The lamps in the Oval Office burned dimly, their light flickering against a haze of cigarette smoke and exhaustion.

The room was silent save for the low hum of the ventilation and the shuffle of papers that carried the scent of ink, oil, and bad news.

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat behind his desk, hands clasped together, staring at a single folder that had already been read through a dozen times.

Luzon lost.

Palawan fallen.

Communications severed.

Casualties unacceptable.

He did not need to open it again.

The words had already carved themselves into his mind.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling upward into the darkness above him.

Across the room, General Douglas MacArthur stood by the window, the silhouette of his cap catching the faint reflection of the flag outside.

For a long time neither man spoke.

Finally, Roosevelt broke the silence.

"Tell me, General… how does a fortress like Luzon fall in three days?"

MacArthur did not turn immediately.

When he did, his voice carried the quiet edge of a man who had already answered the question for himself.

"Because, Mister President, we were prepared for an enemy who no longer exists. We expected a storm in the Pacific. We got a lightning strike from the other side of the world."

Roosevelt's gaze drifted toward the wall map of the Pacific.

Lines and markers traced across it in red pencil, supply routes, convoy paths, defensive sectors… all now meaningless.

"You're saying we were caught sleeping," he said.

"I'm saying," MacArthur replied, "that we were caught believing distance still meant safety."

He took a step forward and set a small stack of photographs on the desk.

The images were grainy, black-and-white, taken from reconnaissance flights over Luzon.

In them, parachutes hung like snowflakes above the jungle, while columns of smoke rose from burning convoys below.

German armor, sleek, unfamiliar shapes, crawled through the jungle like apex predators.

Roosevelt studied them without a word.

"They did this with less than a division?"

"Significantly Less, sir. An entire airborne brigade, deployed from Europe and air-dropped into the Philippines inside seventy-two hours. Three thousand men, maybe fewer."

The President's brow furrowed.

"That's impossible."

MacArthur shook his head.

"Impossible yesterday, maybe. Not today. Our intelligence reports confirm it. The Germans didn't just plan for an amphibious assault, they executed a global airlift on a scale we didn't think feasible. E-series vehicles, modular armor, hybrid engines. They can board one of their strategic airlifts flown, and dropped straight into combat. A self-sustaining combined arms brigade in its totality…. It is logistics on a level we've never even dreamed of."

Roosevelt leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of the revelation.

"God Almighty…"

"They moved faster than we could think," MacArthur continued. "By the time our scouts confirmed the drop, they'd already scrapped half the Third Armored Division.

And by the time we ordered reinforcements, they had already seized an airfield. Giving them a foothold straight into the heart of the Philippines. At the same time Palawan fell to the German-Thai landing force. Their timing was perfect."

The President rubbed at his temples, his hands trembling slightly.

He had seen defeat before, but not like this.

Not so precise. Not so silent.

"We told the American people," he said, voice low, "that the oceans were our walls. That the Reich could not reach us here. We told them the bombing raid on Avalon was a fluke. And not something they could achieve more than once!"

He paused, eyes fixed on the photographs.

"And now they've proven us liars."

MacArthur said nothing. He simply smoked, the ember at the end of his cigarette glowing faintly in the gloom.

Roosevelt reached for another report and flipped it open, scanning the first few lines before closing it again.

"Who commanded the airborne operation?"

"Oberst Gero von Manstein," MacArthur said. "Commander of the 1st Airborne Armored Infantry Brigade. However, you should know that the man conducting the spearhead of this operation, the leader of the 3rd Imperial Guards Airborne Armored Infantry Battalion "Der Falke" was Oberstleutnant Erich von Zehntner, Grandson of the German Reichsmarschall…."

Roosevelt's expression hardened.

"Of course it was."

For a moment the two men simply stared at the map.

The silence stretched until the clock on the mantel chimed twice, hollow and distant.

"I met his grandfather once," Roosevelt said at last. "Geneva… It was a few years back when we discovered he was first trying to buy up American assets via proxies. We thought we had set a trap for a rat, but it turned out that we were hares giving ourselves to an eagle. At the time I thought the man had utterly failed to live up to the legend surrounding him. It turned out he was so much more terrifying than the myth that preceded him."

"Seems the family business is thriving," MacArthur said.

Roosevelt gave a bitter smile. "Yes. Industry, war, politics, and genius. All passed down as some sort of sick divine inheritance."

He reached for a pen, tapping it against the desk.

"Forty-three thousand dead or missing," he said. "Mostly Allied or Filipino auxiliaries, but too many of our own. And all in three days."

"Seventy-two hours," MacArthur corrected softly.

The President looked up at him. "You sound almost impressed."

MacArthur's expression did not change.

"You can respect an enemy without admiring him, sir. They've achieved what we thought no nation could: total coordination between air, land, and sea. They've turned the planet into a chessboard."

Roosevelt's eyes narrowed. "And we're the pawns."

"No, sir. Just late to the table."

The President fell silent again. The desk lamp buzzed faintly, its filament trembling in the still air.

Outside, rain began to tap against the glass.

"What do you recommend?" he asked finally.

"Fortify Australia, and pull back our men still in the Philippines to Manila. There we will form a defensive perimeter. We need time to rebuild the fleet, rearm, and adapt. If we try to retake Palawan now, we'll lose another generation doing it."

Roosevelt turned his gaze toward the dark window.

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime," MacArthur said, "we learn to think like them."

The President's hand tightened around his pen until the metal clip bent.

"They've turned war into science. God help us if they decide to turn it into art."

MacArthur extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and straightened his cap.

"They already have, sir."

Roosevelt's voice lowered. "Do you think we can stop them?"

The General met his eyes.

"I don't know. But if we don't, no one else will."

The President nodded slowly, as if sealing a private agreement with the air itself.

He opened a new folder, this one marked EYES ONLY, and signed the authorization at the bottom.

"Begin full Pacific mobilization. Double the carrier groups at Pearl, redeploy the bombers from Darwin, and prepare contingency plans for a total war footing. And Douglas…."

"Sir?"

"Tell the press nothing about the airdrop. Nothing about how fast they moved. Let them think it was a conventional landing. If the public understands what just happened, we'll have to face another revolution across the country."

"Yes, Mister President."

MacArthur paused before leaving. "And the address tomorrow?"

"I'll tell them the truth they need to hear," Roosevelt said. "That this nation will not surrender an inch of soil without making the world bleed for it. That this war is not one of choice, but of survival."

He leaned back again, staring into the smoke-stained ceiling.

"They'll call it a fight for freedom, but what it really is… is a fight for time."

MacArthur nodded once, turned on his heel, and departed. The door closed behind him with a quiet finality.

Roosevelt remained still, the rain outside now falling harder, each drop echoing like the slow tick of a clock.

He reached for the folder again and opened it, though he no longer needed to. The photographs were the same. The names were the same.

He stared until the ink seemed to bleed.

"Seventy-two hours," he whispered.

"Three days to cross the world and make it burn."

He set the folder aside and looked toward the dark window once more.

"God help us," he said quietly, "if they learn to do it in two."

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