“Staffer Mcaina seems to think we should yield to the terrorist rebels. In fact, he would have you believe we should completely shut down our underground trolley stations. He claims this small group of radicals has the capability to launch similar attacks at any given time. And while our intelligence has given us adequate information to assume this to be true, I’d argue we meet this threat head on. Let us staff the trolley stations with more soldiers and launch an offensive into the heart of these rebels. We shall take this fight underground and crush this rebellion once and for all. The safety of Tisaia and her citizens depends on a victory, not to mention the financial well-being of our already fragile economy. If we shut down the trolley stations, our State workers will have to find new forms of transportation to work, which may place delays in all government departments,” the Chief of Staff said.
Simmon was a man of few words. His motto was, least said, easiest mended, but there was never a time when he was afraid to voice his opinion. After analyzing the data, he came to what he thought was a reasonable solution and sold it to his commander. In fact, he was usually Augustus’ voice of reason. It wasn’t uncommon for Mcaina and Simmon to argue, but in situations with the TDU, Simmon’s position had always allowed him to gain the upper hand.
For a few moments the entire room remained silent. The tick of the grandfather clock and occasional crack of the fire were the only source of noise in the uncomfortably quiet room. Every one of the staffers at the war table knew the stakes projected in front of them. If they did not act against the rebels, Tisaia’s fate might not be much different from the rest of the world’s.
As the hour hand of the grandfather clock struck midnight Augustus took one last drag of his cigar, savoring the smoke before he exhaled it into the air. He rose from his chair and placed both of his large and rough hands on the table.
“Gentlemen, I have made my final decision.” He paused to watch his silent staffers. There was something about making his subordinates wait for his decision that was so gratifying.
“I have decided that we’ll reopen and reverse Project 1200,” he said, pausing to gauge their reaction.
Mcaina and Simmon immediately fidgeted in their chairs while another staffer reached for his tie, attempting to loosen it. Everyone around the table knew Project 1200 referenced the underground tunnels below Tisaia. They all remembered the horrors committed there by the Tisaian National Army before it was disbanded at the end of the war and replaced with the Council of Royal Knights. It was at the height of the Biomass Wars, when the survivors of the holocaust had gone underground to survive. There were entire cities of survivors underneath the surface of Tisaia, seeking refuge from the radiation poisoning above. And there wasn’t enough food or shelter for all of them. So the young Tisaian government had simply closed off access to some of the tunnels, leaving the survivors on the other side to fend for themselves. Most of them starved to death, while others were said to have left to take their chances in the Wasteland. Reversing Project 1200 meant reopening the tombs of the past, something unthinkable until now.
“I’m authorizing this project to reopen under strict guidelines. The project shall be overseen primarily by the Special Forces group, the Dark Horses. They will be deployed as a hunter killer unit, sent out to explore the tunnels closed off for years. This is where we believe the TDU to be hiding. Only a handful of CRK officers will know about this project and it shall be conducted with the utmost secrecy. As for Simmon’s recommendations, I have decided we shall divert half of the available reserve CRK forces to be posted in all public facilities. Furthermore, the trolley stations shall be staffed with our finest officers. Lastly, I’m going to recommend we increase our offensive against the rebels. I want their leader caught, and their headquarters discovered within two weeks. With the reopening of these tunnels that should be more than enough time, don’t you think?” He turned his back to his staff to face the heat of the burning fire.
Simmon nodded in approval, savoring the small victory he had gained over Mcaina. The Dark Horses were the best Knights they had, but Simmon wasn’t sure if even they had the stomach for what they would find. He could only imagine the horrors and utter terror those on the other side experienced when they were closed.
As the staffers filed quietly out his door, Augustus turned once again to view the mural of the Battle of Thermopylae. An uncharacteristic sense of fear washed over him as he thought of the battle that lay ahead. He always compared his men to the Spartans. Their fierce loyalty, bravery, and skills as warriors defined the CRK, just like it had the Spartans. And for a second he questioned how history would remember his men. Would they compare them to the Spartans or the Persians? The thought disappeared quicker than the sparks crackling inside his fireplace. It was a shameful reflection to have, especially for the Commander of the CRK, and it only strengthened his resolve to crush the TDU.
He smiled, watching the fire consume the logs, knowing that history would remember him and his men as modern day Spartans after they destroyed the TDU.
Commander Augustus lay in his oversized bed, counting the small clouds of smoke trailing out of his burning cigarette. He looked to the empty pillow next to him, only to be reminded that his wife was no longer alive, the victim of a bullet meant for him. He rested his head back down on his pillow, thoughts of the past racing through his mind. Quickly, the memories brought back the familiar pain only cured by a heavy dose of whiskey.
The early morning hours were always the worst, as he began to mentally prepare himself for the day before him. In the years following the Biomass Wars, when the world went to shit, Augustus was just a young man. His father and brother were both in the United States Army before it crumbled with the rest of the government. Augustus and his family were a few of the fortunate survivors. They scratched out a living in the tunnels below what had once been the great city of Chicago, now nothing more than ruins in the distance.
He had risen to the top of the CRK through the fire and destitution many of his colleagues also faced. These hardships helped the survivors create a strong Tisaia, one he would do anything for. He would stop at nothing in his quest to rid Tisaia of the TDU terrorist threat. Politics meant little to him. The discussion of Bill 12b was nothing more than a side note on his desk. He never questioned Governor Felix’s orders. It wasn’t his job. His job was to protect Tisaia from her many enemies.
He blew another cloud of smoke into the air, forgetting his troubles. A clock in his sparsely furnished bedroom rang, indicating it was 6:00 am, and the day had officially begun. Today everything is going to change, he thought, smearing the butt of his cigarette on a glass ashtray beside his bed. The embers cooled and suffocated, dying in their glass grave.
Time: 8:46 a.m. January 31, 2071
Location: Council of Royal Knights Headquarters. Lunia, Tisaia
The auditorium was warm, so warm that the select group known as the Dark Horses had removed their helmets as they sat waiting for their new assignment. Many of them had heard the rumors already—Project 1200 was being reopened, but most of the Knights didn't believe it could be true. After all, a Knight was not selected and assigned to the Dark Horses by believing rumors or participating in gossip. The Dark Horses were the most honorable and skilled group of Knights in the CRK. They went through years of testing and training to get where they were, and not a single one of them dared jeopardize it in anyway. They knew the drilclass="underline" sit and wait, listen to the orders, and execute them flawlessly. It was all just part of the job.