The authorization documents arrived in New York faster than a crate of blood plasma sent from the front lines.
That thin sheet of paper bore the bright red seals of the Department of Defense and the Congressional Special Committee.
It held no military rank, yet it carried more weight than a general's stars.
Office of Strategic Psychological Warfare.
A department tailor-made for Lynn Morris.
A monster cloaked in the guise of national security.
Lynn did not linger in Washington.
The so-called victory banquets and political posturing were, in his view, nothing more than time-wasting appetizers.
His real main course was in New York.
On Wall Street.
Returning to the subterranean nerve center of Vanguard, Lynn did not even take off his coat, which was still stained with the dust of his journey.
The server matrix of "prometheus" was emitting a low, steady hum.
The screen no longer displayed the nauseating face of Red Skull, but instead projected a complex web of connections.
The names of various companies emerged within the network.
Arrows and lines connected them to banks and consortiums far away in Germany, and even to certain Nazi assets that had already been seized.
These were the "prey" that the supercomputer had silently unearthed from massive amounts of public data and financial intelligence over the past few weeks.
Atlantic Shipping, United Chemical, Global Media Group...
These large companies, which appeared reputable in the eyes of ordinary people, were exposed by "prometheus" as having deep or shallow German backgrounds in their bloodlines.
In wartime, this was original sin.
Lynn looked at this list like a butcher looking at a pen full of fat sheep.
Power is not a medal hung on one's chest to be flaunted and admired.
Power is the knife in one's hand, used to carve up the prey.
He picked up the internal line phone and dialed a number.
"Notify the head of the Strategic Scientific Reserve's New York station to come to my place for a meeting in one hour."
On the other end of the line was the nominal head of security for Vanguard.
A colonel who had retired from the army and was firmly tied to Lynn's war chariot with money and promises.
"Yes, sir."
An hour later, three Agents wearing black suits with a grim air came before Lynn.
When they saw Lynn, this excessively young "consultant," sitting in the main seat, a flash of contempt crossed the eyes of the lead senior Agent.
They were soldiers, accustomed to measuring a person by military rank and seniority.
Lynn did not waste words.
He gently pushed the authorization document to the center of the table.
"Office of Strategic Psychological Warfare, Director, Lynn Morris."
"Sit."
Lynn pointed to the chairs opposite him.
"I am not here to discuss military ranks with you."
He tapped the keyboard, and the logo of Atlantic Shipping and its complex equity structure chart were projected onto the screen.
"I suspect this company is using the convenience of neutral country shipping to transport supplies for the Third Reich's War Machine."
The senior Agent frowned.
"Officer, this requires evidence. Atlantic Shipping has many friends on Capitol Hill."
"Evidence?"
Lynn smiled.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands in front of him.
"Red Skull's Base was not built with Lego bricks. The energy weapons that Soldier Boy crushed did not fall from the sky either."
"Behind every bullet fired at our soldiers, there is a company like this providing funds, technology, or raw materials."
"My office is now the department responsible for defining threats. And you..."
He looked at the three Agents.
"Are responsible for eliminating threats."
"I don't need you to find evidence of them colluding with the enemy. I need you to conduct an audit, and in the name of counter-espionage, carry out a thorough, public, surprise inspection of their warehouses, ledgers, and executives."
"Do you understand what I mean? Not a secret investigation, but a surprise inspection. I need reporters to see it, and I need Wall Street to see it."
The senior Agent understood Lynn's intention.
"But, Officer, this will trigger market turmoil..."
"That is exactly what we need."
Lynn interrupted him.
"In wartime, any turmoil that shakes the foundations of the country must be nipped in the bud. Right now, I suspect they are the source of that turmoil."
"Go, I'll give you twenty-four hours."
The three Agents left, full of doubt and shock.
The next day, the sky over Wall Street collapsed.
Dozens of military trucks roared into Manhattan's financial district and screeched to a halt in front of Atlantic Shipping's headquarters building.
Soldiers with live ammunition sealed off the entire building.
Agents went inside and politely but firmly "invited" all the company's senior executives to leave.
Safes were forcibly opened.
Tons of documents were sealed and hauled away.
Camera flashes went off like crazy.
Reporters from the "Wall Street Journal" were practically shoving their cameras into the face of the CEO being escorted out.
"Counter-espionage investigation!"
"Suspected of colluding with the enemy!"
Sensational headlines spread across the United States via telegraph.
Atlantic Shipping's stock avalanched at the opening bell.
Countless sell orders overwhelmed the traders, and within just one hour, the stock price plummeted into a pile of meaningless waste paper.
Next was United Chemical.
Then Global Media.
The same methods, the same script.
Those financial titans, who usually stood high above and thought they could settle everything with money and lawyers, suddenly felt the unreasonable crushing power of the national apparatus.
They frantically made phone calls, looking for their "friends" in Congress.
But those calls either went unanswered or were met with vague prevarications.
The unfamiliar name "Office of Strategic Psychological Warfare" became an insurmountable mountain, blocking all paths for help.
"It's crazy! This World is crazy!"
A veteran banker looked at the sea of red on the board and tore up the newspaper in his hand.
They watched helplessly as these giant companies were dismembered and crushed within a few hours, without even being able to see who their opponent was.
They could only feel that in the bloody scent of the market, an invisible ghost was quietly enjoying a feast.
In the underground Base.
Lynn watched the diving stock price curves on the screen quietly, his face devoid of any expression.
He picked up another phone and dialed the Agent for Vanguard holdings.
"You can start now."
"According to the original plan, acquire all their bad assets, shipping channels, patents, and production lines."
"Price?"
"Either accept the scrap-paper price we offer, or wait for the federal court to liquidate them."
"Yes, sir."
The phone hung up.
A legal, compliant, yet incredibly bloody gluttonous feast officially began.
There was no need for complex business negotiations or long capital operations.
He only needed a "fabricated" crime and an army that obeyed his orders.
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