The Oval Office was a tomb of silence, time itself seeming to choke on the weight of the moment. Behind an ancient mahogany desk, a blond man hunched forward, his hands clawing at his scalp, knuckles blanched from the strain. His breaths came in shallow gasps, as if an invisible vise crushed his chest.
The desk, dark and battle-scarred, bore the weight of history—its surface littered with curling papers, a chaotic testament to the man's unraveling mind. Behind him, two flags stood sentinel: the Stars and Stripes, and the presidential seal, their folds heavy with unspoken authority.
Gold curtains draped the windows, a gilded barricade against the world's clamor, sealing the room in suffocating isolation.
A harsh electronic whine cut through the stillness, the emergency broadcast receiver on the desk crackling to life: "Coronal mass ejection impact in fifteen minutes…"
The cold, mechanical voice echoed, and the man flinched, the sound a hammer against his fraying nerves.
His hands slid from his face, revealing eyes hollow with despair.
He rose, legs unsteady, and shuffled to the center of the room, where a thick carpet bore the presidential seal—a white eagle, wings spread, clutching olive branches and arrows in its talons.His shoulders sagged, the world's weight dragging him down.
Without warning, he collapsed to his knees, the carpet swallowing the sound. His hands clasped tightly, knuckles white, as if gripping the last thread of hope.
Head bowed, his voice trembled into a whisper."Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…"
——
A command center buzzed with controlled chaos, its air thick with the tang of ozone and fear.
Red alert lights pulsed on banks of monitors, casting a bloody glow over the room.
A massive screen dominated the far wall, streaming satellite data: a countdown to the coronal mass ejection's arrival, its trajectory a glowing arc slicing toward Earth.
"Five minutes until CME impact!" a technician barked, voice cutting through the hum of machinery.
A cluster of senior officials stood shoulder to shoulder. A man in a navy-blue uniform, his chest gleaming with medals, gold stars embroidered on his shoulders, turned to a woman in a sharp black suit. "Susanna, time to see if your NERC grid shielding holds."
Her response was immediate, clipped. "Secretary, the magnetic storm defenses are fully upgraded—transformers, critical systems, all rated for a G5 impact. Some regions might still take a hit, but we're ready."
A man in a black jacket, FEMA's bold letters stitched across his chest, chimed in. "Sir, Susanna and I have teams on standby. Any outages, we'll have boots on the ground within minutes."
The Secretary's eyes narrowed, shifting to an older man in a suit, a NASA pin glinting on his lapel. "Bill, the SEP hit five hours ago took out fifty-eight satellites in LEO and polar orbits. What's the damage estimate for this CME?"
Bill's voice was grim. "No precise numbers, like I've said. We've maneuvered every satellite we could out of the CME's path—except LandSat-7."
He nodded to a technician. "Pete!"
"Yes, sir!" Pete punched a command, and the main screen flicked to a live feed: LandSat-7, a lonely speck drifting in Earth's orbit.
"Fuel's gone," Bill continued. "LandSat-7 can't move."
The Secretary shook his head. "It was due for retirement anyway. How long from CME hitting the magnetosphere to impacting LandSat-7?"
"This CME's moving at three kilometers per second," Bill said. "Two seconds, max."
"One minute to impact!" a technician shouted.
The room fell silent, all eyes locked on the countdown.5… 4… 3… 2… 1…
Lights flickered, plunging the room into momentary darkness before stuttering back on, strobing wildly.
The Secretary's voice was low, taut. "This is stronger than we modeled…"
"LandSat-7's gone dark!" a technician yelled.
"No signal!"Heads snapped to the screen. The satellite's feed showed it tumbling, its panels glinting as it spun out of control.
Bill exhaled, voice heavy. "Goodbye, LandSat-7."
A piercing alarm erupted, red warnings flashing across every monitor. The room froze, dread coiling in the air.
LandSat-7 shuddered violently on-screen, then erupted in a blinding fireball, its fragments scattering like dying stars.
"What the hell was that?" the Secretary demanded.
Bill's face was ashen. "High-energy particles must've fried the chips, overheated the battery pack…"
Before he could finish, the command center plunged into blackness.
Every light, every screen—dead.
"What's happening?" the Secretary roared.
Susanna's voice cut through, sharp but fraying. "The CME's stronger than we thought. Backup power—now!"
"Yes, ma'am!" technicians shouted, scrambling in the dark.
A panicked voice broke through. "Flashlights aren't working!"
Click.
The Secretary snapped open his Zippo lighter, its frail flame casting jagged shadows across his taut face. "What the hell is going on?"
A technician's voice trembled from the darkness. "We detected a massive geomagnetic pulse just before the blackout!"
"EMP?" The Secretary's face twisted, fury erupting. "What the fuck?"
Bill's voice shook, barely audible. "My God… this CME triggered an EMP. It's beyond G5."
"G6," Susanna whispered, her voice cracking. "He was right. It's a G6."