Post-mortem is a short story written by EliteMaster117, about Task Force 141, and events that took place after Shepard's betrayal.


January 1st, 2017
1900 Hours (7:00 PM)
Air Force One, JFK International Airport, New York

It was a cold, damp evening. The sun was just setting, and the New York, New York skyline was starting to shine upon the John F. Kennedy International Airport. It was the first day of 2017. The President's personal plane, and current stage of operations, Air Force One was setting in the lot, defended by a dozen of the National Guard, and many, many Police Officers. The door was closed, and inside, President Barack Obama sat, watching footage of Vladmir Makarov's last act of terrorism. Joseph Allen had been found out. Obama was trying to find out how. The next election for President had been long canceled, since the Invasion of the US had happened a day before. Secretary of Defense Robert Gates walked in, and spoke to the President.

"Mr. President."

Obama turned around, and questioned him.

"Yes, Mr. Gates?", he asked. But he already knew what the Secretary of Defense had come in for.

Another plane had just landed at the airport, much larger, though less decorated, a flat, matte black. A C-130 cargo plane. An armored limo had just arrived at the runway, and was waiting for the C-130. It slowed its engines, and did a loop, coming for the area where the limo was waiting. It finally stopped moving, and for about a minute, nothing happened. All was silent, and inside the limo, a member of the Central Intelligence Agency, and Robert Gates, were waiting. Gates turned to the CIA agent.

"Turner, is this the correct plane?", Gates asked the CIA agent. The CIA agent looked over. He had short, crew cut hair, a light skin tone, with a mediocre complexion, his face dappled with a few acne scars. He had a pair of sunglasses pinned to his white dress shirt, which had moved his black and white tie a bit over. His glasses were Oakleys. Scalpels, as they were called. 219 dollars, custom made out of Carbon Fiber and polarized blue lenses. He had brown hair, and was about 30.

"Yeah. It is.", he replied in a slightly raspy voice.

Gates rolled his eyes. "Refer to me as sir, Mr. Turner."

Turner looked over at him, blinked once, and was about to speak, when the rear of the C-130 opened, revealing an empty bay, lit up, yellow netting spread around the two benches, a bottle of Whiskey on a small table.

A cigar was thrust out of the plane, hitting the tarmac. A US soldier walked out, looked around, and walked back into the plane. Then, a hand reached over, grabbed the bottle of Whiskey, and the person walked out. He was tall, wearing an ACUPAT military uniform, a leather holster with a .44 Colt Magnum in tow, and a Beret signifying his rank of Lieutenant General. He had a small, brownish mustache, and was wearing an eye patch. Going through it horizontally there was a very large scar, a precise incision, possibly from a small knife. He stepped out, and crossed his arms.

Turner opened the door, and let Gates out, who walked to the General. Turner then got out, closing the door behind him, and walking on the tarmac towards the General.

Gates had begun to speak.

"The President has been awaiting your arrival, General Shepherd."

The face was instantly recognizable to Turner. The General who had tried to stop the Task Force 141. He had created them, and it was all confusing. Turner looked at Shepherd.

"General, sir. I'm Rick Turner, and I'm sure you know Mr. Robert Gates."

Shepherd nodded.

"I do indeed. Perhaps you could show me to Air Force One?", Shepherd asked, Turner already walking to the limo, the wind from the once again C-130 blowing his tie.

Shepherd and Gates followed Turner, taking a seat in the limo. The limo accelerated, and began its journey back to Air Force One.

Inside, Turner and Gates looked at Shepherd.

There was an awkward silence for a moment as the car drove the short distance back to Air Force One.

Turner was the first to speak.

"Shepherd, would you mind telling us about your last encounter with the 141?", he asked.

Shepherd looked out the window, absently. Then, albeit delayed, he looked at Turner.

"I'd rather not discuss the events with MacTavish and Price.", he stated, looking at Turner, who nodded, looking down towards his brown, polished shoes.

Gates pressed a button on a small remote control he had, and a compartment to the left of Turner opened, revealing a multitude of airline peanuts.

"Would you like something, General Shepherd?", Gates asked.

Shepherd shook his head several times.

"No thanks,", he said, swiveling his neck. Shepherd took a drink of his Whiskey bottle, putting it down as the limousine drove over a speed bump, then up a ramp. The limo decelerated, swerving to a stop, and the door opened automatically, the chauffeur helping Gates out. After Gates, came Turner, and behind him, Shepherd. Gates led the way, walking towards a movable stairwall, which led up to Air Force One. The door opened, a soldier, clad in ACUPAT camo, wearing a beret similar to Shepherd's, but bearing a different, castle symbol, helped Gates in. Turner stopped at the stairwell, Shepherd brushing past. Turner took note that he was wearing too much cologne.

Inside, the President opened the door from the comm room, walking out of the small room, and into the lightly decorated, cramped crew area. He continued through the corridor, up until he reached an airtight door. He clicked the knob, and walked out, onto a much more luxurious hallway, admonished with wood paneling, beautiful lamps set on the walls. Obama walked to an intersection with two doors, one marking "'CARGO' LOUNGE AND PRESIDENT'S QUARTERS," the other marking "CONFERENCE ROOM AND EXIT". Obama opened the Conference room door, and walked unto the edge of Air Force One, a couch with a secretary sitting down. She looked at the President, and spoke.

"Your visitors are here.", she stated, guiding him to the door to the Conference Room. It was open, and inside, was Shepherd, Turner, and Gates.

Shepherd had removed his beret, revealing a balding head, with a crew cut head of light brown hair. Turner was standing at the back of the room, arms crossed, and gates was sitting forward, elbows on the table, staring at a document marked, MACTAVISH, JOHN.

Shepherd was smoking a cigar. He puffed it once, and then crumpled it in his hands. He sat up straight, saluting.

"At ease, General.", the President said, taking a seat. Turner turned on a lamp, and sat down at the couch behind the table.

Obama looked at Turner.

"Good to see you again, Mr. Turner."

The president turned back to the others, and pulled the document from Gates, putting another one down on the table. They were both marked as classified, but there was no black ink, yet.

Obama sat back in his chair, and began to speak.

"We are in bad condition at this moment. No one knows this better than General Nolan Shepherd. He led a task force against one of the worst terrorists known to all of mankind. Vladmir Makarov. He led our Marine forces against Viktor Zakhaev six years ago, when Zakhaev launched his WMD, decimating our forces in Afghanistan. He wanted revenge, and also justice."

Obama leaned onto the table.

"The nuclear threat is as bad as it was at the climax of the Cold War. First fight we had with the Russians was a draw. No Nukes launched. Second, they won. Decimated Shepherd's marine forces. Let's hope we win this rematch."

Shepherd pulled out another Cigar, and spoke.

"Mr. President... Zakhaev and Al-Asad killed thirty thousand Marines in the blink of an eye, while we just watched. I plan not to let that happen again. Now we are fighting on our home turf, the Russians are HERE! This file is on John Price. He and MacTavish, in that other file, tried to kill me. Price tried to launch Nuclear missiles, but failed. He, in a way, saved us, but he also, don't forget, tried to kill me. This is not for revenge. This is for justice! For all the troops I lost in Afghanistan."

Obama nodded.

"That's why I gave you command of my special unit, Shadow Company.", the President stated.

"But these two men, former members of the British Special Air Service made it past all of your special unit. We sent in 400 troops. We only had a kill count of 40 men. I had handpicked the best of them all. They betrayed me, told Vladmir Makarov of my true intentions. And with Makarov's help, tried to kill me. They're on the run now, Mr. President, but if they made it past 400 handpicked operators for your Shadow Company.",

Shepherd pulled a briefcase forward, and spoke again.

"Most of our surviving troops are en route to Russia, where they're going to turn the table on the Ultra-nationalist force. But Shadow Company shall remain searching for any surviving members of the 141. I have dossiers on all surviving members right here.", he said, pulling a large amount of yellow folders out of the briefcase.

Shepherd lay them all out, spread even.

"Most of them are missing, but we've identified two operatives hiding out in New Zealand."

Obama nodded. "I'll send the 1st Platoon, General.".

Chapter 1Edit

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