Post-Mortem

Post-mortem is a short story written by EliteMaster117, about Task Force 141, and events that took place after Shepard's betrayal.

Prologue
January 1st, 2017 1900 Hours (7:00 PM) Air Force One, JFK International Airport, New York

It was a cold, damp evening. The sun was just setting, and the New York, New York skyline was starting to shine upon the John F. Kennedy International Airport. It was the first day of 2017. The President's personal plane, and current stage of operations, Air Force One was setting in the lot, defended by a dozen of the National Guard, and many, many Police Officers. The door was closed, and inside, President Barack Obama sat, watching footage of Vladmir Makarov's last act of terrorism. Joseph Allen had been found out. Obama was trying to find out how. The next election for President had been long canceled, since the Invasion of the US had happened a day before. Secretary of Defense Robert Gates walked in, and spoke to the President.

"Mr. President."

Obama turned around, and questioned him.

"Yes, Mr. Gates?", he asked. But he already knew what the Secretary of Defense had come in for.

Another plane had just landed at the airport, much larger, though less decorated, a flat, matte black. A C-130 cargo plane. An armored limo had just arrived at the runway, and was waiting for the C-130. It slowed its engines, and did a loop, coming for the area where the limo was waiting. It finally stopped moving, and for about a minute, nothing happened. All was silent, and inside the limo, a member of the Central Intelligence Agency, and Robert Gates, were waiting. Gates turned to the CIA agent.

"Turner, is this the correct plane?", Gates asked the CIA agent. The CIA agent looked over. He had short, crew cut hair, a light skin tone, with a mediocre complexion, his face dappled with a few acne scars. He had a pair of sunglasses pinned to his white dress shirt, which had moved his black and white tie a bit over. His glasses were Oakleys. Scalpels, as they were called. 219 dollars, custom made out of Carbon Fiber and polarized blue lenses. He had brown hair, and was about 30.

"Yeah. It is.", he replied in a slightly raspy voice.

Gates rolled his eyes. "Refer to me as sir, Mr. Turner."

Turner looked over at him, blinked once, and was about to speak, when the rear of the C-130 opened, revealing an empty bay, lit up, yellow netting spread around the two benches, a bottle of Whiskey on a small table.

A cigar was thrust out of the plane, hitting the tarmac. A US soldier walked out, looked around, and walked back into the plane. Then, a hand reached over, grabbed the bottle of Whiskey, and the person walked out. He was tall, wearing an ACUPAT military uniform, a leather holster with a .44 Colt Magnum in tow, and a Beret signifying his rank of Lieutenant General. He had a small, brownish mustache, and was wearing an eye patch. Going through it horizontally there was a very large scar, a precise incision, possibly from a small knife. He stepped out, and crossed his arms.

Turner opened the door, and let Gates out, who walked to the General. Turner then got out, closing the door behind him, and walking on the tarmac towards the General.

Gates had begun to speak.

"The President has been awaiting your arrival, General Shepherd."

The face was instantly recognizable to Turner. The General who had tried to stop the Task Force 141. He had created them, and it was all confusing. Turner looked at Shepherd.

"General, sir. I'm Alec Turner, and I'm sure you know Mr. Robert Gates."

Shepherd nodded.

"I do indeed. Perhaps you could show me to Air Force One?", Shepherd asked, Turner already walking to the limo, the wind from the once again C-130 blowing his tie.

Shepherd and Gates followed Turner, taking a seat in the limo. The limo accelerated, and began its journey back to Air Force One.