“I can see the headline now: Ambrosia of The Power Elite dies saving Baton Rouge.”
General Leland DeVane folded his hands on the long, rectangular conference table directly in front of him before slowly bringing them upward and resting both index fingers on his clean-shaven, square chin. The crisp, air-conditioned breeze from the overhead vent lightly rustled the top of his buzz-cut, greying hair causing him to look toward the ceiling momentarily. The seven attending members of the Marketing and Projections Unit for the National Defense Support Administration stood on the other side of the conference room holding their collective breath as DeVane pondered their proposal for the agency’s latest mission. From past experience, they knew further explanation before the Director was ready would be met with disdain and possible reprisal. The General’s meetings carried a strict code of conduct and any derivation was considered a major breach of protocol. So, they remained silent as the steely-eyed military man sat eerily still, allowing his consciousness to process all the salient details.
The NDSA is a unique intelligence agency, answerable only to the Office of the President and tasked with supporting the only government sanctioned superhero team: The Power Elite. General DeVane took charge of the agency at its inception, confirmed as Director without any opposition from the Senate, The House of Representatives or any intelligence agency. His lifelong service to his country was beyond reproach so he was given free rein to run the NDSA as he saw fit, with minimal oversight. The agency, the missions and the team itself were all matters of national security, which was something the General made sure everyone knew at all times. The operations devised and executed were like his children and he took great care in every nuanced detail, no matter how intricate, unorthodox or covert.
The former Secretary of Defense’s first official act as Director was to invoke a simple, one sentence mission statement: protect the NDSA. Toward that end, DeVane worked tirelessly to ensure the Administration’s biggest secret never got out. As far as the general populace knew, The Power Elite was a team of larger than life heroes working tirelessly to safeguard the nation. The truth was vastly different. Each member of The Power Elite suffered from dissociative identity delusions and their battles were staged as distractions from various off-the-books black ops being carried out elsewhere. To maintain this charade, the team’s fractured psyches were kept in a perpetual state of altered reality by the NDSA’s neuro-encephalyzer, a machine that reinforces each member’s imagined personalities. For example, instead of remembering her life as a homeless, drug addict, the hero codenamed Ambrosia insists she is the Greek Goddess, Nike banished to Earth by a vengeful Zeus. She believes her divine essence took the form of the first mortal she encountered, Latasha Jenkins. Each team member suffered from a similar psychological disorder. General DeVane and the members of the NDSA currently occupying the conference room were the only people alive aware of that fact.
Today’s briefing was scheduled to discuss the recent downturn in the team’s overall popularity and, more importantly, devise a plan to reverse that trend. The M & P Unit was informed of this impromptu meeting earlier that morning and worked feverishly putting the finishing touches on their recommendation. These meetings were always pressure cookers due to their highly classified nature but seeing as how the attending members had just presented an unusually bold, high-risk/high reward strategy, there were more worried faces than usual. For almost two full minutes, the General stared at a spot on the conference table, four inches in front of the briefing packet entitled Project: Script Flip, before finally exhaling loudly and looking around the room. He caught the eye of Will Jorgansen, director of the M & P Division. The department head took a single step forward and nodded deferentially to his superior, signifying he was ready, willing and able to answer all queries.
“Why Baton Rouge?” DeVane asked.
“Glad you asked, sir,” Jorgansen began. “After extensive research, Baton Rouge was chosen as the premiere locale for this operation for a number of reasons. The city offers the following advantages for our purposes: water escape for the antagonists ensuring no one is captured or questioned, it’s a Capitol city with a high profile but less tourism than New Orleans, an active media contingent but not too large to manage, and it has name recognition for the rest of the country. All in all, it scores 8.7 on the desirability scale.”
“Hmmm.”
Feeling emboldened, Jorgansen continued, “The most successful missions have all involved a high leverage situation…terrorists, hostages, the potential threat of rampant destruction and so forth…and Baton Rouge is hosting a week-long Business Expo starting this Friday. If a para-military group calling themselves something like…The Death Dealers took over the Expo, the local authorities would be on the horn calling for our team to respond immediately. It’s almost the perfect scenario but as with all Power Elite Ops, the planning must be meticulous. I firmly believe we’ve cov-”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you believe, Will,” DeVane said tersely. “God, you love to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” He stared at his sub-ordinate. “What I need to know is why you’re suggesting eliminating one of our best assets! Why is it so all-fire important to terminate a member of the team? They don’t just grow on trees, you know.”
“Latest projections show…”
“Speak plain English, man!” DeVane bellowed. “I don’t need your damn PowerPoint doublespeak. I’m sure everyone present would appreciate you shooting straight without the statistical analysis or data insights or whatever friggin’ analytics you’re about to blather on about.”
“Yes, sir, General DeVane, sir,” the division head said, worry etched on his face. “Well…in the past few weeks, The Power Elite has…it’s been…” He glanced at his subordinates who all went out of their way to avoid eye contact.
“Just say it, Will,” the General implored. “We all know what the problem is.”
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