The explosion ripped through the silence of the night, a deafening roar that tore the President of The United States, James Harrington, from the depths of troubled sleep. The aircraft shook violently, metal grinding against metal in an unholy symphony that drowned out the screams from the passengers. James grabbed the sides of his bed as Air Force One dropped in altitude sending his stomach to his throat. At 55, James Harrington was a handsome African American man. Six feet tall, built like an athlete — with one small caveat: a belly earned from too much junk food and too many late nights on the campaign trail. His dark skin complemented his black hair with strands of grey, and deep brown eyes. James had been President for only six months. As the country’s leader, he was required to travel frequently. However, he secretly suffered from a fear of flying and turbulence always made him nervous. The airplane shook violently, causing James to scream in fear. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he fought to stay balanced, still dressed in his presidential pajamas. “Baxter?” he spoke into the intercom, his voice nervous “What is happening?” James stumbled into the aisle reaching out for anything to stay steady. He began coughing as smoke filled his lungs. James could see flickering flames coming from the back of the plane. Screams of terror filled the plane, adding to the atmosphere of panic and impending disaster. Daniel Baxter, Head of Security, appeared at his side, his face filled with unspoken fears. Baxter firmly directed the President up the stairs. “Sir, we need you up in the cockpit,” he said urgently. Another jolt shook the entire 747 aircraft. Daniel Baxter stood tall with a strong, athletic build. With piercing green eyes and a chiseled jaw, his gaze was often met with a challenge from the president’s jokes. Playing games to get Baxter to smile more was a personal mission for the President, especially when they were alone. Baxter and James burst into the cockpit and were met with a flurry of frantic motion. The cockpit was a symphony of noises—warning alarms blaring, emergency notifications sounding, and pilots scrambling to keep the airplane steady. “Captain?” James’ voice trembled with fear as he tightly gripped the back of the pilot’s seat, another shudder running through the aircraft. The leader of the flight, Captain Jack Mitchell, was a Caucasian man in his sixties. He had a loving wife, two children, and three grandchildren. His posture was frantic as he was trying to control the plane. As per tradition for all Air Force One pilots, Jack Mitchell held the rank of Colonel in the US Air Force. The captain’s voice was filled with stress as he delivered the report: “Sir, we’ve experienced an explosion…but the most concerning issue is the fire.” His face was pale and drawn, worry evident in every line. He struggled to maintain control of the plane, his hands frantically working the controls. “I would rather lose control of all four engines than have a fire on board. A fire is one of the most terrifying things that can happen on a flight. In 2010, a Boeing 747 from UPS crashed after only 17 minutes due to a fire…” The captain hesitated as he struggled to control the plane. Regaining control the captain continued “Once a fire starts, it can quickly spread and melt crucial control systems and oxygen supply. We would lose consciousness, and then there is the smoke; soon I won’t be able to see our instruments.” He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. “We are on a sinking ship…we need to land as soon as possible….right now….” “Land?” Chief of Staff John Parker echoed, his pallor ghostly under the red-tinted lights. His composure revealed the stark fear beneath. John Parker, the Chief of Staff, was a Caucasian bespectacled man in his mid-70s with a somewhat stocky build and a conservative style of dress. He had a round face with round ears. His demeanor was often serious, sarcastic, and focused, reflecting his role as a political strategist and Chief of Staff for the President. James’s voice was laced with worry as he inquired, “Where can we land?” His main focus was finding a safe place to land air so he could get out of the aircraft as soon as possible. “Working on it, sir,” a young navigator replied, fingers flying over the keyboard. “It’s…not good.” At just 20 years old, Dylan Harrison was one of the youngest-ever navigators on board Air Force One. He was about to graduate from Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama. Standing at 5 feet and 9 inches tall, he had a slender and wiry frame. His hair was a tousled mess of dark brown locks that framed his face. His face had soft features—a gentle smile and almond-shaped hazel eyes. Dylan was not meant to be on this trip; the original navigator had contracted COVID-19, and the backup had injured himself falling off a ladder earlier that day. It was by sheer luck that Dylan, top of his class, was called up last minute to accompany the President of The United States—something beyond his wildest dreams. “Find somewhere, anywhere,” James said in a panicked voice. “We don’t have a choice.” James fought to stay upright as the pilots desperately tried to control the failing aircraft. The smell of burning filled the cockpit, along with the thicker smoke. The terrified screams of the passengers could still be heard over the chaos. The young navigator replied, “Sir, our options for landing are limited. The United Arab Emirates Air Base is 1,700 miles from here. Our best bet would be our small base in Djibouti in North East Africa on the Horn of Africa. But it is about 700 miles away and it would take us approximately 90 minutes to reach it.” All eyes were fixed on the President, everyone eagerly waiting for his response. James Harrington leaned over to ask the navigator, “How many minutes are we off the coastline of Africa?” Looking up from his computer, the young navigator answered, “We are 10 minutes off the coastline of Somalia—we can try to make an emergency landing there?” “Somalia?” Chief of Staff John Parker interjected, his brows knitting together in concern. “That’s a death sentence!” With gritted teeth, James responded. “Falling from the sky or suffocating from smoke is much worse, John. We will take our chances on the ground.” He turned to Baxter. “What’s our security status in Somalia?” Baxter’s report painted a bleak picture: “Sir, Somalia is extremely dangerous. There has been no stable government in Somalia for four decades, and there are no friendly forces in Somalia. It is overrun with warlords. We are entering a high-risk zone with no assurance of safety.” “Fantastic,” James muttered under his breath. “We might as well be trying to crash land in North Korea.” The African coastline was just beginning to be lit by the early rays of dawn. President James Harrington braced himself as the plane struggled to reach the shoreline.. James reached for the secure phone, punching in a series of numbers with practiced ease. The line connected to Washington, and the Vice President’s voice came through. “Mr. President, how are you?” “Not good Bill, Air Force One is compromised. We’re making an emergency landing in hostile territory in Somalia. Alert the Secretary of Defence, the National Security Council, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, NSA, and the closest US bases. Get our assets mobilized—now.” “Understood,” the Vice President replied, the gravity of the situation resonating across the miles. “Godspeed, Mr. President.” James quickly sent a text message to his wife, Jocelyn. His thumbs moved swiftly over the screen. ‘Love of my life, I am afraid I have some bad news. We are crash-landing in Somalia. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I WILL come back to you, I promise. Be strong, don’t give up’ He hit send, the message a lifeline thrown into the digital void, hoping it reached her before the inevitable crash. James turned to Major Austin Foster, a 35-year-old carrying the nuclear ‘football’ briefcase. He ordered the Major to disable the device, ensuring that no one would be able to access classified nuclear information. “Mayday, Mayday, this is Air Force One declaring an emergency, latitude 10.838512 longitude 51.154232. We have a major fire and smoke aboard the plane with 69 souls,” the pilot broadcasted to any listening outposts. “We are descending rapidly and require immediate assistance, trying to make a controlled crash-landing in Somalia.” Dawn was breaking over the rugged coastline of Africa, revealing a barren landscape with scattered trees beneath mountains to the north. From the air, Somalia appeared picturesque, but it was far from an ideal place to land a plane—there was no airport, no infrastructure, and no security. The captain aimed for a small clearing. “Brace for impact!” the pilot yelled over the intercom, his voice cutting through the crescendo of chaos. James buckled himself into a seat, his hands gripping tightly onto the armrests. His body was tense as he prepared for impact. He closed his eyes and started a silent prayer. The world tilted on its axis as Air Force One slammed into the earth, a steel beast clawing at the unforgiving terrain of Somalia. Inside, President James Harrington was like a test dummy, his body thrown violently against the straps that kept him anchored to his seat. The symphony of destruction drowned out the screams and prayers of the passengers. Air Force One, once a symbol of power and safety, disintegrated into several parts and came to a full stop.

As James began to regain consciousness, the first thing he felt was pain, followed closely by an overpowering smell. His head was hurting, but it was the stench of jet fuel, burning debris, human flesh, and thick smoke that made him want to vomit. James’s world was sideways, gravity pulling at him in a cruel joke—he hung, suspended in his seatbelt. Panic flared within his chest, but he quashed it, releasing the buckle, and landed tilted inside what was left of the cabin. He started to cough. “Mr. President?” A voice cut through the smoke, strained but steady. Captain Rachel Kim, her medic’s bag clutched tightly, crawled from the wreckage, her uniform stained with soot and blood. Captain Rachel Kim descended from South Korean parents who emigrated to the US after the Korean War. Kim was in her mid-40s and had a graceful and elegant demeanor. She was of petite stature with a slender frame. Her hair was styled conservatively, in a neat bun. Her complexion was fair, with clear and smooth skin. She was married and had a nine-year-old daughter. Despite facing financial limitations, Kim was determined to fulfill her dream of becoming a doctor. However, after graduating high school, she joined the US Army instead. Through this route, she was able to attend the Uniformed Services University and complete her training as a doctor for the military. Kim, the President’s Private Physician, quickly assessed James for any wounds. “Fortunately, Mr. President, you have only minor injuries from the seat belt and some smoke exposure. My priority is getting you out of this plane immediately.” James’s mind was clouded as he muttered Rachel’s name. He quickly took in the situation: there were still fires burning and the plane was filled with thick smoke. Sadly, James saw that a lot of the passengers on the plane were unmoving, their bodies burned beyond recognition in a tragedy that would be remembered for generations to come. The few survivors were injured and struggling to breathe, their moans ringing through the wreckage like a haunting melody. Regardless of the physician’s pleas, James adamantly refused to leave the plane and insisted on helping the other passengers. The physician urged the president to step outside for a quicker recovery, but James stood by his decision to assist others first. Kim handed James a face mask. Together they began the somber task of freeing the remaining survivors from the twisted remnants of the cabin. Three members of the security detail, dazed but alive, started to help the rest of the injured passengers. The combination of passengers’ moans and the flickering flames only added to the urgency of the situation. “John!” The name tore from James’s throat as he spotted his Chief of Staff, John Parker. A tree branch had pierced through the plane and impaled John leaving agony across his face. James dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they hovered over Parker, unsure where to start. “Hold on, John. We’re going to get you out of this. Parker attempted to greet the President with his usual sarcastic humor. Parker grabbed James’s wrist tightly. “Welcome to Somalia, Mr. President, I hope you had a pleasant flight,” he managed to say with a strained smile. “Save your strength,” James interrupted, eyes scanning for something, anything to help extricate his friend. “Rachel, can you—” “Already on it,” she interrupted, her hands moving with practiced precision as she administered first aid to John Parker. “Stay with me, John,” James said, gripping Parker’s hand firmly, “We’re going to get through this.” Then gunfire erupted, the sound eerie, foreign, and out of place amid the chaos. James was bewildered—why would there be gunfire? “Sir, we have to move!” Baxter’s voice sliced through the din, his eyes scanning the horizon beyond the wreckage. “They’re coming for us.” James looked down at Parker, the man who had steered him through the turbulent waters of politics, who now lay broken amidst the debris. A mentor, a friend—more than that, family. The Chief of Staff’s gaze met his, imparting a silent plea. “Go, James…” Parker whispered, his voice thinned by pain. “Baxter, we can’t just—” James began, but Parker cut him off. “Remember your oath, Mr. President: to serve and protect the people of America,” Parker reminded him, pain etched across his face. “You must survive Somalia—not just for yourself, but for all of us. You have to live to fight another day”. His expression turned grave as he spoke. “Air Force One does not simply explode and catch fire, forcing it to crash without reason. Someone, somewhere is responsible…” With a deep sadness in his voice, James said. “Can’t leave you here, I feel like I am betraying you” he protested, “Dammit, James, listen!” Parker’s eyes, usually calm and commanding, now flickered with the urgency of a dying flame. “Survive, lead. and fulfill your promises…..and get those responsible for this” Baxter’s hand pushed James away. “Mr. President, we need to move. Now!” With a final glance at John Parker, James rose. His pajamas were stained with blood and dirt. He turned to Baxter, nodding with grim acceptance. James carefully navigated through the smoky, flaming ruins, his eyes scanning for anything useful. He spotted a satellite phone and a GPS device, then quickly grabbed a small first aid kit, a flashlight, and a compact survival knife. After stuffing everything into a backpack, he added a few water bottles and some sandwiches. “Let’s move!” Baxter barked, cover fire echoing in the air. They needed to disappear into the Somali landscape before they were overrun. It was hot and humid and the African sun was burning from a cloudless blue sky. James Harrington’s breaths came in sharp bursts as he and Baxter sprinted from the smoldering skeleton of Air Force One. “Contact left!” Baxter shouted, his voice slicing through the morning air. Two armed Somali militia members stepped out from behind the flames of the engulfed Air Force One. Their expressions of shock quickly turned to surprise as they saw the President of the United States approaching them in pajamas. They each carried an AK-47. At 14 years old, Mohamed Ibrahim was one of the militiamen. He had never received a formal education and instead spent his childhood herding goats alongside his father. Tragically, their entire herd recently perished due to a respiratory illness, leaving the family without any source of income. Yusuf Ibrahim, the father of Mohamed, had no choice but to join forces with the local warlord to provide for his family and protect them. He had to bring his son along as well, as it was their only option for financial stability. If they could capture the President of the United States, they would be able to secure their family’s future and allow them to build a new home and be set for generations. Baxter’s movements were swift and deadly as he took out the 14-year-old with a shot from his sidearm. The boy’s father, witnessing his son’s death, screamed in anguish and aimed his Ak-47 at James. Reacting quickly, James leaped on top of the man to disarm him. But the father was a force to be reckoned with, fueled by rage and driven by a primal desire to cause harm and destruction. During the fight, the satellite phone crashed to the ground and was stepped upon. A sickening crunch, and it was reduced to nothing more than plastic shards and broken dreams. James’s heart sank as he saw the broken phone. James took his eyes off the father, who aimed the rifle at him. “Sir, watch out!” Baxter’s warning came just in time. Baxter lunged forward, interposing himself between the president and the flash of gunpowder. The report of a gun punctuated the air, and Baxter stumbled backward, a bloom of red spreading across his chest. “Baxter!” James yelled, his voice hoarse with panic. He couldn’t lose another comrade, not now. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he overpowered the father, his survival knife finding its mark in the neck of the father. The father was dead before the body hit the ground. James rushed to Baxter’s side. “Stay alive, Mr. President,” Baxter rasped, the fight draining from his eyes even as he clutched his weapon, determined to guard James until his last breath. “Move, sir. You have to move, they are on their way, I will keep them as long as I can.” Exchanging his blood-stained pajamas for the garb of the fallen enemy and securing the AK-47, James cast a final glance at Baxter, who nodded weakly. The makeshift disguise felt foreign against James’s skin, but it was a necessary deception in this land. James reached the relative cover of the trees, his chest heaving with exertion and fear. James crouched among the shadows. He knew he must keep moving, stay one step ahead of the chaos nipping at his heels, but for a moment—a fleeting, precious moment—he allowed himself the luxury of catching his breath. “Jocelyn,” he whispered, her name a talisman against the darkness. He was alone, he was on his own. In the distance, James could hear Baxter screaming to draw their attention. Gunfire erupted again with a distinct crackle, punctuating the screams that filled the air. The wounded and dying cried out in terror, creating a symphony of despair that pierced James’ soul. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into the damp soil beneath him. “Parker, Baxter, Rachel, and everyone else… I swear to discover who is responsible for this, and I will ensure that you all receive your revenge. I swear this before God almighty. I swear it.” The roar of approaching car engines snapped James back to the immediate threat. His hand instinctively reached for the AK-47 at his side, its handle cold and reassuring. Sweat beaded at his temple from the hot African temperature. James continued his journey toward the mountains, the sound of car engines and unfamiliar voices shouting in Somali growing louder as he ran.

Farid Al-Masri jerked awake in his bed, jolted by the sound of a strange metallic roar grinding through the air. His heart thumped as he listened, trying to identify the source of the noise. The noise came closer and closer and Farid feared a possible attack, Farid quickly jumped out of bed where he had been sleeping with two young girls. He grabbed his rifle and rushed outside. Farid’s powerful physique was evident even in the early hours of dawn when he stood completely naked. His impressive muscles were a result of intense training and years of combat experience. His broad chest and sturdy frame bore the scars of countless cuts, stabs, and wounds. His olive skin was weathered by the harsh Somali sun. With his gaze, Farid exuded confidence and strength, a formidable warrior ready to oppose anyone foolish enough to challenge him. Farid was infamous in Somalia for his savage tactics and shrewd leadership style. He would do anything to increase his hold on power, wealth, and influence in the region. His criminal activities included hijacking cargo ships and their crew, exploiting and extorting nearby villages, abducting innocent families, forcing children into military service, and cultivating and trafficking illegal drugs. Farid had been born into a life of poverty on the streets of Cairo in Egypt, never knowing his biological parents. To survive, he banded together with other orphaned children to form a gang where strength was the only currency that mattered. Their means of survival involved theft, extortion, and selling drugs. When Farid became a teenager, he associated himself with individuals linked to the Islamic State Group, not because of any religious beliefs, but because he enjoyed the power and fear that the group instilled in others. Farid was involved in the Arish Attacks during Friday prayers, resulting in the deaths of 311 people and injuring 122 others. While many of his comrades were caught and arrested, Farid managed to escape to Somalia. Somalia was Farid’s favorite country; a place without a government, police, or any form of control. In this lawless land, he could do as he pleased, take any woman he desired, and act as judge and executioner to anyone who crossed his path. And with all the wealth he had accumulated, Farid had never felt more powerful. Farid looked to the sky for the increasingly loud roaring sound, and his gaze landed on a plane in the sky. The aircraft was in trouble as flames and heavy smoke were coming out of the airplane. It was clear that the plane was heading towards a crash in Somalia, in Farid’s controlled territory. Farid watched as the plane approached, and his heart skipped a beat when he recognized it as Air Force One. He could hardly believe his luck. His mind raced with possibilities, the opportunities for profit of the equipment and any surviving passengers, and harvesting organs from the deceased if they acted quickly enough. Speed was of the essence. And what if the President himself is aboard? This would make him richer and more powerful than he ever thought possible. He could raise a massive army and rule Somalia and North East Africa with an iron fist. This is going to be one of the most exciting and profitable days of my life. Farid observed as the mighty symbol of American dominance crashed just a few miles away. He could see, hear, and sense the impact not far off. The crash of the plane reverberated through the ground, sending tremors and deafening sounds in every direction. Gathering a group of 80 men, Farid led them toward the crash site using 20 pickup trucks. It was not hard to miss. They just drove towards the thick black smoke. After a few miles of rough terrain, they finally reached it: the downed Air Force One. The sight took Farid’s breath away. It was not often that one got to witness the enormity of a plane crash, especially one with “United States of America” emblazoned on its side. The sky was filled with thick, black smoke, obscuring the horizon and making it difficult to see anything beyond its suffocating grasp. Fiery orange and red flames danced and licked at the wreckage of Air Force One, a stark contrast to the dark smoke that bellowed from it. The Warlord could hear the screams of survivors and the crackle of flames as he approached the wreckage. The air was heavy with the scent of jet fuel and burned flesh. He knew that he needed to act quickly—time was running out. With steely determination in his eyes, he strode towards the chaos, ready to take whatever he could get. Farid ordered his men to surround the plane and look for any survivors. They would line them up and sort through them later. But as they approached, Secret Service started to fire at them, and a fierce gunfight broke out. The Warlord was caught off guard by the sudden attack, but he quickly regained his composure and ordered his men to take cover. They returned fire, their weapons spitting bullets at the Secret Service agents. For a while, it seemed like the Secret Service had the upper hand. Several of the Warlord’s men fell under the hail of bullets, their bodies crumpling to the ground. But the Warlord was not so easily defeated. He rallied his remaining men, urging them to fight harder. “Keep firing!” he shouted in Somali, his voice hoarse with rage. “We can’t let them take us down!” His men responded with renewed ferocity, pouring more and more fire towards the Secret Service agents. Bullets whizzed past the Warlord’s head as he crouched behind a pile of debris, his AK-47 clutched tightly in his hands. The battle raged on for what felt like an eternity. The Warlord’s men took heavy losses, but they kept fighting, driven by their leader’s fierce determination. Slowly but surely, they started to gain ground, pushing the Secret Service back towards the shore. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the shooting died down. The Warlord’s men emerged victorious, their enemies either dead or had run out of bullets. The air was thick with smoke, the smell of gunpowder, fire, and blood, and the Warlord’s heart was pounding in his chest. “Good work,” he said, clapping his surviving men on the back. “We took down the President’s guards. Now let’s find him—round everyone up in a line.” With a commanding tone, the Warlord directed his men to enter the chaotic interior of the airplane. Inside, smoke and flames filled the space, along with the gruesome sight of injured and deceased individuals strewn about. The intensity of the fire had engulfed half of the plane, creating a dangerous and horrific scene. The stench of burned flesh permeated the air, enough to turn anyone’s stomach. The remaining survivors were being forcefully dragged, shoved, or pushed, with many moaning in agony while others screamed in terror. One young woman repeatedly insisted, “I am an American, you can’t do this to me!” The survivors were gathered in a row outside the blazing aircraft, with some individuals standing tall, others perched on makeshift seats, and a few sprawled out on the ground in agony. The Warlord strode forward, his eyes scanning the frightened faces before him. “Where is President?” Farid asked the group of survivors in broken English, his voice laced with excitement. Farid approached the first in line, the man was Major Austin Turner, who was previously holding the nuclear football. Farid asked him in broken English, “Where is President?” The man responded with his rank and soldier number, and Farid shot him at point-blank range. Everyone in the line started screaming. Farid relished in their screams, knowing it meant they were terrified and more likely to give up information quickly. He usually took his time with torturing people, but he was pressed for time as the plane was ablaze. Every minute lost could cost him a fortune, and he needed to know immediately if the president was on board. The next person in line was the young woman who kept saying, “I am an American, you can’t do this to me.” Farid asked her, “Where is President?” The young woman was in shock and kept repeating, “I am an American.” The bullet entered her skull and she dropped dead with a shock on her face. Farid was sad he had to kill her. He would have enjoyed breaking her in tonight. But order and fear had to be maintained, otherwise, things could get out of control. The next person that Farid asked was the young navigator Dylan Harrison. With tears in his eyes, the navigator pointed in the direction where President James Harrington ran into the tree line towards the mountains. Farid could barely contain his exhilaration. This was it, the pinnacle moment of his entire existence. The President was aboard the plane, and now the most powerful man in the world was on the run in Farid’s territory. Chasing people was always a thrill for Farid; there was nothing quite like the rush of pursuing prey. The President didn’t stand a chance against Farid. Farid knew the land like the back of his hand, and it was only a matter of time before he caught up to his catch. With the President captured, Farid could ask for billions in ransom. Every state in the Middle East, from Yemen to Iran to Iraq all the way to North Korea, would give Farid anything he wanted—money, weapons, and training for his men. Farid would finally have the power and control of Somalia. Nothing could stop him now. Farid commanded his men to split into two groups: 10 would stay behind to protect the plane, its passengers, and any valuable items within. They were ordered to shoot anyone who came near without permission. The remaining men were to join Farid as they went on a hunt. The Warlord turned to his men. “We need to find the President before anyone else does,” he declared, pointing. “Spread out and search everything between here and the mountains.” The men nodded, eager to please their leader. They scattered in all directions, disappearing into the rocky terrain. The Warlord watched them go, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his lips. “James Harrington,” he murmured to himself. “You’re about to become my most valuable hostage.” The Warlord barked orders at his men, shouting for them to move faster as they piled into the pickup trucks. He was impatient, eager to find the President before anyone else did. The sun beat down on the group as they sped towards the mountains, kicking up dust and debris in their wake. The Warlord sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck, scanning the landscape with a pair of binoculars. His eyes darted from side to side, searching for any sign of the President. He could feel his heart racing with excitement, knowing that this could be the key to his ultimate power. Suddenly, one of his men shouted out, pointing towards a rocky outcropping up in the hills in the distance. “There! I see movement!” The Warlord leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the spot. Sure enough, he could make out a man ascending up a rocky slope of terrain. He grinned to himself, feeling a surge of adrenaline. This is it. This is where it all begins. “Drive closer,” he commanded, his voice cold and steady. “We need to get a better look.” The trucks roared forward, bouncing over rough terrain as they got closer to the edge of the mountain. The Warlord could now see more clearly. One man was scaling the mountain. Farid looked on with admiration as the President utilized the landscape to his advantage. The steep incline made it impossible for their vehicles to pursue him. “Abandon the vehicles and let’s catch him on foot,” he ordered, and all fifty men eagerly followed in pursuit of the President.

William “Bill” Grant, the Vice President of The United States, spoke into his mobile phone “Air Force One did not crash into the ocean as intended. It appears the plane has crash-landed in Somalia. We are unsure if there are any survivors.” Despite the yelling and explicit cursing of the caller, the Vice President remained composed. The voice on the other end demanded immediate action and exclaimed, “FIX THIS!” But Grant had a plan. He calmly responded, “I will use his absence and ensuing chaos to demand that I be sworn in as acting President, per the 25th amendment.” Bill Grant stood at an average height, with a lean build. His expressive hazel eyes were framed by a pair of arched eyebrows. His hair, once dark and curly, now displayed hints of silver at the temples, adding a distinguished allure to his appearance. Born and raised in Houston, Texas, Bill Grant grew up in a family of oil magnates. His father, Randolph Grant, had used questionable tactics to acquire countless oil fields over the years. As part of his first deal, Randolph purchased an oil field from a struggling neighbor. Unfortunately, the neighbor had recently experienced a terrible tragedy when his home was ransacked and his wife was killed. The house was left burned to the ground. As a gesture of sympathy and assistance, Randolph offered to buy the neighbor a new home in a retirement community in Florida. Little did anyone know, Randolph was behind the planned robbery at his neighbor’s house. Using similar unethical methods, the Grant family’s oil production grew to become one of the largest in Texas and the entire United States. Randolph had instilled in his son the belief that as a man, you must take what you want because nothing would be given to you. He taught him to always put himself first and prioritize quarterly profits over any moral code. In high school, when Bill raped a cheerleader, his father brushed it off as harmless fun. After greasing palms with a generous donation to the school and contributing to the Sheriff’s campaign fund, there were no consequences for Bill. Except for the tragic fact that the cheerleader took her own life later that year. Randolph envisioned his son climbing to the top of the political ladder, a position that would eliminate bothersome environmental laws and restrictions on running companies and their ability to generate profits. When Bill Grant entered The Situation Room of the White House, it was a hive of contained chaos. The air was thick with tension as the Joint Chiefs of Staff, NSA, CIA, and National Security Council huddled over a cluttered table, maps splayed across it like battle scars. The flickering screens cast an eerie glow, the satellite images dancing across their faces as they discussed deployment strategies. Vice President Grant’s piercing gaze swept across the room, taking in the organized military preparation that would strike fear into any foreign enemies. “Enough!” Grant’s voice sliced through the turmoil. The Situation Room fell silent, all eyes turned to him. “We can’t wait any longer. Pursuant to the 25th Amendment, I request to be sworn in as acting President.” Murmurs erupted. Some heads nodded in agreement, believing in the need for immediate action, while others saw it as a power grab, distasteful given the gravity of their situation. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Victor Thornfield, a seasoned Army veteran with more than 40 years of service, was a large, robust man with a round, friendly face. He had a broad forehead, expressive eyebrows, and warm, inviting eyes. His nose was straight and well-proportioned, sitting above a full, friendly smile. Thornfield’s hair was short and neatly styled, with a touch of gray. Thornfield addressed the Vice President respectfully. “We are exhausting all efforts to locate the President and confirm his status,” he stated firmly as he stood in his powerful role as Chairman. “So, despite not knowing the whereabouts of the President or his condition, you have no plans to fill the role of commander-in-chief?” The Vice President’s response was quick and stern. “We cannot afford a power vacuum. We need someone to lead and keep our defenses up while we continue our search.” The Chairman let out a deep sigh, his face showing obvious reluctance. It was his unwavering dedication to following orders that had propelled Victor Thornfield to the position of Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff. He may not have been the most brilliant candidate, but he was always willing to obey orders. “Very well,” Thornfield said resignedly. “Let’s make arrangements for your swearing-in as President.” Grant’s lips curved into a semblance of a smile, his eyes never leaving the military brass who controlled the chess pieces of global might. “Time is a luxury we don’t have,” Grant said loudly. General Richard Thompson’s hand was firmly clamped on the back of his chair, knuckles blanched white as he stood rigid amidst the clamor of the Situation Room. General Richard Thompson was a tall and lean figure, with a distinct facial structure. His forehead was prominent, and his eyebrows were expressive, with deep-set eyes. Thompson maintained a clean-shaven appearance, with neatly styled short hair. General Richard Thompson, was an accomplished military leader with a decorated career, marked by dedication and duty. Serving in the United States Marine Corps, Thompson gained a reputation for his exceptional leadership skills, strategic thinking, and strong commitment to serving his country. Throughout his time in the military, General Thompson had faced numerous battles but was consistently recognized for his unwavering devotion to his country and upholding the constitution. Thompson’s impressive record caught the attention of political leaders, leading to his role as a trusted advisor to the President of the United States. In times of uncertainty, his guidance was sought after, and his loyalty to the President made him an invaluable asset in navigating the complexities of national security and military affairs. “Are you out of your mind, Bill?” General Thompson stepped forward, his demeanor unflinching. “We don’t even know if the President is—” “Dead or alive, we need leadership,” Grant snapped back, each word laced with ambition. “And I am here, ready to lead.” “Your concern for the chain of command is touching,” Thompson sneered, unconvinced by Grant’s sudden patriotism. “Touching or not, it’s necessary.” Grant stood firm, his eyes darting between the men, gauging their loyalty, their hesitation. Thompson’s voice boomed through the room as he declared, “We are part of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, not politicians. As per the 25th Amendment, you must have the cabinet’s consent before assuming control. You’re barking up the wrong tree.” A collective gasp echoed off the walls. General Thompson’s eyes narrowed; he knew Grant’s game. But the urgency of the crisis overshadowed protocol, leaving a vacuum that Grant was all too happy to fill. Vice President Grant’s face was a storm of anger, his brows drawn together as he addressed the room with authority, pointing at each person in turn. “I want to make this crystal clear,” he stated sternly. “You have all rejected my leadership, and now I hold each and every one of you responsible for the safe recovery of the President and all passengers on Air Force One. If even the slightest mistake occurs, be prepared to answer to me in a senate hearing. I will not hesitate to launch a smear campaign that will strip you of your titles, benefits, and financial stability.” With that final warning, Grant stormed out of the room.

The room was filled with an intense silence until General Thompson finally spoke up. “Don’t let the Vice President’s words distract us from our mission,” he declared with unwavering determination. “He is trying to throw us off our tracks, and he will be back with a vengeance. But we have all been trained for this exact scenario. Our purpose is to protect and bring our President and fellow citizens back to safety.” General Thompson spoke again, “These are our top priorities: 1) Locate the President and determine his status – is he alive, captured, or deceased? Preferably in that order. 2) Retrieve the passengers and or bodies from Air Force One. I need the flight manifests with their names immediately.* 3) Find out if there was any sensitive information on board – documents, war plans, allies, etc. Get me the Deputy Chief of Staff now. 4) The pressing question no one has asked yet: What caused the crash of Air Force One? Was it shot down, a technical malfunction, or something else? Air Force, give me all flight details, and CIA, gather any intel on the incident. 5) I want a live satellite image of the crash site right now. 6) Army and Air Force, how quickly can we have boots on the ground in Somalia? 7) Can the CIA provide me with a comprehensive overview of all the tribes, warlords, government structure, and history of Somalia?” As soon as the orders were issued, the room was filled with a cacophony of urgent voices, and the sound of chairs being pushed back as everyone leaped into action. It was clear who was in charge at that moment. Nadia Khoury spoke loudly and gestured towards a monitor. “We have a live satellite feed of the Air Force One crash site.” The initial view was from above, showing the area in its entirety. “Let’s zoom in and get a closer look,” she instructed. Nadia Khoury was wearing a Somali sarong and headscarf. At just 35 years old, Nadia was already a top analyst at the CIA, known for her sharp intellect, keen insights, and unwavering dedication to uncovering the truth in every circumstance. She was exceptional at analyzing data and fiercely dedicated to fairness and honesty. Originally from Somalia, Nadia came to the US as a refugee at just five years old. Her mother Farhia had made the brave decision to escape an abusive husband, a controlling Warlord, and a failed country to give her daughter a chance at a better life. Nadia specialized in intelligence operations within her home country at the CIA. The camera zoomed in on the crash site, its lens capturing the devastation at a closer range. Shards of metal and debris littered the ground, a testament to the violent crash. The once grand and powerful Air Force One now lay in ruin, its broken and flaming pieces stretching out in all directions. The armed militia fighters added to the scene, their figures a stark contrast against the wreckage. General Thornfield, the Chairman of The Joint Chiefs of Staff, inquired, “Are those our soldiers?” His question hung in the air with a hint of optimism. All eyes in the Situation Room were fixed on the live satellite feed on the monitor, revealing the unfolding events. Militia men were forcefully removing passengers from the plane at gunpoint and lining them up, ignoring their injuries. One tall soldier approached the first person in line and began interrogating them. When they didn’t give a satisfactory answer, the tall man shot him in the head before moving on to the next person. The Situation Room was filled with the sound of screams and disbelief as the terror of the footage played, showing a tall figure ruthlessly taking down passengers one by one. One of the crew members pointed in a different direction. The tall man had a conversation with the crew member and spared their life. The tall man then gathered most of his men, and they all departed in the direction indicated by the passenger. Meanwhile, the rest of the militia held the remaining passengers captive by the plane. Nadia broke the silence. “I recognize that tall figure as Farid Al-Masri: a notorious warlord in Somalia known for his brutal tactics and relentless pursuit of power and control.” Nadia added, “I believe that the President of the United States is still alive and fleeing from the plane.” “Are you suggesting that the militia have a lead on the President’s location?” General Thompson asked, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. Nadia looked away from the monitor, meeting Thompson’s gaze with a determined look. “It seems that Farid Al-Masri and his men are already one step ahead of us, with boots on the ground,” she stated firmly. “Ms. Khoury,” interjected CIA Director Malcolm Blackthorn, “What’s your assessment? The likelihood of the President’s survival in Somalia?” At 63 years old, Blackthorn stood at an average height with a sturdy build. His ruggedly handsome face was marked by striking features, including a square jawline that gave him a chiseled appearance and piercing eyes that conveyed a wide range of emotions. His well-defined brow added to his distinguished look, as did his neatly trimmed short hair that showcased natural grey strands. Furthermore, he emitted an authoritative presence and spoke with a powerful, expressive voice that commanded attention. Director Malcolm Blackthorn was a mysterious and shrewd mastermind. With his cunning and Machiavellian tactics, it was hard to pin down where Blackthorn’s allegiances truly lay; he operated in the shadows, always one step ahead. Blackthorn had joined the CIA during his college years and remained a member of the agency, constantly undermining and betraying his colleagues to advance up the ranks. After a lifetime of employing various subversive tactics, Blackthorn had risen to become the youngest Director in the history of the CIA. He had successfully maintained this position for the past two decades. Blackthorn had an extensive file on every politician, containing their hidden secrets. This kept politicians from crossing or investigating the CIA, ensuring Blackthorn’s protection. The fear of having their secrets exposed by Blackthorn often deterred politicians from selecting him for senate hearings. Nadia locked eyes with Blackthorn as she spoke, “We’re all aware that the President is a decorated Marine with a history of bravery and renowned tactics from his past tours, but that was a long time ago. This is Somalia, where he has no support. Can you give us an update on his physical condition? Is he injured? Is he on his own? What resources does he have for survival, such as food, water, or weapons? And most importantly, how quickly can we reach him to offer support?” The Chief of Staff for the Air Force General Masimba Turner, cleared his throat and the room went quiet. Turner was a distinguished African American officer, who had served the Air Force with unwavering loyalty and dedication throughout his illustrious career. Turner, a man in his 50s, had a distinctly expressive face with warm, friendly eyes that could convey a wide array of emotions, from intense passion to heartfelt vulnerability. Turner had a medium build and carried himself with a natural grace and confidence. Turner sported a well-groomed hairstyle, sometimes with short curls or a neatly trimmed look, which complemented his youthful yet mature appearance. Turner’s father had fled Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) during a time when apartheid, though not officially condoned, was heavily influenced by the neighboring country of South Africa. In a calm and collected tone, General Masimba Turner relayed the latest information. “A C-130 Hercules aircraft will be departing from Camp Lemonnier air base in Djibouti within 1 hour, carrying the 82nd Expeditionary Rescue Squadron. Our Airbase is around 550 miles away and we can deploy the paratroopers over the crash site within the next 4 hours. However, there are grave risks associated with parachute missions jumping into a hostile environment.” General Turner continued, “Our main objective is to locate and secure the President. Our second objective is to secure Air Force One, eliminate any hostile threats, and safely rescue all passengers. Once we have secured the area, our next challenge will be getting everyone out of Somalia quickly and efficiently.” Looking around the room Turner continued “We cannot afford to waste any time and I suggest using airlifts to transport everyone out. Unfortunately, the range of our Ospreys won’t allow round-trip flights for retrieval.” The General looked at the Admiral for the Navy, “Admiral Borja, do you have any suggestions?” Admiral Mathew Borja had a medium build and stood at an average height, around 5 feet 10 inches tall. Borja was known for his youthful appearance and had a boyish charm. He had dark hair that he styled casually. His eyes were a light brown color and often conveyed warmth and humor. Borja had a clean-shaven face and maintained a well-groomed appearance. Admiral Mathew Borja was a pioneering leader in the U.S. Navy, shattering boundaries and setting new standards for excellence. Growing up in a family deeply rooted in faith and compassion, Borja was surrounded by stories of bravery, duty, and devotion to the country from his father David, a pastor. His mother Jennie, a school teacher, joined her husband in the difficult decision to leave their home country of Brazil in search of greater opportunities for their children. This strong familial bond left a lasting impression on Mathew, who dedicated his life to serving his new country as a decorated naval officer. From a young age, he knew that military service was his calling. Admiral Borja addressed the group, “The Carrier Strike Group 2, led by the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, is currently making its way from the conference in Madagascar and is approximately 1,600 miles away. It will take an estimated 48 hours to reach Somalia at full speed. Once we arrive, we will have control of the surrounding waters and can provide air support and airlift as needed.” General Masimba Turner of the Air Force chimed in. “Thank you, Admiral. Time is of the essence. Our bases in the Middle East are not close enough for our strike fighters or helicopters, but 6 reconnaissance planes are in the air and they will be able to cover and show us all the details we need on the ground. They will be over the air in Somalia in about 6 hours. Bombers and further paratroopers are standing by on high alert.” The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who also served as the Army Chief of Staff, said, “Within the next 12 hours, our bases in the Middle East will be sending approximately 20 tanks and 40 reconnaissance vehicles to Somalia for deployment. They should be parachuted in and be operational in about 24 hours in Somalia.” General Thompson asked, “What is the latest visual coverage of the President and the rebels?” Nadia swiftly briefed them on the current situation. “Based on the most recent satellite imagery, it seems that the rebels are chasing after someone. I believe it’s POTUS.” Everyone present in the room focused their attention on the screen, which showed a real-time view of the rebels moving hastily in one direction. Chairman Thornfield muttered, “Can things possibly get any worse?” as he felt the weight of the situation bearing down on him. His eyes were fixed on the real-time satellite footage, only adding to his stress. “Sir,” Nadia Khoury interjected, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel. “It can.” All eyes turned toward her as she held up her tablet, the screen displaying a news report. Helena Martinez’s face filled the frame, the chyron beneath her pulsing with the breaking news: Air Force One Down in Somalia. Nadia’s expression remained stoic, but her mind raced with the ramifications. “Helena Martinez has just gone live,” she said, relaying the information. “She’s reporting that Air Force One went down in hostile territory in Somalia and the status of the President is unknown: could be alive, could be dead, or maybe even taken hostage. The news is already spreading like wildfire on all media channels.” “Damn it, Grant!” General Thompson cursed under his breath. “The Vice President is trying to stir up a media frenzy so he can claim the presidency, and we’re still in the dark as to the President.” “Get me a line to Martinez, now!” barked the Chairman, his stoicism cracking as he reached for the nearest phone. “We need to control the narrative before it spirals further.” “Sir, with this leak, we should assume that every ally and enemy faction in North Africa and the Middle East are mobilizing,” Nadia commented. Using her vast understanding of the regional militant factions, she added, “Everyone is determined to locate the President. They all want their pound of flesh.” “Coordinate with the intel teams, Nadia. We need eyes on the ground, and I want options on the table five minutes ago,” Thompson ordered, turning to the other chiefs who were already moving into action. “Time is not on our side,” the Chairman added with a hardened edge to his voice. “We need to find the President before they do.”

The phone rang at 11:47 pm. An unexpected call at this hour was rarely good news. It was the Vice President, and his words were so serious, they shocked Helena. With an intense tone, he delivered the news. “Helena, Air Force One has crash-landed in Somalia,” he said, and the words struck her like a physical blow. “Is the President—?” Her question died in her throat, fear clotting her words. “We don’t know yet. It’s chaos over there.” The Vice President’s voice was grim, the weight of uncertainty a palpable thing. “Spread the word, but don’t mention where you heard it from. You are the only reporter I trust.” “Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I’ll be on it,” she managed, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. Helena Martinez came from a Mexican family. Her parents had immigrated across the US-Mexico border before she was born, and all four of her siblings were born in the US, making them citizens by birthright. Her father had worked in construction since arriving in the US, while her mother had been a house cleaner for wealthy families in Beverly Hills. Helena, in her mid-40s, stood at an average height with long, dark brown hair. Helena’s captivating appearance and sharp intellect had landed her a position as a reporter for a small, local Spanish-speaking TV station in Los Angeles. Her focused coverage of the dangerous conditions faced by Mexican immigrants attempting to cross the border, as well as the lack of support for their rights and medical needs, had made her a household name within the Latino community. Helena’s exposé on the hypocrisy of the wealthy and powerful who publicly claimed to be against illegal immigration while secretly hiring and exploiting undocumented workers for below minimum wage had garnered multiple news awards and caught the attention of major network stations. With seamless ease, Helena had transitioned from reporting to a Spanish-speaking audience to becoming a respected voice in the English-speaking national news scene. She dialed her producer, the calling tone punctuating the stillness of the night. The line clicked, and a groggy voice answered. “Sarah, get to the studio, now!” Helena commanded while she grabbed her keys and coat. Her car screeched to a halt outside the studio. Every second counted. She sprinted towards the entrance, where Sarah, her producer awaited, with a grave expression. Together, they raced to the newsroom, the energy electric. The studio was a flurry of activity when Helena arrived, only 35 minutes after the call. Lights snapped on, cameras wheeled into position, and technicians scurried about like a colony of ants disturbed from their nest. “Camera one, get ready for Martinez,” Sarah barked, her eyes locked on Helena who strode onto the set, her expression a mask of controlled intensity. “10 seconds,” someone shouted, and the countdown began. “Deep breaths, Helena,” Sarah whispered in Helena’s earbud. “This is it.” Helena nodded, steeling herself, feeling the weight of her responsibility. Then it happened—the global TV network shattered the calm of households across the nation and the world. “We interrupt this program for breaking news.” The familiar chime that preceded the most urgent of announcements rang out, cutting through sitcom laughter, the cheers of late-night shows, the droning of late-night infomercials and the broadcast of live sports events. On screens big and small, people were jolted upright, their attention snared. It was 12:28 am Sunday morning in Washington. “Good evening, this is Helena Martinez with an urgent update,” she announced, her voice a beacon of clarity amidst the brewing storm. “We have received confirmed reports that Air Force One has crash-landed in Somalia. Details are scarce, and the condition of President James Harrington remains unknown.” A collective gasp rippled through living rooms, bars, and bedrooms. The balance of the world shifted as the news anchor, known for her determination and dreaded for her relentless search for truth, delivered the words that altered everything. Off-screen, Sarah gave a silent nod of approval. Helena’s delivery was perfect—grave, yet composed. But inside, Helena’s heart raced. Helena Martinez stood before a colossal map illuminating the studio walls, her finger tracing the jagged coastline of Somalia. “This,” she said, voice taut with urgency, “is where Air Force One is believed to have crash-landed.” The map zoomed into an area marked with a blinking red dot, and the screen split, flanking Helena with images of desolation—ruins of buildings, famine, poverty, armed militias, the vestiges of a country ravaged by decades of conflict. As she spoke, her voice trembled with emotion. “Somalia,” she said, shaking her head, “a country ravaged by four decades of civil war, famine, lack of government and law enforcement, absence of education, but plenty of terror from powerful warlords and Al-Shebaab.” Her words painted a stark contrast as the footage rolled from the chaos of the failed state to President James Harrington’s recent address in Madagascar. There he was on the screen, the embodiment of hope, speaking fervently to a crowd at Mahamasina Municipal Stadium in Madagascar. The president’s face then froze in a moment of optimism, waving atop the stairs of Air Force One before it took off for its fateful flight. “Our reporters have picked up the Mayday call that was transmitted from Air Force One.” “Mayday, Mayday, this is Air Force One declaring an emergency. We are descending rapidly and require immediate assistance, trying to land in Somalia.” As the distorted audio clip played, Helena’s hand flew to her mouth in disbelief, a wave of emotions washing over her. The weighty stillness was interrupted by Helena’s grave and chilling voice as she began to speak after playing the audio clip. She commented, “We’ve been informed that the Air Force is facing difficulties, but it’s a different experience to hear the actual emergency call recording from the flight deck. This story is happening in real-time, and we are responding to what we receive… I’ve also been told that we have obtained cell phone footage taken from a merchant ship in the Indian Ocean.” A video, filmed in a shaky portrait mode from a cell phone, showed Air Force One in distress. Smoke and flames poured out of the back of the plane, causing several people filming to exclaim “oh my god” and express shock and dismay. The world was watching Helena on their TV sets. The news erupted into a global story. As the live footage of the AFL game between Brisbane Lions and Gold Coast was interrupted, it was already Sunday at 14:28 in Brisbane, Australia. The local pub was filled with shocked and disbelieving fans as they watched the unexpected turn of events. At 05:28 am in Copenhagen, Denmark, the morning TV and radio programs were interrupted with breaking news. The early viewers and listeners froze in shock as they heard the announcement.

As reports of the President’s plane crash spread fear and shock around the world, it paled in comparison to the overwhelming horror and disbelief experienced by The First Lady of The United States, Jocelyn Harrington. Jocelyn’s shrill scream echoed through the once bustling and organized executive suite at the White House in Washington, causing everyone to jump. Jocelyn Harrington was born and raised in Compton, where her family struggled to make ends meet. Her father, Thomas King, worked long night shifts as a taxi driver while her mother, Barbara King, worked as a nurse during the day. Despite their financial struggles, Jocelyn’s parents were always loving and supportive of her and her three sisters. They instilled in Jocelyn the importance of kindness and hard work. Jocelyn, four years younger than James Harrington, had met him while working at a Diner in Compton. She was studying for her Bachelor’s Degree in Fine Art at El Camino College. James had returned from his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and caught Jocelyn’s attention with his good looks, charm and an intelligence that she found mesmerising. It didn’t take long for them to become a couple. James quickly immersed himself in community work in Compton, lending a hand to seniors, students, and anyone else who needed help navigating issues with the police, mayor, or planning department. He made a significant impact on the lives of many, so it was no surprise when he ran for Mayor and won by a landslide. Despite their numerous attempts, they were unable to conceive a child. Tragically, some pregnancies ended in miscarriage during the first trimester, while one baby passed away from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and another did not make it through childbirth. For Jocelyn, the most difficult part was not being able to fulfill her dream of motherhood. Jocelyn never fully recovered from the loss. Now, there was a possibility of losing James as well. Jocelyn had received the message from James. “Love of my life, I am afraid I have some bad news. We are crash-landing in Somalia. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I WILL come back to you, I promise. Be strong, don’t give up” She had tried to call him but could not get through to his phone. She did not want to believe the text message but the announcement from Helena Martinez and the cell phone footage had made the crash all too real. But Jocelyn knew that James was alive and that he would come back come hell or high water. Nothing would stop him. While James was away, her parents had come to visit her and now they were rushing towards her, their faces twisted in an expression of shock and disbelief at seeing their daughter in such a state. They reached out to each other for support, finding solace in their shared distress. Her father’s voice caught as he spoke her name, trying to stay composed for his daughter. “Mom, Dad…” It was all Jocelyn managed before her voice broke, the dam of her poise yielding to an outpour of dread. She clutched at her pajama top, the fabric twisted in her grip—every fiber of her being yearning for James, for his reassuring presence, his unyielding resolve. “Mrs. Harrington,” a White House aide approached, hesitantly. “We should make a statement.” “No.” Jocelyn’s voice was steel wrapped in velvet, the First Lady emerging from the wife’s shell-shocked exterior. “Not until we know. Not until I hear from James.” Her resolve steadied the room, if just for a moment. Every eye locked onto hers, finding an ember of determination in the uncertainty. Though her heart was besieged by fear, Jocelyn Harrington still stood as a pillar, a testament to the strength that drew James to her side. “James,” she whispered, her voice a fractured whisper against the storm of emotions. The memory of his touch, the warmth of his smile, all of it coursed through her, fueling a belief that defied logic and reason. He was out there, somewhere and he had promised to return. “Be strong,” she reminded herself, clutching the locket that rested against her chest—a trinket from their early days, now a talisman against the terror that sought to engulf her soul. She thought of how James had lifted Compton, one heart at a time, his resolve unshakable, his spirit indomitable. If anyone could survive this, it was him. Jocelyn paced the length of the executive suite, her bare feet whispering across the plush carpet. The night’s chill seeped in through the windows, but it was the cold knot of uncertainty lodged in her stomach that truly chilled her to the bone. Her parents sat on the couch, their expressions drawn and weary—echoes of countless nights spent worrying about ends meeting, yet always ensuring their children never felt the weight of poverty. A fragmented laugh escaped Jocelyn. Here. The White House. It had seemed surreal, even before tonight’s nightmare began. She stopped pacing and turned to the window, watching the Washington skyline—a stark contrast to the sun-bleached diners and graffiti-tagged alleys of her youth. Her mind raced back to the day James Harrington walked into the Diner, his smile cutting through the clatter of dishes and idle chatter. There was a depth in his gaze, an understanding born from battlefields far away. Jocelyn had seen handsome men before, but James—James was different. He carried wisdom and an unspoken promise of change, not just for her, but for everyone whose voices were seldom heard. “Jocelyn?” Her father’s voice pulled her back to the present, the executive suite now a silent fortress of anticipation. “Sorry, just… thinking.” She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She thought of James, of the spark that ignited between them over cheap coffee and shared ideals. They had built a life on the belief that tomorrow could be better than today. That hope was their foundation, and now it trembled beneath the specter of tragedy. “James is strong,” she whispered mostly to herself, a mantra against fear. “He will come back, he promised.” Her parents shared a glance, their own fears momentarily soothed by the resolve in their daughter’s voice. But as they watched her, the First Lady standing tall amidst the storm, they saw not only the strength they nurtured but also the indomitable spirit that had captured the heart of a nation. Jocelyn’s fingers trembled as they hovered over the phone, the screen’s glow casting eerie shadows across her taut face. The text message hammered at her senses, a cruel echo of dread: “We are crash-landing in Somalia, Be Strong. I WILL come back to you.” Her thumb pressed the call button with a determination born of desperation, but the line offered only silence—no ring, no connection, just a void where James’ voice should be. The room swayed around her, a carousel of faces—her parents, staff—all mirroring her own shock and fear, yet none could penetrate the singular focus that hardened within her. James would return. This was not where their story ended. “James Harrington will come back to me,” Jocelyn declared to the silent witness of the morning sky, her voice carrying the weight of conviction and a love that refused to yield to fear. “He promised!”

Under the night sky, the White House loomed like a silent sentinel as the impromptu press conference gathered momentum like a storm. The floodlights cut through the darkness, casting long shadows over the throng of journalists who buzzed with a frenetic energy that electrified the air. Their voices crescendoed into a cacophony of queries and conjectures, all clamoring for any news updates. Suddenly, the double doors burst open and William “Bill” Grant stepped out onto the stage. His silhouette, framed by the interior light, was instantly recognizable—the Vice President, a man whose ambition was as notorious as his sharp Texan wit. He strode forward, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that commanded silence. “Quiet!” he bellowed, the single word slicing through the din with the force of a whip crack. As if on cue, the reporters’ shouts dwindled into a hushed murmur, their attention riveted on the man before them. “Listen up,” Bill began, his voice resonating with a gravity that belied the hour. “At approximately 11 am Eastern Time, which is 5 am in Somalia, I received a phone call from the President.” He paused for effect, ensuring every journalist hung on his next words. “Air Force One was in trouble, and they were forced to make an emergency landing in Somalia in an area with no airports.” A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as pens clicked and cameras whirred. Grant’s face remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed a flickering of triumph—this was his hour, his destiny unfolding. “Air Force One crash-landed in an open field in the northeastern part of Somalia,” he continued, the weight of each word felt by all. “At this point, we have no indication whether the President is alive, captured, or dead. Nor do we know the status of the rest of the crew and passengers.” The revelation sent shockwaves through the assembled media, but Grant stood firm, unflinching in the floodlight’s glare. “Given these dire circumstances,” he declared, his tone shifting to one of solemn responsibility, “I request the cabinet to swear me in as the President of the United States under the 25th amendment.” The air crackled with urgency as Grant’s words echoed off the White House façade. A cacophony of voices rose—journalists shouting for his attention, a tidal wave of inquiries crashing over the night’s silence. With a calculated coolness, Grant surveyed the feverish crowd, his keen eyes locking onto one reporter and pointing to Erin. “Mr. Vice President! What caused Air Force One to crash land in Somalia?” the journalist barked, her voice slicing through the clamor. Grant lowered his hands, an authoritative gesture silencing the mob. “Sabotage. We believe there was some sort of firebomb aboard the plane, maybe a foreign government was involved?” he stated, his voice steady and grim. The revelation rippled through the crowd, pens pausing mid-sentence, recorders capturing every syllable of the chilling possibility. Before the shock could settle, another voice cut in, desperate for clarity amid the unfolding crisis. “Why request to be sworn in as the President now when we don’t yet know the fate of the current President?” Grant’s jaw tightened at the question, igniting a spark of defiance within him. “Somalia is known as one of the most dangerous places on Earth,” he began, each word carrying a quiet but firm intensity. “Somalia is in the middle of a brutal civil war, controlled by ruthless warlords and the terrorist group Al-Shabaab. There is no functioning government and we have no U.S. or allied forces present.” He stopped, giving a moment for the severity of the circumstances to register. “Our top priority is finding the President and determining his status,” he declared, his tone firm with determination. “In the meantime, America requires strong and capable leadership.” All eyes were on him as he spoke, the press feeling the gravity of this pivotal moment. “We must establish a clear chain of command and a strong commander in chief. Our enemies need to understand that we will not waver in our strength and determination. I vow to find those responsible for this despicable act. Our enemies cannot relax; they must know that America is vigilant and ready to unleash the full force of our military power.” The media frenzy was in full swing, with everyone yelling questions and talking over each other. The vice president gestured towards a male reporter from a major TV network who had raised his voice to ask, “Is there a rescue mission being planned?” The Vice President declared, “I have complete trust in The Joint Chiefs of Staff. They are diligently positioning satellites to provide us with ground reconnaissance. As we speak, they are strategizing a rescue mission that will be executed as soon as possible. Our ultimate goal is to retrieve all individuals, whether they are alive or deceased. Additionally, we must secure control of Air Force One. We cannot allow it to fall into the hands of our adversaries.” A member of The Vice President’s team leaned in close to the Vice President’s ear, murmuring something confidential. The usually loud and boisterous press suddenly hushed, all eager to hear any snippets of the whispered conversation. Grant’s initial confusion turned to shock before he composed himself and continued on with his duties. The press pool fell into a hushed silence, sensing that more news was on its way. They eagerly awaited the Vice President’s next words. “I am pleased to announce that President James Harrington is alive…” The Vice President’s statement was cut off by a burst of cheers and relieved exclamations from the press, resembling the roar of fans at a football match when their team scores a goal in overtime. The Vice President silenced the press team with a gesture, determined to deliver his update. “However, Air Force One is currently besieged by a Somali Warlord and we have reason to believe that President Harrington has managed to escape into the nearby mountains.” The news that a Somali Warlord had taken control of Air Force One and that the President was forced to escape sent the entire group of journalists into a frenzy. Questions, accusations, shock, and disbelief filled the impromptu press conference into a deafening noise. Every journalist with a microphone was screaming on top of their lungs to get the attention of the Vice President. Amongst the cacophony of questions, one stood out: “When can we rescue the president?” The Vice President responded cautiously, carefully selecting his words. “This is an evolving situation occurring thousands of miles away in real time. We cannot reveal our arrival time to our enemies. But rest assured, if any harm comes to an American or Air Force One, our troops will hunt you down and execute you. I have time for one more question.” The Vice President pointed to a well-known male reporter from a national TV broadcaster and said, “Peter.” TV reporter Peter Johnson posed the question, “It’s common knowledge that as Vice President, you and President Harrington do not see eye to eye on military spending versus investing in schools, hospitals, and infrastructure. If something were to happen to the President, will you continue his policies or push forward with your own agenda that you campaigned fiercely for? Would it not be advantageous for you if the President were no longer in the picture?” The Vice President was visually shocked from the question and if eyes could kill, Peter would no longer be around. The press corp immediately fell silent. The Vice President started to answer but stuttered the first couple of times and then he composed himself, raised his shoulder and with a stern look answered Peter. “First of all, I am shocked that you would even ask such a question. We are doing everything to locate and bring back our beloved President. Second of all, I serve at the pleasure of the President. And third of all, who can focus on budget policies when we are in the middle of a national crisis? As a Vice President, I am here to serve in the absence of the President and thereby protect America, its people and interests. The only logical conclusion is to use the 25th amendment to swear me in as acting President until our President returns.” With that, Vice President Grant turned on his heel, the tails of his coat fluttering like a dark flag in the night breeze. He strode back toward the West Wing, leaving behind a storm of thundering questions and flashing cameras. His silhouette, framed against the iconic backdrop, conveyed an unspoken promise: he would lead, no matter the cost. As they made their way towards the West Wing, the Vice President turned around to address the group of journalists again. His eyes were full of fiery determination as he commanded their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Bill Grant’s voice boomed, cutting through the tense atmosphere, *“Let us not forget our past experience with the 25th Amendment. We have utilized it numerous times before. For example, in 1985, when President Reagan underwent surgery, George H. W. Bush Senior was sworn in as acting President for approximately 8 hours. And on June 29, 2002, Vice President Dick Cheney served as acting President for about an hour while President W. George Bush was in surgery. If we can invoke the 25th Amendment for medical procedures, surely we can also use it in a situation where we do not know the whereabouts of our President in a foreign country without direct communication?” The Vice President’s statement hung heavy in the air as he pivoted, leaving a trail of contemplative barks of questions behind him. He strode confidently towards the West Wing, his mind racing with possibilities. A smile played on his lips, a private victory already taking shape. Power was within grasp, and the country’s need for strong leadership paved the way. Bill Grant strode into a small meeting room with Head of CIA Malcolm Blackthorn, both men wearing stern expressions as they dialed into a secure line. A voice came through the receiver, accusing and issuing an ominous ultimatum. “Bill, do you understand what’s at stake?” The voice hissed like a serpent coiled around America’s heart. Grant’s eyes were unflinching and resolute as he replied sharply, “I do.” Blackthorn nodded in agreement, his expression grim. “You owe us, Bill. We invested millions in your failed presidential campaign with the expectation that you would win and deliver. That plan flopped and now the crash has also failed. This was supposed to be your moment to shine. Instead, we’re stuck in limbo, uncertain of the President’s whereabouts or if he will even return. You must take control now. Reverse those budget cuts before it’s too late. The strength of America’s military depends on this decision.” Bill Grant leaned forward, his knuckles turning white against the table as he responded with determination, “Consider it done, he never should have given that speech in Madagascar, he was selling out our military and giving in to communism.” The dim light of a secure phone set to speaker outlined Grant’s silhouette across the conference table while Blackthorn leaned in attentively, focused on the crackling voice filling the room. “Then let’s be clear,” the voice continued with menacing tones, “James Harrington must not return from Somalia.” Blackthorn interjected confidently, “He won’t. We have assets in place. If Harrington is still alive, he’ll be… taken care of before he can pose a threat.” His voice clinical yet tinged with brutality, Blackthorn added, “Our contacts in the region are trustworthy. They know their orders.” “Good.” The voice on the line seemed momentarily satisfied, like a viper basking in the sun of promised chaos. “Remember, Bill, control the cabinet, control the game. It’s your move.” As the call ended, a heavy silence filled the room like the darkness outside. Grant stood up with his reflection on the polished table surface resembling a ghostly image of ambition. He walked towards the door, each step deliberate and purposeful, as he carried the weight of potential power. “Let’s get to work, Malcolm,” he said without turning back. “History won’t write itself.”

The sound of an AK-47 shattered the illusion of safety, looking down James could see about twenty or so determined figures moving like ants across the rugged terrain, chasing him, pointing up toward him, and encouraging each other. The advantage was his—for the moment. James wasn’t worried, not yet. The AK-47’s reputation preceded it: robust, deadly, but unreliable when shot from afar. James knew this; a knowledge forged from years of service. He’d seen these rifles in the hands of friends and foes alike, and had witnessed their lack of accuracy from long ranges like this. “Let them shoot, and waste their bullets” James muttered to himself, breathless but resolute. “I need to get to higher ground.” The heat was relentless, the sun showing no mercy. The humidity hung thick in the air, stifling. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the sky remained empty of clouds. James needed to find shade soon, but so did his pursuers. Maybe there’d be relief at the top—a patch of shade, a hint of a breeze? He scrambled upward, muscles burning, mind focused. The mountain was his ally, its sheer faces and treacherous paths a barrier no vehicle could conquer. He pressed on, the echo of shouts and gunfire spurring him higher, faster. Rounds continued to pepper the mountainside, a futile expenditure of ammo and hope. James smirked at the thought—every wasted shot was a second bought, a step closer to survival. Muscles aching and lungs screaming for air, James Harrington’s hands grappled with the rocky incline, his bleeding fingers and hands finding grip on the jagged edges. The local attire, now torn and grimy, clung to his sweat-drenched back as he hoisted himself up yet another foot. His heart hammered against his ribcage. James paused, chest heaving, and pressed his cheek against the cool mountainside. The weight of his own body felt like an anchor pulling him down, and he cursed the lavish lifestyle that had softened his once-hardened Marine physique. Pain lanced through his side—a stitch threatening to unravel his very will to move. “Move, dammit,” he hissed, forcing himself through the cramp. Weakness wasn’t an option—not now. But his body rebelled, ignoring his commands. “Do this to survive, do this for Jocelyn, you promised” Only through sheer willpower, laser focus, and the raw instinct to survive did he manage to push his body into action again. Gritting his teeth, he forced his limbs into action once more, clawing upward with renewed desperation. With every pull, with every scrape of his sandals against the mountain, he climbed not only to escape pursuit but to defy the fast food on the campaign trail and the endless lunches with allies, and foes across numerous town hall meetings. Finally allowing himself a moment, James glanced below. Through the haze of exhaustion, he made out the shapes of his pursuers. They were still far enough below, but the sight of them sent a shiver down his spine. He noted their progress, and their persistence, and understood the depth of his peril. His gaze flickered, catching the reflection of sunlight off cars winding their way around the mountain. There were at least ten vehicles, perhaps more, all heading in different directions – circling the mountain, maybe there was another way up the mountain? The cars were a strategic plan to prevent his escape. “Time to climb,” he breathed out, commanding his body to climb again. Exhausted, he set his sights on the peak above. Every second counted, every movement was calculated. James shifted his focus upward, tearing off pieces of his clothing to wrap around his scratched, bruised, and bloodied hands. He gripped new holds, his feet pushing off with every ounce of strength he could muster. With a surge of determination, he climbed higher It was mid-morning in Somalia, and the sun burned so fiercely you could boil an egg on a stone. The humidity clung to the air, making it hard to breathe. Sweat poured from James’ body, evaporating as quickly as it formed, and dehydration was setting in fast. Muscles straining and lungs burning under the hot humid Somali sun, James Harrington clambered up the rugged face of the mountain. He stole a glance downward, where the jagged terrain served as both his savior and tormentor. Below, most of his pursuers were also struggling and had stopped to catch their breath. “Great, I am not the only one out of shape.” “Think, James, think,” he muttered under his breath. The words were a lifeline, a mantra to keep the panic at bay. But reality’s cruel bite intruded as two figures separated from the struggling pack below, their ascent swift and sure, not stopping to catch their breath. The advantage of being young and lean. James sipped some water to soothe his dry parched throat. Crash-landed in unfriendly territory, sporting bruises like badges, he had little more than survival essentials—a couple of bottles of water, some sandwiches, and an AK-47 with eighteen bullets. And he had never fired an AK-47 before. He paused, breath heavy, as the weight of his situation settled on his shoulders. Alone, outmatched, and outgunned by a country that wanted him captured at any cost. In this moment of stillness, he felt the full measure of his title: President of the United States, now the most wanted man in Somalia. No help would come—not soon enough. No John Parker to guide him, no Marines on the horizon. Just him, his wits, and the will to survive. With Jocelyn’s image etched into his heart, he vowed silently, “I will make it home, this is not where I die, I will NOT be captured” The two relentless shadows were drawing nearer, their determination as palpable as the heat rising from the rocks. “Focus,” James commanded himself, his gaze lifting to the summit above. That peak was freedom, or at least a chance at it. He couldn’t afford hesitation, couldn’t succumb to the vice grip of fear. “Adapt!” he muttered under his breath, echoing the Marine Corps mantra that had carried him through countless life-or-death moments. The two young pursuers, agile and unwavering, were closing in—eager hounds on the scent of their quarry. “Improvise!” James found a rock, its surface weathered and solid against the chaos of his predicament. He lowered himself into a kneeling position, steadying his shaking hands on the hot stone. Through the AK-47’s scope, the world narrowed down to the sight of two figures darting up the mountain. Inhaling deeply, he centered himself, recalling the discipline required for precision under pressure. The first shot shattered the silence, the recoil jarring his shoulder and throwing the bullet wide. Biting back a curse, James recalibrated, his training supplanting any lingering doubt. “Seventeen bullets,” he whispered, a stark reminder of the scant ammunition between him and oblivion. A vision of Jocelyn flashed before him, her strength fueling his resolve. “I promised her,” he breathed out, the words a solemn vow. He squeezed the trigger again, this time with deadly accuracy. The leading figure collapsed mid-stride, gravity carrying the body downward—a life extinguished in the blink of an eye. “Hide, don’t look,” he cautioned himself as the second man hesitated, a fatal error that James capitalized on. Another burst from the rifle, and the young pursuer tumbled backward, joining his comrade in a macabre dance down the mountainside. “Fifteen bullets. Overcome!” Below him, pandemonium reigned. The men scattered, their shouts piercing the air as they unleashed a barrage of bullets that carved up the dirt and stone around him. They weren’t advancing now, buying James precious seconds. With grim determination, he pushed onwards, his focus singular: reach the summit. Each step was agony, his muscles screaming in protest, but the thought of seeing Jocelyn again propelled him forward. He couldn’t afford to look back; the mountain demanded his full attention. James hauled himself over a particularly treacherous ledge, feet scrabbling for purchase. There was a moment where he teetered on the brink, heart thundering in his chest before he regained balance and pressed on. Every second counted. Finally, the ground began to level out, and James threw himself onto the rocky plateau at the top, rolling to a stop. He was invisible for now, shielded by boulders and the sheer drop behind him. He peeked over the edge, the pursuers now mere dots below, their progress slowed by his deadly intervention. “Five minutes,” he whispered to himself, before collapsing at the top. James closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep from pure exhaustion.

Yusuf was unsure of his exact age – he could have been 5 or 6 when the men came to his village and slaughtered everyone except for him. It was a massacre that he did not understand; why were the other villagers killed while he was spared? As the flames consumed the village, Al-Shabaab took Yusuf with them. He never had a chance to say goodbye to his parents or his siblings, but he saw their lifeless bodies lying on the ground. Years went by, and in order to survive, Yusuf had to integrate with them. However, it always felt like he was wearing a disguise that didn’t quite fit him. They initially put Yusuf on kitchen duty, and after enduring numerous beatings, he mastered the art of preparing meals that appeased everyone. As time passed, he took on the role of delivering messages between various government agencies. The roads still required maintenance, the religious police were still needed to handle public disruptions, and there were still public executions to be carried out. Yusuf had lost track of the number of public executions he had seen. People were killed for a variety of reasons, including attempting to leave the area controlled by Al-Shabaab, listening to music, showing public displays of affection, and not adhering to the strict Sunni Islamist Militant doctrine and allegiance to al-Qaeda. As soon as the men in charge discovered Yusuf’s ability to speak English, he was given a position in the intelligence department. This division was tasked with gathering intel on Al-Shabaab’s adversaries, which included all Western nations. This required a variety of jobs, such as monitoring shortwave radio and scouring the internet for information. Yusuf had come up with the idea of getting a Starlink satellite dish, enabling them to have internet access wherever they went. Without it, their intelligence gathering was sporadic and limited. It became Yusuf’s primary task to ensure that they were always connected online, no matter where the leader of Al-Shabaab traveled to. Yusuf felt a sense of importance and admiration among the campers, as he was the only one who knew how to operate the dish. Yusuf would sneakily watch Mr. Beast videos on YouTube when he had a moment alone. To be caught meant certain death, so he kept his fascination with the American world and its abundance of cars, boats, challenges, and wealth to himself. He couldn’t comprehend why someone like Mr. Beast would be considered an enemy to his people. Each day, Yusuf would provide a comprehensive report on any public information about western troops in the region, updates on the movements of foreign leaders, and detailed satellite imagery and maps before attacks were carried out on schools, churches, or government buildings. This also meant daily meetings with Ahmad Ali, known as the most feared man in Africa. Yusuf would over time learn all about the exploits of Ahmad Ali and Al-Shabaab. Ahmed was the unquestioned commander of Al-Shabaab, who had masterminded the assault on the Westgate Shopping Mall in Nairobi, Kenya in September 2013. Through talks with fellow mujahideens he learned that Ahmad Ali had targeted the mall because Kenya had joined forces with other countries to launch military attacks against Al-Shabaab in Somalia. However, Ahmad also saw the mall as a symbol of western materialism, secularism, and moral degradation – all qualities that he believed were synonymous with the oppressive regime of The United States. On the 21st of September, 2013, Ahmad Ali participated with six other mujahideens to attack the mall at noon. Their mission was simple: kill as many infidels as possible, cause maximum destruction to the mall, and prolong the attack for as long as possible. The six men were aware that they would not survive this mission, but they saw it as a holy war – Jihad – with the promise of martyrdom – Shuhada – and eternal reward: 72 virgins in the afterlife. Amidst screams and chaos, the gunmen launched grenades and opened fire, killing or injuring numerous people in the mall. Survivors scrambled to hide in different areas of the building to evade the attackers. The assailants took hostages and barricaded themselves in certain sections of the mall. In a swift response, Kenyan police and military forces arrived on the scene, cordoning off the area and immediately working to secure the mall and free any hostages. The second day of the attack, September 22nd 2013, saw the Standoff continue with intermittent gunfire and explosions as security forces tried to make progress against the attackers. A number of injured individuals were rescued from the mall and taken for medical treatment, while hostages continued to escape in ongoing rescue operations. As the attack entered its third day on September 23, 2013, intense gunfire and explosions echoed through the air. Despite their best efforts, security forces were still struggling to end the siege. While some progress was made in taking control of the mall, the attackers continued to put up significant resistance. Ahmad Ali didn’t just survive the chaos of Westgate Mall — he thrived in it. On September 24, 2013, after four long days of gunfire, explosions, and global headlines, the Kenyan government finally declared the siege over. Sixty-seven people lay dead — shoppers, children, and the security forces who tried to protect them. More than 175 were wounded, and the country reeled from the sheer brutality of it. Officially, all attackers were said to be killed. Unofficially? Ahmad Ali disappeared into the smoke. He had slipped out while the world watched live coverage of a crisis no one could understand. A mere handful of men had brought a nation to its knees. For Al-Shabaab, it was a tactical masterpiece. For Ahmad Ali, it was a crowning moment. Inside the ranks, no one questioned it now — he was the undisputed leader, forged in blood and flame. But Westgate was only the beginning. Two years later, on April 2, 2015, he orchestrated the Garissa University massacre. The siege lasted fifteen hours. By the end, 148 students and staff lay dead — most of them executed at close range. That wasn’t war. That was message-sending. And the world received it loud and clear. Then came October 14, 2017. A truck bomb exploded in the heart of Mogadishu, killing more than 500 people in seconds. No claim of responsibility ever came — but everyone knew who was behind it. It had all the hallmarks of Ahmad Ali’s leadership: maximum carnage, zero mercy, complete denial. By January 2019, his reach extended far beyond Somalia. In Nairobi, Al-Shabaab gunmen and a suicide bomber stormed the DusitD2 hotel complex, killing 21. Surveillance footage later showed the calm precision with which the team moved — military-grade ruthlessness that bore his fingerprint. And then October 29, 2022 — twin car bombs at the Ministry of Education in Mogadishu. Over 100 killed. More than 300 injured. The blood ran into the gutters of the capital, staining another chapter in his growing legacy of terror. Ahmad Ali didn’t need medals or parades. His power was built on fear, ideology, and a body count that kept rising. He dressed like the thousands he commanded — in a loose, earth-toned macawis, a knee-length kamis, and a turban-style headscarf wrapped tightly above weathered eyes. But the real uniform was the AK-47 always within reach. That, and the unwavering belief that jihad would outlast borders, governments, and time itself. Under the leadership of Ahmad Ali, Al-Shabaab wielded control over the daily affairs of around 3 million inhabitants spread across a vast area of 15,000 square miles in the rural regions of central and southern Somalia. Ahmad Ali enforced an uncompromising application of Sharia law within these territories, holding absolute authority as the ultimate arbiter of all matters concerning the local population. In 2012, prior to Ahmed Ali’s rise to leadership, Al-Shabaab held a larger territory with almost 5 million people that encompassed almost all of southern Somalia, along with significant portions of central Somalia and the capital city, Mogadishu. The ultimate objective was to have complete authority over Somalia, followed by Africa, and eventually the entire globe. Every action must align with the will of Allah. As the military offensives led by Somali and African Union forces intensified, the hold of the terrorist organization in these regions began to weaken. Their previous leader was killed in the attacks. The “Shura Council,” a council within the organization, selected Ahmad Ali as their new leader due to his strong leadership skills and strategic mindset. However, they were mainly drawn to his unwavering commitment to their ideology and strict enforcement of Sharia law. Ahmad Ali’s family had been farmers, cultivating maize for generations. But their peaceful way of life was shattered when civil war erupted in Somalia during the 1990s. The removal of dictator Major General Mohamed Siad Barre by rebel forces led to the collapse of all forms of government and widespread famine. Armed men showed up at their farm, demanding all of their maize from the harvest. When Ahmad’s father refused, they brutally killed him without a second thought. Ahmad’s mother had no choice but to escape with her youngest child, Ahmad, leaving behind his sisters to face whatever fate the men chose for them. This experience left Ahmad questioning why Allah would allow such horrors to occur, and he made it his life’s purpose to enforce strict adherence to Allah’s will through Sharia Law. Ahmad was feared by men because of his unwavering devotion to upholding the holiest of scriptures, the Quran and Hadith. His strict and brutal indoctrination instilled fear in his followers, but he took pride in being chosen by Allah to fight against injustice, corruption, and moral decay. Ahmad may have been small in stature, but his piercing gaze held a power that made people uneasy. He was not intimidating or frightening, but the intensity of his silent stare seemed to judge those around him. His quietness was a weapon, making others nervous and causing them to stumble over their words as they tried to explain or justify their actions. Ahmad’s prayers were a sacred and uninterrupted time for him to connect with Allah. This was well known among his troops, and after a few public floggings, no one dared to interrupt him again. It was his moment of solitude and privacy, and he cherished it deeply. Ahmad was taken aback when Yusuf suddenly burst into the room, disrupting his peaceful moment of connection with Allah. Ignoring the disapproving glare from Ahmad, Yusuf gasped out, “Air Force One has crash landed in northern Somalia. The President of the United States is on the run, being pursued by Warlord Farid Al-Masri.” Yusuf struggled to catch his breath as he spoke. Ahmad rarely smiled, and when he did, it was a rare and unsettling sight. It went against his usual stoic demeanor. But in that moment, he broke protocol and displayed pure joy as he praised Allah and lifted Yusuf up in a joyful embrace, just like a father celebrating his son’s winning goal. “Praise be to Allah, our prayers have been answered. The infidel leader and evil crusader will finally face justice in Somalia for his heinous crimes against Muslims, Somalia, Africa, and Allah. Yusuf, assemble 5,000 of our men and let us begin the journey north immediately. It should take us 2 days to reach our destination. We have an opportunity to achieve two goals with one action: eliminate the sinful warlord in the north and capture Satan himself.”