Operation Second Coming

A major meeting is set to take place in a lavish, oak-paneled boardroom atop a skyscraper, a room with a design that is intimidating and meticulously deliberate, designed to whisper power rather than shout it. A grand mahogany table stretches the length of the room, polished to a mirror shine. The walls are adorned with symbols of financial and political domination—geometric patterns, faint Freemasonic sigils embedded into the wood. A crystal chandelier hangs above the center of the table, refracting light that casts an ominous glow. Cigars burned faintly in ashtrays; the air was thick with calculated malice.

Seated at the head of the table is Chairman Rutherford Sewickly, his sharply tailored suit a reflection of his ego. His deep-set eyes hide decades of scheming, and his British accent, clipped and cold, reverberates with authority. Next to him is Bradford Cohen, equally suave but with an unnerving calmness, the precision of his thoughts reflecting in every measured word. Across from them, General Ralph Berg fidgets slightly, a man of action in a room of manipulators.

As the meeting began, Sewickly leaned forward, his presence filled the room with quiet menace.

Sewickly opened the meeting, his voice icy and deliberate.

"Gentlemen, time is a luxury we cannot afford to squander today. The collapse of the United States and Europe is, as you are all aware, imminent. Years of careful destabilization politically, economically, culturally... and yet, there are unforeseen hurdles."

Cohen glanced at a folder in front of him.

"Yes, sir. It seems two rather unpleasant flies have landed in our ointment. These insubordinate Pentagon officers, Zeke Haywood and Amma Enki, have defied protocol."

Sewickly sharply snapped back, "Defiance is a language I do not speak."

General Berg, the newest member of the Old World Order, leaned in, his voice gruff but firm.

"Chairman, permit me to clean up this mess. I’ll make sure they fall in line. My methods are... persuasive."

Cohen cut in smoothly, "And what will happen, General, should they refuse to comply?"

The general smirked slightly, with a shrug.

"Compliance is the likeliest path, Vice Chairman. But if the worst comes to pass... I’ll eliminate them myself."

Sewickly fixed Berg with an icy stare, his tone turning dangerously threatening.

"See to it that their obedience is swift, General. But mark my words... if they remain a thorn in my side, you will lose your precious seat at this table. And believe me, you won’t walk away alive."

Sewickly paused dramatically as beads of sweat rolled down the general's forehead. Then he makes his threat much clearer.

"I’ll personally put a bullet in your skull and move on."

General Berg stiffened, nodded mutely in understanding. The tension in the room thickened until Sewickly relaxed slightly.

Sewickly continued speaking, coldly and meticulously.

"Now, gentlemen, onto more productive matters. We’ve squeezed every ounce of wealth and power we can from the United States and Europe. They are husks now, ripe for their final collapse. But this...", Sewickly dramatically pauses, "...requires precision."

Cohen added, "A controlled implosion"

"Precisely," Sewickly replied.

"The economic and political engines must crumble simultaneously. Humanity is conditioned to cling to false hope but strip them of their illusions, and they will beg for salvation. Which brings us... to the agenda of our esteemed guests."

At his cue, the double doors of the boardroom swung open.

Five people entered, and the first thing anyone noticed was that they did not match.

A cardinal in scarlet. A man in the white thobe and gold-corded headdress of the Gulf. An Orthodox rabbi, black-hatted and bearded. A Southern minister in a charcoal suit with a small flag pinned to the lapel. And last, a woman in an unremarkable grey suit, carrying nothing at all.

They are known as The Secret Order of Moses. Between them they hold the confidence of most of the world's believers, and they have been in the same business for a very long time. They took their seats without being shown to them.

Rabbi Yaakov Stein sat third from the end.

"Your Eminence. Reverend. Rabbi." Sewickly inclined his head to each in turn. To the woman in grey he gave nothing at all, which was its own kind of respect. "The floor is the Order's."

The cardinal spoke first, unhurried, the way a man speaks when being interrupted has never once occurred to anyone.

"For centuries our influence has worked in harmony with yours, Chairman. We provide the tools. Esoteric knowledge, psychological control, and the stories that hold a society still."

He counted them off on his fingers without any particular feeling.

"The synagogues. The churches. The mosques. Our greatest psychological weapons. The Torah, the Bible, the Quran—chains forged from faith, belief and fear. They have kept the congregation under our control for two thousand years, and the congregation has thanked us for it."

Cohen said with a calculating smirk, "Brilliant, Your Eminence. And now, the next stage?"

The minister answered, in the warm register of a man used to being agreed with.

"Your president announces a draft. All men, eighteen to forty-four, across the West. To protect freedom and democracy—or whatever they're calling it this season."

"And the objective?" Sewickly asked.

"The corridors." The man in the thobe did not look up from the table. "Europe to Asia to Africa, and every route between. Wars leave a population exhausted, disillusioned and cheap. Jerusalem is not a prophecy. Jerusalem is a junction."

"And then?" Cohen asked.

The woman in grey spoke for the first time. Her voice was flat and pleasant, like someone reading a weather report.

"And then you install a man. Not a Christian one. Not a Jewish one. Not a Muslim one."

She looked around the table.

"One engineered so that each of you recognises him as yours. The Second Coming to the churches. The Mahdi to the mosques. Moshiach to the synagogues." A small shrug. "And to the people who believe none of it—the inevitable technocrat. History finally arriving on schedule."

"And resistance?" Sewickly asked.

"There won't be enough of it to name." The minister smiled. "The fundamentalists, the fanatics—they'll believe prophecy is being fulfilled in front of them. The believers will suppress dissent for us. We won't have to lift a hand."

"Nobody is conquered," Rabbi Stein said quietly. It was the first time he had spoken. "Every one of them believes their own promise came true. They enforce it on each other, for free, and they call it faith."

A cold silence fell over the room.

"And within your own houses?" Sewickly asked.

The cardinal answered without hesitating.

"Every one of us has clergy who will refuse. Priests. Imams. Rabbis. Pastors. There are always some who actually believed it." He turned his glass a quarter turn on the wood. "They are expendable."

A pause. Then a correction, delivered mildly, as though accuracy mattered to him.

"No. Necessary sacrifices."

A cold silence fell over the room as the gravity of his words sank in. Sewickly nodded slightly.

"Cohen, reach out to our government operatives in America and Europe," Sewickly sharply commanded.

"The draft must be announced within the week. No delays."

Cohen nodded crisply. "Consider it done."

Sewickly then turns to General Berg.

"General, handle the situation with Zeke Haywood and Amma Enki. I expect results. No loose ends."

General Berg stood straight up and saluted briskly, "It will be done, Chairman."

Sewickly raises his hand, and the meeting is adjourned. The members of the Old World Order file out one by one, their voices murmuring in low tones. Only Sewickly and Cohen remained in the room.

Cohen stood near the table, lighting a cigar.

"Do you think we’ll pull it off, Rutherford? Global domination, the messiah, the final subjugation of the masses?"

Sewickly also lit a cigar, puffed three times, and then took a sip of his 20-year-old scotch.

“I’m certain of it, Bradford. But just in case, there is always a plan B.”