Prologue
January 1981/ 10:01 AM/ Oval Office
Ronald Reagan yawned as he sat behind his desk in the Oval office, once again pondering the enormity of the trust that the American Public had placed with him, their fortieth President. Was he honoured? Yes, he was, since the American populace had truly taken a risk with him, considering the way that many of his rivals had tried to mock him using his acting career. But, then again, that's politics. How he tired of it sometimes.
He swivelled his chair to stare out of the large windows behind his desk, which gave him a wonderful view of the White House grounds. It was a grey day, the sky maintaining a somewhat miserable outlook, but the depressive weather failed to shake the new president's spirits. His inauguration was still a recent memory, and he had much to do – a less centralised government for starters, and dealing with the Soviets, especially after the mess that Carter had left him…
Détente had failed, and rightly so. It wasn't right, that America and her allies should co-operate with something as twisted as the Soviet regime, and Afghanistan was proof of that. The Soviets want nothing less than power.
"And it's up to us, the American people, to stop them" he thought to himself. He could see it now, the tumultuous presidency he was to have. Support and criticism flying around in reaction to his policies, the political unions he would have to make, the decisions he would have to spearhead. Still, sometimes, a leader needs to be strong against his own people – there were still those who believed in Détente – and it was up to him to set them on the right path. At least he had the support of the American population. They seemed to recognize the necessity of action and reform, not like certain figures within American politics.
Reagan heard the door behind him open quickly, with no prior announcement.
"Strange," he thought, "I had no appointments".
He turned around, and was taken aback somewhat by the sight that greeted him. The room was empty, save for one man standing silently in front of his desk, having crossed from the door almost silently, with surprising speed, which was odd, considering his obvious reliance on a crutch on his left arm. He had no right arm, and wore a long trench coat, buttoned up as to mask whatever he was wearing underneath, with his eyes being hidden by impenetrable sunglasses. Most striking was his blonde hair, masked slightly by a beret, boasting a symbol that was unfamiliar to Reagan. It was simply an S, but rather than being smooth, was made up of lines and edges, almost like the S seen in graffiti. It was also coloured purple.
Before the president could react, the man spoke, as if from a speech he had made many times. "Good morning, Mr President. I have no doubt you are wondering who I am, and fear not, it will be explain-"
"Who the hell are you?" retorted Reagan, disregarding the words of this figure. "You can't just waltz in here like you own this office, without following procedure. If I wouldn't accept it from my most senior staff, why should I accept it from you? Tell me, or I'm calling in the service and prosecuting you."
The man gave a small chuckle. "Mr President, no disrespect to you, but I wouldn't talk to me like that. It's not healthy. Now, if you'll let me continue…"
"I'm calling them in"
Reagan went to press the panic button underneath his desk, in awe that this man, this psycho, got past security. Clearly, the White House wasn't as secure as it should be. A crutch flew down onto the desk, resulting in a large crack as the desk struggled to maintain itself under the force behind the blow. It also froze Reagan momentarily, in which he stared at the man in disbelief.
"Mr President, " he began, his crutch still on the desk, "I am going to explain my presence to you, you will listen, and that will be that. Disagree, and I'll have to escalate things. Understand?"
Reagan nodded.
"Right, my name is Miller. Kazuhira Miller. You will never have heard of me, or the people I represent, since they are outside the bounds of conventional governance, and as such beyond your control. We are an organization that is forges an alliance with all the major NATO nations, and trust me when I say all leaders within those countries have their similar briefings. I can't tell you our real name, for security reasons, but you can call us by our public name, STRIKE."
Reagan absorbed the information given, and put the pieces together. The phrase 'Outside the bounds of conventional governance' was the most troubling.
"Do you mean to say that your… organization is not only above my command, even as Commander-in-chief of the US Military, but unanswerable to the Public?"
"Indeed. Think of us as Guardian Angels. Our objective is, preferably, to stop wars before they happen, and if they do happen, to end them quickly."
Miller paused, and looked at the president as if he was weighing him up.
"However, he continued, "to make the process easier, we serve as an independent, classified organization. When I say STRIKE is our public name, it's probably the wrong word to use since, hopefully, the public will never learn of our existence. It keeps the situation simpler and much more effective that way."
Reagan leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. "Why are you telling me this then, if you're above my control? You sound more like a paramilitary organization than anything else." He took another look at the apparel of this 'Miller'. "Plus, you don't look like any general I've seen."
He gestured toward his clothes to emphasise his point.
Miller turned around, and hobbled to one of the sofas that were in the room, sitting down. "While we are outside your control, you still are the head of state. Therefore, we have found it more efficient to give you the necessary information we acquire in order to, as I said, prevent war. Take, for example, Vietnam. We informed Kennedy that a military build-up in the nation would serve no purpose than to create a long stalemate, that could last decades, but he planned to anyway."
"But Kennedy didn't really escalate the American involvement in Vietnam, Johnson did."
"Only because we deemed him…unfit for office."
A chill went down Reagan's spine, as he considered the implications of that statement. Miller, still seated on the sofa, seemed to be giving him a cold stare through his sunglasses, his visible expression remaining cold, but neutral.
"Wait, but Johnson and Nixon both continued the war, and they served long terms - even Nixon."
"We aren't proud of Vietnam, since the US administration was, to be simple, very gung-ho about the affair, and every administration we've dealt with in our existence has demonstrated it to some extent, but Vietnam set a whole new precedent. The wheels of war were already in motion when Johnson came to power, he was forced to follow them, and we had to compromise. They could have their war, but they'd have to play ball with us in how to do it."
"But...we lost in Vietnam." replied Reagan, with a heavy dose of scepticism.
"Who said we wanted them to win? We end wars quickly with the least bloodshed. That meant we had to engineer the quickest conclusion that would least threaten the US and NATO. That meant ten years of playing a glorified pantomime, to prevent three decades of stalemate, and eventual defeat. The solution you saw, was the best possible outcome in the circumstances. Nixon tried to usurp us afterward but...we soon took care of that."
Reagan stood up behind his desk, his eyes possessing a flash of anger. "I refuse to be threatened by the likes of you!"
Miller remained stoic, merely continuing as if the conversation was civil.
"Reagan, I am going to end this here. When we deem it appropriate, you will receive a report from us. You will memorise it, and its instructions, then destroy it, telling no-one of its existence. We will co-operate, and when your presidency is over you will continue your life never mentioning, even implying, our existence. And do co-operate. You will handle the domestic side, and us the more sensitive side of National and Global security."
He pointed his crutch at Reagan.
"We are the experts in this particular field, and if we think that you are a danger we will act for the greater good. Whatever that may take."
Miller stood up, and moved towards the door. "I wish you luck in your presidency, I hope we never meet again." He left the room.
Reagan stared at the door for some moments after Miller left, in a state of near shock. He struggled to truly grasp the enormity of the information he had been given, and to a certain extent, fearful for his life.
He walked away from his desk, and began to pace around the edge of the room, before eventually coming to a stop at a portrait of George Washington. This organization was nothing short of dangerous, if they danced around through potential conflict zones under the guise of the 'Greater Good', causing unregulated havoc. If they wanted to be a part of the US and NATO, they had to at least answer to the US Military.
"If I can get some evidence of this organization," he thought, "I have a tool with which I can negotiate. I'm the one in control here, not these unelected wildcards."
He removed the portrait, revealing a small audio recorder, the tape revolving as it recorded every sound being made within the office. It was state of the art, the tape being able to contain a couple of hours' worth of recorded sounds, with a play back feature.
He picked it up and, replacing the portrait, took the sound recorder back to his desk, walking briskly over the few meters it took for him to get there. Without hesitation, he found a point just before the man had entered; his yawn.
About a minute passed, until the sound of the Oval office door opening was just about audible.
It was followed by ear-splitting static.
"No! Damn it." Cried Reagan, as he began checking to see where the static stopped, fast-forwarding and playing with feverish determination, to find a scrap of evidence that this man, Miller, had spoken to him.
After a few minutes, the static began to die down, until it ceased completely, accompanied by the tiny sound of the office door closing. Reagan hit his hand against his desk in a state of near rage.
Suddenly, a voice began speaking on the recording, clear as if the speaker had been right next to the microphone.
"Mr President, don't try to bargain, or try and get some evidence of us. This is your only warning." The tape fell silent, save for the slight sounds of a president pacing the room.
Upon hearing that, the President of the United States slowly sunk into his chair, defeated. He didn't know who these people were, but they certainly had more power than he did. He committed their name to memory, and tore out the tape, as to destroy the evidence of the voice. He would play their game, as long as it served the American people. He said the name of tis orginization to himself, for what would probably be the last time.
"STRIKE"
Miller stood in a phone box a few blocks away from the White House, carefully dialling a number that had long been committed to memory. Once dialled, the call began, with long drones imitating the buzzing of the far away phone it was connecting to. Miller glanced around, double checking that no-one was taking too much notice of him, the street being busy and all. After what seemed like an eternity, the phone was picked up.
Without waiting for any response from the recipient of the call, Miller began.
"Hey there! listen, I have a bit of a problem, and I need some expertise to fix it. Bring your partner too, going to need an extra pair of hands for this one. Meet me in the usual place, and we'll talk details."
A muffled reply leaked through the receiver.
"See you there, Boss."
He exited the booth, and joined the bustling morning pedestrians of Washington DC, soon disappearing into the crowd.
A/N: Just a little prologue I came up with for something I am working on. Hopefully, future chapters will be longer. It's my first fic, so let me know your first impressions (Plus constructive criticism is much appreciated)! Don't ask about when I'll update though, should be around once a month, though if all goes well I'll post chapter 1 proper soon.