. “After that, Iran and Iraq erupted into war and Russia slipped in at an opportune moment to establish itself as a leader in the energy sector. They’ve been on the rise ever since, while OPEC lost a bit of its former power..”

Young leaned in. “What I was focused on the entire time was not any of that, though… it was the culture and religion that intrigued me.”

He shook his head wistfully, saying, “It was so foreign, you know? I wanted to understand them more so I walked around after meetings, getting to know the residents of Kuwait City and just… talking with them. It was nice.”

His voice turned darker and more grave as a hint of sadness crept in.

“But it was when I saw a family of 7 walk by that I had a sobering thought - one so profoundly simple yet devastating that I lost all desire to stay there a day longer. It wasn’t anything they did. It wasn’t anything they said. Hell, it wasn’t even because I witnessed the bloody aftermath of an illegal stoning. It was the numbers that I’d previously read that popped into my head.

“I’d been studying census data from around the world, reading up on the statistical prediction models for population and religion growth - side reading, ya know, to keep me aware of the bigger picture so I could track trends.

“One of the studies I was given was on the trending growth of the Muslim population and the unexpected fertility explosion that was occurring while other cultures around the world were starting to reduce theirs due to various socioeconomic factors. The average Christian woman gave birth to 2.3 children while the fertility rate for Muslims was around 3.2. The “replacement” birthrate is 2.

“Looking at that innocent family of seven, I was struck with the realization that our culture and predominant religion may one day, in the next few centuries, fade away just merely because we were swallowed up, lost in the tide of sheer numbers.”

Mike frowned in consternation and then shook his head while saying, “That’s only a snapshot in time. Fertility rates are always higher for regions that are immersed in warlike and harsh conditions. The majority of the Muslim population are housed in countries that classify as Third World, fledgling nations that haven’t been able to develop to modernity yet. I’ve seen the numbers you’re talking about, and they go on to say that it’s predicted that all societies, when a certain level of affluence and education is reached, will regress to replacement level.”

President Young smiled and nodded. “Under normal circumstances, yes. But you forget the religion factor. That’s something that transcends what we can achieve right now with mathematical modeling. And you're right... at that time, it wasn't something that truly changed me and set me on this path. It was only after...” A soft sigh escaped his lips before he quietly pursed them.

He shifted his gaze and looked out the small window to his right. The bustling city of Washington, DC had just given way to fields and small towns. His sharp eyes could still barely make out the vague outline of the Washington monument fading into obscurity.

“Remember the 2001 attack?” He turned his blue eyes back to stare at his VP. “Five thousand people slaughtered by three well-placed suicide bombers in Giants stadium. The Taliban got it right that day. But immediately following that President Brier took us into the Middle East and they scattered under the onslaught of American forces. I think they forgot their history, because the rest of the world remembers what happens when you poke the sleeping giant that is the U.S.”

He chuckled lightly.

“What happens afterwards, though, is perplexing.” Young leaned in with a grimace. “They switched tactics. Instead of creating uniform terror among all populaces, they began to focus attacks on external enemies like the U.S. and Europe while fostering a hidden movement that sought to nurture and brainwash their struggling towns and cities still reeling from our attack.

“In effect, they started changing public opinion of them where it mattered and at the most opportune time. Whoever came along to take the helm after things turned ugly sought to emulate the cultural and spiritual unity that they possessed then while also directing anger over the U.S.’ indiscriminate aggression towards their enemies. The beginning act of this play was long forgotten in the wake of the benevolence that the Taliban and Al-Qaeda showed their own people.”

Mike interjected, “What makes you think that a new leader showed up?”

President Young shrugged. “It’s not just me. The majority of the CIA is convinced of a Patriarch that dwells completely behind the scenes. Bin Ladin was just a figurehead. This man, whoever he may be, is the true leader and mastermind of current events. Some in those circles have even described him as the second coming of Mohammed himself.”

He brought a hand up as he smirked helplessly at Sterling, gesturing in the air. “Can you see now why I’m so nervous? Why I ran for president? I had initially planned to run in another 8 years, but his emergence… complicated things.” The president sighed. “He’s brutal to his enemies, but kind to his followers. He’s strategic and well-educated in war and politics. Hell, he’s had us dancing to his tune for upwards of 8 years now while never once allowing us close enough to even get a picture of his face or a whisper of his name. Can you imagine what a man like that could achieve with a unified, heavily theocratic Muslim culture?”

Mike’s eyes grew larger, the wrinkles on his face crinkling together as his brow scrunched up in thought. After a moment of thought, he exclaimed, “You don’t mean to say that what we were talking about earlier…”

President Young nodded. “The fertility rates of 2016 were just handed to me a couple of months ago. Muslims have climbed to 3.8 children per woman.”

“My God…” Mike muttered. “They’re climbing.”

“Indeed they are. Whatever that man is filling them with over there, their numbers are exploding despite the lull in conflict. And little by little, refugees are seeping into other developed countries from nations where his influence is the greatest! We’re being played, Mike, and I refuse to allow this game to reach its conclusion.”

A speaker squawked to life in the paneling nearby. “Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, we’ll be landing in two minutes.”

Marine One steadily descended down, dropping to 2000 feet and then 1000 over the next minute.

The building that inevitably appeared before them was much smaller and unimposing than Mike probably expected, but President Young’s eyes turned into contented slits when he saw it. It really was nothing much.

Overall, the eight story office complex in front of them was… plain. There wasn’t a sign outside by the road to indicate which company occupied it, nor were there a ton of cars in the parking lot to indicate heavy usage of the facilities. All the windows were heavily tinted and one would feel like they were looking into a 1-sided mirror when they walked up to the building of glass, steel, and concrete.

All around their target landing zone, which was a very non-descript “H,” faded and worn from years of basking in the sun on the roof, smaller abandoned buildings dotted the proximity. The only businesses that seemed to be active were a few storefronts on the main two-lane drag that went down a street that looked like it’d stepped out of the 60’s.

A few heads turned in obvious wonder at the sound of the whirling blades, but most just simply ignored their approach like they’d seen the sight many times before.

Since there were three Marine helicopters, the other two that the president and vice president did not occupy were offloaded first, revealing the presence of fifteen secret service agents that quickly scoured the building top and positioned themselves around the exterior. It was only when the agents were satisfied with the landing environment did they clear Marine One to land.

With a subtle metallic groan, and a slight buoying feeling of the helicopter settling down onto its hydraulics, the craft landed, allowing the two to disembark. The three helicopters resumed their flight pattern and moved away from the building, the rumbling of the rotors receding towards the nearest base for refueling.

A small hut-looking protrusion at the edge of the pad drew their eyes as a pair of elevator doors opened up. From within that eerily gaping darkness, two armored and tactically dressed soldiers peeled out and into the light, immediately taking flanking positions of the doorway. Both wore expressions of utmost seriousness and eyed the secret service agents warily, who in turn did the same.

Last to appear from the elevator was a large, 6’3” man with fierce greyish blue eyes and a full, salt and pepper beard. His bushy eyebrows and the short grey hair that crowned him gave an air of wise ferocity. It was a sort of natural strength that only a soldier could radiate just from being a room.

President Young cracked a grin at the sight of the man. “Well, if it isn’t the hero of Fallujah himself,” he said, eliciting a dry chuckle from the warrior dressed in fatigues. Young turned towards Mike and said with a smile, “Mike, this is Commander Smedley D. Butler… the third.”

Mike’s expression turned from one of respectful composure to shock. “Wait… you mean that Smedley Butler? The most decorated soldier in US History, Smedley Butler?”

The bearded man stopped in front of him and sent a displeased look towards President Young. Turning to grasp the VP’s hand for a gruff shake, he replied with a deep voice, “Yes sir, that’s the one. I decided to follow in my great-granddaddy’s footsteps and serve in the Marine Corp some 20 years ago.”

“How has this not come up in the news?” Mike scanned between the two men in bewilderment.

Butler tilted his head and replied with a voice that gave testament to decades of cigar smoke and bourbon, “I asked ‘em to not spread it, sir.”

“And they just… kept the secret? Everyone in the Corps who heard your name must have some inkling of who you are. I find it hard to believe no one talked.”

Butler raised an eyebrow and looked questioningly at the President. Receiving a nod in reply, he shook his head as his expression hardened. “With all due respect Mr. Vice President, I would ask that you do not question the integrity of my fellow marines again. We are not a brotherhood of politicians, but soldiers. Family. I understand that may be a hard concept for someone who built their career in such a dishonest environment to wrap their mind around.”

President Young snickered in the background as Mike’s face turned into a scowl.

“Don’t care for politicians much, do you, Commander Butler?”

Butler shook his weathered visage ponderously. “No sir, I do not.”

Mike shot a look over at the smirking president and asked the colonel curiously, “What about him?”

“The President is the sole exception."

“What makes you trust him?”

“He’s proven himself, sir.” The colonel replied simply and shrugged.

Mike sighed. “And I haven’t yet, is that what you’re saying?” His question was met with silence.

President Young motioned to the two men who were glaring at each other and started walking towards the elevator. “Gentlemen, let’s walk and talk. Smed, give Mike the rundown.”

The commander straightened up at the prompting of the president and began to match the former’s stride Mike grudgingly following along. The trio entered the freight elevator followed by four agents, and the doors rumbled shut. Only then did the man in fatigues begin speaking.

“In the early 80’s, a company by the name of Eclipse Defense Contracting was started away from the public eye. Its goal was to pursue the more frowned upon methods of creating the next generation of soldier. It looked towards the distant past while keeping an eye on the quickly advancing future that technologically advanced warfare would bring.”

As Commander Butler finished that line, the doors opened up after having travelled down 20 floors – 12 past the 8 above ground. The three men walked down an immaculate hallway and travelled past multiple gymnasium sized rooms that had young boys and men in them of all ages, mostly separated out into age brackets. Noticing the men in suits coming closer, six well-built men instantly snapped to attention and spread along the wall as they saluted.

From there, it was a chain reaction. Shouts rang out in each room they passed, confused looks passing between each other for a split second before they formed up into lines facing the windows while saluting. After passing eight different training rooms that housed everything from training weights to bomb making materials and drone parts, the men they’d seen had to have numbered near a thousand.

Mike couldn’t help but ask, “Where did they all come from?”

The Commander’s eyes showed a bit of pain mixed with pride as he shot a look across to him. “One of two ways, Mr. Vice President: from the System or the Service. 80% of those you’ve seen have been with us since they were old enough to talk, cast out by those unable or unwilling to take care of them. They were left without a home and any type of support, thus the foster system took them in and we likewise took them in from the system. Right now, though, less than 1% are under the age of 16.

The remaining 20% comes from those I personally scout out in Assessment and Selection.”

Mike’s expression scrunched up into confusion. “Assessment and Selection for what?”

President Young laughed. “Marine Special Forces, Mike. Smed here is the Commander of MARSOC. The guy you’ve probably seen listed in our briefings is just a name and face so Smed doesn’t have to put his out there. As for the recruits... he plays a very hands-on role in the selection process for new Raiders.”

The vice president shook his head while internalizing the new information. “For God’s sake, tell me important information like that up front next time, will ya?”

“Civilians…” The commander muttered impatiently. “I get heavily involved because I’m expected to - I’m the commander after all. At the same time, it’s a perfect opportunity to approach and persuade those fit to join us here.”

“You’re up to what now, Smed - 2,000?” The president queried.

“Correct, sir.” Butler nodded. “2000 of the men, especially the older ones, are all from the Raiders’ selection process. I pulled them aside towards the end of ITC and offered them a place in shadow ops. Most said yes, some said no, but I’ve been very satisfied with the response.”

The president chuckled and raised an eyebrow at the words. Of course the man was satisfied by the number of those who joined. He was benefiting off his name more than he probably realized. He wasn’t only the commander of MARSOC, he was the great grandson of a Marine hero and had proved to be one already himself.

The stories he’d heard about Fallujah...

How could they say no unless they had had an incredibly good reason? Would they even want to decline?

“Ah, and here we are, gentlemen.” The commander finally said as they passed through one last set of steel doors. Even the president took in an involuntary breath at the sight spread out before them, not to mention Mike on the side who had to do everything to keep his mouth closed.

Before them was a massive, indoor… town. Or chunk of a city, depending on how you looked at it. There were multiple types of residential buildings and commercial properties that mimicked the outside world. Fields and lakes spread out in obvious human design for the periphery while cars and various types of other vehicles littered the roadways and bridges.

The total area in this one room alone was a dozen times the size of the largest superdome. Gigantic steel support beams crisscrossed overhead, bearing the tons of rock and dirt that strained against them. A gentle slope could be made out only if one look at the wall closest to them or if they looked at the design of the beams with shed the force of weight through its dome structure.

Commander Butler strode forward to a platform that jutted out over the small cliff’s edge they were standing on and pointed to a couple of high resolution panels. The footage must have been captured by drones, because the feed was constantly adjusting angle to best view the team, following behind at the perfect distance.

“Your timing is pretty good, sir. We have two teams half-way through an exercise called “Operation Guile Strike.” This is the final step of Phase 3 of the ITC where the teams conduct simulated raids against urban and rural targets. Here…” He nodded, eyes fixed on the swiftly moving figures that skirted effortlessly through an alleyway. The lighting was poor in this section of town, the three saw.

“Their target is an American banker suspected of colluding with terrorists and providing financial avenues for organizations like Al-Qaeda to funnel money across national borders. Their objectives number two: maintain absolute stealth and to capture the target. Simple, right? Well, it’s harder than it looks... especially in today’s technological age.”

As the commander said this, the pair of politicians saw something that by all rights should have been impossible. The 10-man SOTF came upon a trio of doors that suddenly opened all at once into the alley. Three separate, living individuals stepped like they were purposefully trying to do so at the most inopportune moment.

Like smoke, the 10 team members slid to the edges of the lane and either melded into the background or scaled the brick with only their fingertips to pull them. Others simply jumped straight up, latching onto fire escapes with ease that were 8 ft above them. President Young’s eyes focused in on the feed covering those that had disappeared vertically and a tremor ran through his heart. They were all carry around 80 lbs of gear. To possess such strength and agility with that type of load…

His eyes flitted to another monitor that was keeping track of a close quarters combat exercise where a weaponless brawl was taking place between four soldiers. Each punch or maneuver with strength sent the recipient back by several feet at a time while they looked none the worse for wear. Just then, a soldier slightly mis-angled a strike and was dodged by his partner, his fist left to fall on a steel plated wall… which then bent inwards as a result.

He looked towards the commander and saw the man nodded at him knowingly. “It’s not permanent,” he supplied, “But it does last long enough for an extended op, albeit with some nasty lingering aftereffects.”

“How the hell is that possible?” Sterling muttered in disbelief.

President Young was the one to respond after taking a deep, calming breath. “Genetic research, Mike. Or, if you’re referencing the illusion, active camouflage.”

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” The silver haired vice president whispered.

The trio watched the various screens, one gaze was evaluating while the other two were contemplating. Finally, the president broke the silence after a few minutes as he gazed out over the training grounds.

“These are the greatest soldiers the world has ever known - invaluable assets that I have poured my wealth and time into raising up as the sentinels of a generation. This isn’t a government project, Mike. All of this…” He gestured around them, “Is the sum total of the money I’ve made out there in the world for the past 30 years. Those several billion that magazines and web articles estimate I have are right here, being put to work in the best way I know how.”

The president sighed.

“I have the soldiers… what I needed all these years were the open doors to contractors and top secret weapons research. I needed the connections to obtain the last pieces of the puzzle.”

Mike grimaced. “The presidency then…”

President Young nodded, his eyes squinting together as crows feet unfurled at the side.

“A means to an end,” he growled, a hint of barely repressed anger rising up in his voice. “I love my values, but that religion rejects them. I love my culture, but those people seek to subdue it.

“Am I supposed to just watch as my country implodes from clashing cultures that try and sway our youth?

“Am I supposed to just roll over as the proud heritage of the United States is trampled upon by terrorists in refugee form?

“I do not see a future where the nation I know and love can coexist with such an odious and contagious disease. I feel it creeping up on us like Death, making ready for the time where it will reap us all.”

Sterling cautiously asked, “What disease, Donald?”

“Islam, of course.” President Young replied back in cold detachment. He saw Mike recoil a bit at the realization of what he was saying, but honestly, he was beyond the point of caring. The man was proving himself more incapable and useless by the minute. He was just another piece now, instead of the partner that Young had hoped to find.

“We’ve been spared the brunt of their collective might over these past decades merely from their own incompetence and lack of education. But now that the Patriarch has emerged… the course of the future is much more dire. I will not allow those people to progress any further. I will not allow our culture to be diluted and slowly conquered as time slips past.

“Do you see now, Mike? Why I don’t give a good God damn about the hacking of our drone, or the information breach of our secure channels? Let the world think what it wants. I don’t mind playing the part of the fool for now.

“I want the pot to be stirred! I want the hornet nest to be kicked! Because when the Muslim people get so riled up that the Patriarch can no longer control them like the dumb masses they are, someone, somewhere, will fuck up in a big way. Then, I’ll be able to kick back and watch as war finally ignites in its full totality.”

President Young chuckled and reached into a pocket, producing two cigars. Taking one and handing it to the commander who was nonchalantly watching the soldiers training still, he took his own and clipped the end with a cigar cutter. A flash of light flared on the rocky walls and metallic structures nearby as he took a match and slowly rolled his cigar, toking it with care.

Blowing out a mouthful of smoke after tasting it, the president regained his composure and looked towards Mike.

A hint of solemnity adorned his words as he finished, “When that day comes, the Dark Raiders will be there to answer.”

***

A periodic release of pressure irritatingly ricocheted back and forth in the small, English study.

It wasn’t loud, but the very nature of its emittance was annoying at its base, so it cut through the news which was loudly coming through the TV’s speakers in the front of the room. Unfortunately, it was a noise that had to be lived with, as it came from from a respirator that faithfully pumped near at hand.

In a motorized chair positioned in front of the screen, sat a man that was old and hobbled, scrunched up like a can that had been pressed for recycling. His age, while considered to be advanced at 75 by normal standards, was a miracle when compared to the disease which crippled him.

He was supposed to have died at 23, but had lived on to become a paragon in his own field.

After this latest episode, the man knew that he wasn’t long for this world. Chances were that, in a few months time, he’d pass into the same void he’d been chasing after his entire life.

The sudden, unexpected sound of the hallway door softly creaking open cut through the latest news reel on the coverage of the American drone bombings. It had only been 10 minutes since the last check-in by his personal doctor, so the man forced his chin to activate the movement aspect of his chair while his brain indicated direction and speed based on a preset configuration interpreted by an adaptive wave translator.

The mechanized wheelchair stuttered a bit before catching up to the input and smoothly rotated to face the door.

Just inside the threshold were three people - a man and two women. While normally it wouldn’t bother him to see visitors - he was quite famous after all - the manner and appearance of the three made his breath catch in his throat, the ventilator kicking on to induce normal breathing. It had to be a hallucination, but the harder he stared and the more he blinked, the clearer they became.

The man was of middling height and a balanced build, piercingly blue eyes gazed back at the disabled theoretical physicist that crackled with the fury of an ionic storm.

The gorgeous woman on his left resembled a ghostly ice wraith, her silvery white hair reflecting in the moonlight that cascaded in from the window. She had this detached curiosity to her pale blue eyes which shared the electrical qualities of the man’s.

The golden-hair beauty on his right was even more mesmerizing. She had this gentle quality to her that reminded the onlooker of a remote oasis untouched or blemished by the hands of man. Her brown eyes that resembled the former two cut questioningly to the man in the center.

Without looking, he nodded and advanced forward, walking softly on the hardwood floor. Coming closer, the disabled man’s eyes turned wide as he hard a soothing voice, too perfectly refined to be human, emanate from the man’s mouth.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Grimes, to make your acquaintance. My name is Adrian Pierce and I’m afraid I must apologize for this next part.”

A hand darted out so quickly that the man in the chair didn’t even see or feel it until the syringe had already plunged into his carotid artery. In the next moments, an indescribable warmth as gentle as a summer breeze welled up within his body, soothing his atrophied muscles and the destroyed cells which barely clinged to life. He wondered why Pierce would apologize for gifting him such a divine feeling for the first time in decades.

It was only when he heard the man’s next words as he drifted off into sleep that he understood.

“There is too much work to be done to allow such a gifted mind to fade away and die. Rest now. For when you wake again, your life’s greatest work will truly begin.”