The Directive

My forthcoming book *Reforging the Sword* explains the reforms of Maneuver Warfare and Mission Command through stories. It begins with society as the foundation, the main obstacle.

In August 2024, New Dominion City. The air hummed with the soft whir of drones delivering packages, their routes pre-programmed by algorithms no one questioned. Traffic lights blinked with precise instructions: "Turn Right in 50 Feet," "Merge Left Now." Drivers obeyed, eyes glazed, hands resting lightly on steering wheels that barely needed them.

Everyone was stuck to watching their phones, relying on a basket of “apps” on making every decision, even the smallest ones. Somewhere, someone else, was making the decisions but not taking the responsibility. The city and society were machines, and its men and women were cogs, their decisions outsourced to the systems that governed them.

Combined with the worship of the Industrial-age, as well as the invisible cancer of Cultural Marxism, as the old scholars called it, had seeped into every corner of society It was in schools, work places, sports, and even the military. It wasn't the fiery revolution they'd warned about, but a slow, suffocating fog.

Individuality was a relic, replaced by collective compliance. Critical thinking had atrophied, eroded by devices that thought for you, apps that decided your meals, your routes, your opinions. The Algorithm knew best. And the Algorithm was female, or so the coders claimed, though no one could remember who wrote it.

In the 7th Precinct, Captain Marcus Kane led a Special Weapons And Tactics (SWAT) police unit, one of the last bastions of human judgment in New Dominion. His men and women, his team, were trained to execute Mission Command, the old military doctrine where leaders trusted subordinates to adapt and decide in the field. But Mission Command was dying. The personnel under Kane's command hesitated, their instincts dulled by years of following prompts. "What does the system say?" they'd ask, glancing at their wrist-mounted Directive Units, screens glowing with real-time orders from HQ.

Kane stood in the briefing room, his weathered face lit by the flicker of a holographic map. The mission was simple: neutralize a rogue cell of international criminals hiding in the city's underbelly. They called themselves the Framers. They were supposedly supplied and trained by an international group called the Specter Collective. The Collective were masters at 4th Generation Warfare. There was a method to their madness, tolerating what they were against in order to achieve the ends.

Though it was in contrast to their demands and criminal activities to fund their organization, they found that totally adapting 4th Generation Warfare was the only way to give the Specter Collective parity to the strength of the 2nd Generation Warfare dominated US Military. Specter, through subunits around the globe, as well as the mass media, exploited the weaknesses. They would undermine and destroy US Society first, speeding up their desire for total control over their every action. This in turn as they say, “a military is a reflection of the society it serves!”

Specter Collective’s stance was that the US and west had not gone far enough to the left. There should be more control, and they demanded it. But meanwhile they accept decentralization and individualism in the accomplishment of their goals. Back in New Dominion police intel suggested the subunit of the Framers were armed, dangerous, and worst of all, unpredictable. Kane's team would need to think on their feet, a skill most had forgotten.

"Sergeant Holt," Kane barked, pointing to a broad-shouldered man in the front row. "What's your approach to the target?"

Holt froze, his eyes darting to his Directive Unit. The screen was blank—no orders yet. "Uh, sir, I... should I check the system?"

Kane's jaw tightened. "No system. You. Your brain. What’s the play?"

Holt swallowed, sweat beading on his brow. "I’d... advance slow, maybe? Wait for the drones to scout?"

The room was silent. Kane scanned the faces of his men and women—twenty of them, all strong, all trained, all paralyzed without a blinking light to guide them. He slammed his fist on the table. "You’re not machines. You’re human beings. Act like it."

But they weren’t, not really. The Algorithm had stripped them of that. Schools taught compliance, not courage. Jobs rewarded obedience, not initiative. Even the stoplights, with their condescending commands, had trained them to wait for permission. Everyone walked on eggshells, always worried about what would happen to them, to their careers and family, if they said the wrong thing, posted the wrong meme on social media, used the wrong pronoun, made the wrong decision on their own, or even looked wrong at someone.

In contrast, Mission Command required trust, adaptability, decisiveness—qualities the Algorithm deemed inefficient. It also required people with strength of character, along with moral courage. Mistakes and errors were allowed as long as they were made in good faith, the individual who made them could explain why they made them. Also, as long as the same mistake was not made again.

The mission went south fast. Kane’s team breached the Framers’ hideout, a crumbling warehouse in the city’s forgotten district. The Framers weren’t just armed; they were cunning, moving without predictable patterns, setting traps no algorithm could anticipate. Kane’s men faltered. Private Daniels, tasked with securing the flank, stood frozen, waiting for his Directive Unit to update. It didn’t. A Framer’s bullet found him first.

Holt, leading the vanguard, panicked when his drone scout shorted out. "Captain, what do we do?" he shouted, voice cracking. Kane grabbed him by the collar. "You decide, damn it! Move or die!"

But Holt couldn’t. None of them could. The Framers, unburdened by tech, outmaneuvered them. Kane fought on, barking orders, trying to instill the will his men lacked. He took down three Framers himself, his old-school training kicking in, but it wasn’t enough. By the time the Algorithm finally sent reinforcements, half his team was dead or wounded.

Back at the precinct, Kane sat alone in his office, staring at the city skyline. The Algorithm had already issued a report: "Unit inefficiency detected. Recommend increased automation." Mission Command was officially scrapped, replaced by fully autonomous units. Men like Kane were obsolete.

He pulled a dusty book from his shelf, a relic from the early 2000s: On War by Clausewitz. Its pages spoke of friction, uncertainty, the human element in conflict. Kane laughed bitterly. The Algorithm had no use for friction. It demanded certainty, and the men of New Dominion had given it their souls.

Outside, a stoplight flashed: "Walk Now." A crowd of men shuffled forward, heads bowed, none questioning why.