[b]Executive Branch Headquarters
Mt. Rushmore, SD
1722 Local Time[/b]


From hundreds down into the heart of Mount Rushmore, Franklin Roosevelt monitored Executive Branch activity from the command nerve center. A giant map of the world was plastered on the far wall with glowing lights in each corner of the planet where an operative or operation was taking place. A half dozen computer technicians worked on terminals pointed towards the big map. Roosevelt sat in his wheelchair, hands in his lap, while one of the technicians brought up information from the blip in Brazil. From the blip, a light shone on the floor that projected a hologram of a man's shape that soon came into focus.

"Lancelot checking in," John F. Kennedy's hologram said. "I am... err... currently tracking down leads here on the Fourth Reich here in Rio De Janeiro. So far nothing has surfaced--" A feminine giggle came from somewhere to the Kennedy's right, where he looked and sheepishly smiled. A pair of tiny panties fell on his head. "But I am hard at work getting down to the bottom of it. Lancelot out."

Roosevelt sighed as the hologram disappeared. Young Kennedy always thought he was James Bond, drinking and bedding women constantly. He never took his work seriously and one day that would cost him and the Executive Branch dearly. Franklin realized that part of his complaint was simple resentment. The magic that had resurrected them had given Kennedy his vitality back, curing the diseases that plagued him all his life and left him relying on drugs and back brace to survive. Franklin was not so lucky. Not long after his death, he awoke to find his legs were still as dead as they had been. A long time ago he had been just as active and virile as Uncle Ted, it was the Roosevelt way. But the affliction that robbed him of his legs had seen to the end of that. 

But, Franklin reminded himself, as bad as his situation was it could be worse. He could be like President Harrison. William Henry Harrison, ninth president, was famed for only serving a month as chief executive before pneumonia killed him. During the Great War with the Timekeepers, he was resurrected only to die thirty seconds later from a mishap with the spell. His ghost haunted the old offices beneath Washington D.C. and now he could frequently be seen floating through the halls of Mount Rushmore.

"Mr. President," said a technician. "One of our satellites spotted something." 

Roosevelt turned towards the map as it dissolved away and was replaced by a live satellite feed of the ocean. The camera zoomed in further and further towards the water until a shape could be seen in the waters. The outline of a submarine that recently surfaced. The satellite spotted something on the hull and intensified its focus on the object.

"Oh my lord," Franklin said under his breath. "It's him.

Written on the hull of submarine was its name: Bataan.


--


"MacArthur is back."

Theodore Roosevelt perked up at the mention of the old general's name.

He and Abraham Lincoln sat side by side in the briefing room while Franklin presented them with their situation. On a monitor behind Franklin were surveillance photos of a submarine, an island, and a figure wrapped in a trenchcoat walking across the submarine's deck. Theodore let out a chuckle. Only MacArthur would wear a trenchcoat in the South Pacific heat.

"MacArthur was presumed dead over twenty years ago," said Franklin. "The mission to kill him was dubbed a success. But it seems our presumptions were wrong. Somehow, MacArthur was able to survive President Truman's atomic destruction."

"We of all people should know not to ever assume death for anyone," Lincoln said with a wry laugh.

"MacArthur had contacts in the Far East prior to going rogue, yes?" Theodore asked his distant cousin. "Perhaps some of them have been harboring him this whole time?"

"That seems most likely, Uncle Ted. Wherever he's been, we know where he's at."

The monitor behind Franklin focused on an island. He wheeled out the way to show the two men the information.

"We tracked his submarine to this island in the South Pacific. It's a tiny volcanic island that's at the tail end of a massive, thousand-mile chain. There seems to be very little vegetation and almost no animal life on the rock, but the heat signatures on the island are through the roof. It's believed that MacArthur is using this island as a base for whatever he's up to. I have chosen the two of you to take part in the mission because of all our available agents, you two are the least involved with MacArthur both in life and in death with the Executive Branch. President Eisenhower, Truman, and myself knew the man when he was alive, and he and Jackson were partners for the longest time. You knew him briefly when you were president, Uncle Ted?"

"Yes," Theodore nodded. "He was one of my White House aides when he was a young officer, but he was just a boy then. Nowhere near the man he later became."

"Good," Franklin said. "Because what I am asking of you two is important. You are to infiltrate MacArthur's island, find any intelligence as to what he is doing there, and finish the job Truman could not accomplish twenty years ago. We cannot suffer traitors here, gentlemen. Terminate him with extreme prejudice."