[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/DqjRXKJ.png][/img][/center]

[b]London
1968[/b]

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dqLRd4neGGE]Mood Music[/url]


The streets of London were alive with the spirit and optimism of the counter culture. A peaceful demonstration of some sort was happening. Women in colorful mini-skirts paraded around while men with long hair, shirts that displayed their chest hair, and bell bottoms followed after them. Bobbies in uniform looked on the scene impassively, their nightsticks at the ready in case the scene turned violent. The potent scent of marijuana hung in the air and everyone seemed to be bopping to the collective sounds of youth as they waved signs. 

Smack dab in the middle of the protest was Abraham Lincoln. Nobody could recognize him. The Executive Branch's magic did its work to disguise him to the outside world. To them, he looked like a generic tall man in a suit and tie with longer than usual hair. The hair was not the magic but Lincoln himself. He had started to grow it out to match the changing styles of the time. His beard was gone, shaved back in the 50's when it seemed like most men either had a trim mustache or no facial hair at all. He had never been able to grow a decent mustache so he just kept his face smooth save for a thick pair of sideburns that extended to his earlobes. He'd been alive now almost one hundred and sixty years. Beards would be back in style before long. 

"1,2,3,4, we don't want your fucking war!" 

The crowd all around him chanted in protest while he made his way through it. As unpopular as the Vietnam War was in America, in Britain it was overwhelmingly hated by both the people and politicians. The UK never seriously pledged men or aid to the conflict despite its closeness with the US, something that explained the current strained relations between the two nations. 

"Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids you kill today?" 

Lincoln pressed on through the crowd as they continued on their path to wherever they were heading to. It was apropos that he would run into the protest on his way to the safehouse. Vietnam was heavy on his mind, as it had been on the minds of the rest of the Executive Branch. This war was a different beast all together than what had come before. The US had dropped more bombs on the Vietnamese than they ever had on the Germans or Japanese combined. Instead of armies and tank columns leading the way, helicopters and bush patrols were where the battles were waged. There was no way the US could emerge from the conflict unscathed. For the Vietnamese, their was their American Revolution... and the Americans were the British. 

He now found himself alone, the crowd marching further up the street to the square. He walked a few more blocks before ducking into a side alley. He found a wooden door halfway down and gently knocked on it in order, three long knocks and four short ones. The sound of latches and locks clicking came from behind the door. By Lincoln's count, there had to be at least seven on that door. At last, it swung open and a man peered out at him through the darkness. 

"You need a haircut," said Andrew Jackson. 

Jackson's once long hair was trimmed. A crewcut, they called it. A conservative hairstyle many counter-protesters wore with pride. It seemed to sum up Jackson's attitude on change very well.

"Did Mr. Roosevelt tell you I was coming, General?" 

"Yeah. Come on in." 

Jackson walked inside and Lincoln followed. The safe house served as the Executive Branch's Western European headquarters. Jackson, a one man station, was responsible for all intelligence and operations on this side of the Iron Curtain. Lincoln looked around the small house. Jackson made the place his own. A ceremonial Indian head dress rested on the fireplace mantel, above it was a portrait of his wife Rachel. Maps of the US, Europe, and Germany hung on the other three walls. There was a table and three chairs along with a fully stocked liquor and gun cabinet. 

"I see you're settling in nicely." 

"Mr. Wilson kept this place like a library," said Jackson. "It was mostly history books, some photos of his daughters." 

"He is an academic," replied Lincoln. "Not a... man of action such as yourself." 

Jackson grunted, opening the liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He placed the glasses on the table, filling them to the brim. He picked the two glasses up and looked at Lincoln. 
"I'm sorry, did you want something?" 

He upended the two glasses, one after the other in fluid motion, and grimaced as the bourbon went down. 

"It's ten AM," said Lincoln. 

"Breakfast of champions." 

Lincoln ignored him and instead sat down at the table. Jackson followed suit, pouring himself another full glass. 

"I'm here because you're needed in the field." 

Jackson raised an eyebrow as he sucked down his third drink. 

"There are strange reports coming out of Vietnam. US and Vietnamese soldiers are experience unusual phenomenon. 
Lights in the sky, disappearances of whole villages and platoons. Whispers of abductions by... someone or something." 

Jackson wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. 

"No," he replied. "Hell no. I dealt with that once before." 

"Which is why you're the best man for the job. You're the closest thing we have to an expert, General. Whatever these things are, they are abducting both soldiers and civilians." 

"Not my--" 

Lincoln held up a long finger. "Before you say it's not your problem, know this: It's a chance to get back out into the field, General. An honest to god warzone." 

Lincoln saw the hairs on the back of Jackson's neck stand up. Jackson, like Colonel Roosevelt, relished the opportunities that war provided. Even with his fear of the mysterious flying machines, the chance for combat would always weigh out. 

"Let me pack my guns," he finally said. 

"Which ones?" 

"All of them."