Chapter 1: The Ghost in the Oval Office

“Mr. President, peace talks are our only shot. You can’t just start another war!”

It’s Senator Quinn again, rambling on with the same old spiel he always gives.

I’m seated behind the Resolute Desk, my nails digging into my palm beneath the desk.

Rage burns in my chest, threatening to boil over.

The old portraits of Lincoln and Roosevelt glare down from the walls. I can almost feel their silent judgment. The tick of the antique clock on the mantel grates on my nerves. It’s a metronome for my growing frustration.

All at once, a rush of memories—strange, yet somehow familiar—floods my mind. It’s like the levees breaking in a Midwest flood.

It’s dizzying, like getting swept up in a Missouri tornado. Images flash behind my eyes: a dirt-poor farm in the Ozarks, hands callused from plowing.

Then the thunder of tanks rolling down shattered highways, the roar of crowds as the flag rises again. These are Charles Booker’s memories—from a poor farmhand in Missouri to the President who rebuilt a fractured nation during the Second American Revolution. Armored columns. Decisive battles. Forging a new future.

Armored columns. Decisive battles. Forging a new future! That’s my mantra now.

Enough! I almost shout it, but bite it back.

My tongue nearly betrays me, but I bite down hard, tasting copper. I force my face into that practiced, presidential mask. Can’t lose it now—not in front of these wolves.

Not in front of these wolves. Not a chance.

Right now, I’m Gregory Caldwell, President of the United States—backed into a corner by the Northern Coalition, barely holding onto Washington, D.C. The memory of being driven from the White House still stings.

But from this moment on, I am also Charles Booker!

This suffocating humiliation. Booker wouldn’t tolerate it for even a day!

Senator Quinn is still going, spittle flying.

I keep a blank expression. Inside, my mind is racing.

The military draft. The census and land reform. The county supply chief system. All the methods I once used to rule the restored Union are now crystal clear in my mind. They’re not just ideas. They’re muscle memory now. I can feel the weight of those choices, the grit under my fingernails.

Build strong defenses. Stockpile supplies. Delay declaring total war. That’s the checklist in my head.

“I’ll take it under advisement.” I wave my hand tiredly, signaling the end of the meeting.

I don’t even look at Quinn as I dismiss him. His smug little smile flickers, just for a second. Quinn, you old fox. Enjoy it while you can.

Back at the residence, Sarah waits by the window.

Moonlight pools on her pale blue dress.

The scent of her chamomile tea lingers in the air. It always calms me.

Seeing my dark expression, she dismisses the staff and asks softly, “Greg, did Senator Quinn hassle you again?”

I look at her. She fled with me when the Capitol fell.

The concern in her eyes is genuine. My chest tightens.

She reaches for my hand, her fingers warm and steady.

I take a deep breath. No more secrets.

“Sarah, I… I remember things. Things that aren’t mine, but they feel real.”

I tell her, voice low, about Charles Booker’s hard-won know-how and grand ambitions now filling my head. I watch her face shift as I speak—

Her eyebrows knit in confusion. Then they arch in surprise. A strange, excited glow fills her eyes.

“You mean… you know how to rebuild the country?” Her voice trembles, but I can hear the excitement underneath.

Her knuckles whiten as she grips my hand. She’s all in.

I nod, the words thick in my throat.

“You could say that.” I take her hand. “Sarah, I don’t want to be a president hanging on by a thread anymore. I want to launch a campaign north, avenge the fall of the Capitol, and let the stars and stripes wave again over the whole nation!”

Sarah grips my hand tightly in return.

“If you have that kind of ambition, I’d stand by you no matter what! Whatever you decide, I’m with you all the way!” Her voice is fierce, the way her dad used to sound when he barked orders at West Point. She’s got military steel in her bones.

Her words calm the storm inside me.

I see the same steel in her eyes. The same look she gave me the day we escaped the Capitol.

With her by my side, I can breathe again.

Booker’s experience is clear. To do anything, you need an army.