The authorization document reached New York faster than a crate of blood plasma could arrive from the front.
The thin sheet of paper bore the bright red seals of the Department of Defense and the Congressional Special Committee.
It carried no military rank, yet it carried more weight than a general's stars.
The Office of Strategic Psychological Warfare.
A department tailor-made for Lynn Morris.
A monster cloaked in national security.
Lynn did not linger in Washington.
To him, the so-called victory banquet and political pageantry were merely time-wasting appetizers.
His real main course was in New York.
On Wall Street.
Back in Foresight's underground nerve center, Lynn did not even take off his coat, still dusty from the journey.
Prometheus's server matrix hummed low and steady.
Red Skull's revolting face was no longer on the screen. Instead, it displayed an intricate web of connections.
Company names appeared one after another across the network.
Arrows and lines linked them to banks and financial groups as far away as Germany, and even to certain confiscated Nazi assets.
These were the "prey" the supercomputer had quietly unearthed over the past few weeks from vast quantities of public data and financial intelligence.
Atlantic Ocean Freight, United Chemicals, Global Media Group...
Under Prometheus's scrutiny, these major companies, reputable in the eyes of ordinary people, were all revealed to have German ties running through their veins to varying degrees.
In wartime, that was original sin.
Lynn looked at the list like a butcher eyeing a pen full of fat sheep.
Power was not a medal pinned to one's chest for others to admire.
Power was a knife in one's hand, meant for carving up prey.
He picked up the internal phone and dialed a number.
"Notify the head of the Strategic Scientific Reserve's New York station. I want a meeting here in one hour."
The man on the other end was Foresight's nominal head of security.
A retired army colonel whom Lynn had firmly bound to his chariot with money and promises.
"Yes, sir."
An hour later, three agents in black suits, each with a grim air, came before Lynn.
When he saw the excessively young "consultant" sitting at the head of the table, the senior agent leading them flashed a look of contempt.
They were soldiers, accustomed to measuring a person by rank and seniority.
Lynn wasted no words.
He gently pushed the authorization document to the center of the table.
"Lynn Morris, director of the Office of Strategic Psychological Warfare."
"Sit."
Lynn gestured to the chairs across from him.
"I'm not here to discuss military rank with you."
He tapped the keyboard, and Atlantic Ocean Freight's logo and a chart of its complex ownership structure appeared on the screen.
"I suspect this company is exploiting the convenience of neutral-country shipping to supply the Third Reich's war machine."
The senior agent frowned.
"Sir, that requires evidence. Atlantic Ocean Freight has many friends on Capitol Hill."
"Evidence?"
Lynn smiled.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands in front of him.
"Red Skull's base wasn't built out of Lego bricks. Those energy weapons Soldier Boy crushed underfoot didn't fall from the sky, either."
"Behind every bullet fired at our soldiers, there's a company like this providing funding, 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 them."
"I don't need you to find evidence that they're collaborating with the enemy. I need you to conduct a thorough, public surprise inspection of their warehouses, account books, and executives in the name of counterespionage."
"Do you understand me? Not a secret investigation, a surprise inspection. I need the press to see it. I need Wall Street to see it."
The senior agent understood Lynn's intention.
"But, sir, this will cause market turmoil..."
"That's exactly what we need."
Lynn cut him off.
"In wartime, any turmoil that threatens the foundations of the nation must be nipped in the bud. Right now, I suspect they're the source of that turmoil."
"Go. You have twenty-four hours."
The three agents left, full of doubts and shock.
The next day, Wall Street's sky fell.
Dozens of military trucks roared into Manhattan's financial district and screeched to a halt in front of Atlantic Ocean Freight's headquarters.
Heavily armed soldiers sealed off the entire building.
Agents went inside and politely but firmly "invited" all the company's senior executives away.
Safes were forced open.
Tons of documents were sealed and carted away.
Camera flashes went off like crazy.
A reporter from The Wall Street Journal practically shoved a camera into the CEO's face as he was escorted out.
"Counterespionage investigation!"
"Suspected of collaborating with the enemy!"
The sensational headlines spread across the United States by telegraph.
Atlantic Ocean Freight's stock went into free fall as soon as the market opened.
A flood of sell orders overwhelmed the traders, and within a single hour, the stock had fallen into a pile of worthless waste paper.
United Chemicals was next.
Then Global Media.
The same methods, the same script.
Those financial magnates who usually held themselves above everyone else, convinced that money and lawyers could settle anything, suddenly felt themselves crushed by the state's violent apparatus, which followed no reason.
They frantically made calls, seeking out their "friends" in Congress.
But those calls either went unanswered or were met with vague evasions.
The unfamiliar name "Office of Strategic Psychological Warfare" became an insurmountable mountain, blocking every avenue of appeal.
"Madness! The world's gone mad!"
An old-line banker stared at the sea of red and tore up the newspaper in his hands.
They watched helplessly as these giant companies were dismembered and crushed within hours, unable even to make out who their opponent was.
All they could sense was that, amid the scent of blood in the market, an unseen ghost was quietly enjoying a feast.
In the underground base.
Lynn watched the plunging stock-price curves on the screen in silence, his face expressionless.
He picked up another phone and called the agent for Foresight Holdings.
"You can begin."
"As planned, acquire all their distressed assets, shipping channels, patents, and production lines."
"The price?"
"Either they accept the scrap-paper price we offer, or they can wait for the federal court to liquidate them."
"Yes, sir."
The call ended.
A lawful and compliant yet incomparably bloody feast had officially begun.
No complicated business negotiations were needed, nor any lengthy capital operations.
All he needed was a "baseless" charge and an army that obeyed orders.