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July 15, 2035, Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base, Colorado, United States
Technical Sergeant Jeremy Talbot sat at his radar console in the Central Command Center, working the day shift. On quiet days, the room held only a skeleton crew of duty personnel and a few supervising officers, voices sparse in the sterile silence. Today, even the radar screens were calmer than usual. With the President attending a summit in Japan, Air Force One was set to fly nonstop from Kansas to the Far East, limiting air traffic and leaving the radar display unusually sparse.
Talbot's job strained eyes and nerves, structured in twelve-hour shifts, two-person teams alternating hourly breaks. His next break was still a ways off.
"Jeremy, all good?" Lieutenant Wesley Mallet, his radar team leader, leaned over his chair.
"No issues, sir," Talbot replied, eyes fixed on the screen.
"Good. Air Force One lifts off in ninety minutes. Since the ISS incident, everyone's on edge. Screw up, and brass will have our heads. Stay sharp."
Ten days prior, the International Space Station's destruction accident or attack remained unresolved. Eight astronauts from multiple nations perished, and the U.S. military was on high alert, ready to shoot down anything suspicious.
Talbot considered a quip to shoo his hovering superior when his screen flickered. Yellow blips unidentified objects sprouted at the top, drifting downward like digital debris. More appeared, multiplying, as if the screen were being overtaken by a swarm of glowing dots. The surreal sight froze his thoughts, like watching a thousand distant stars cascade toward Earth.
Seconds later, the screen warped, flickered, and went dark gray, unresponsive.
"What the hell was that?" Mallet demanded.
"No clue. First time I've seen this," Talbot said, stunned.
"The screen's dead. What's going on?"
"Don't know. Hardware failure?"
Talbot flipped switches, cycled the console's power. It rebooted, but the screen stayed blank. Around them, other stations reported malfunctions, operators scrambling.
"Central Command, what's happening? No data!" Mallet barked into a phone.
"What? That's useless. I'll call maintenance," he snapped, slamming the receiver down and dialing again.
Talbot recalled a month-old incident: outdated electrical equipment replaced, causing unstable power and network issues. Could this be related? Mallet seemed to think so, too.
"What's going on? No data's reaching Central Command!" Mallet shouted into the phone. "If someone attacks now… What? Cause unknown? Another maintenance screw-up? Fix it! Air Force One's up soon. 'We didn't see it' won't cut it. Fix it now!"
He hung up, gentler this time. "They don't know what's wrong. Maintenance is clueless. You guys seeing this too?" he called to other operators.
Affirmative grumbles echoed across the room.
"Damn it. Jeremy, try everything to get this back online. I'll check the others," Mallet said, storming off.
Relieved to be free of his superior but annoyed at the timing, Talbot rebooted the console again, muttering about overtime.
The data failure wasn't confined to Central Command or even Cheyenne Mountain. But a lowly sergeant like Talbot, buried deep in the bunker, had no way of knowing the true scope.
July 15, 2035, Royal Canadian Air Force Moose Jaw Air Base, Saskatchewan, Canada
At Moose Jaw Air Base, the crisis unfolded before the base commander's eyes. Home to the Canadian Forces' 431 Squadron, the "Snowbirds" aerobatic team, and a training hub, the base was preparing for a visit from the Chief of the Defence Staff in a week. Such an inspection meant more than parading troops and planes; a tour of critical facilities, including the command center, was likely.
Lieutenant General Daryl Carson, base commander, accompanied by his deputy, Brigadier General Mike Welton, was inspecting a proposed tour route when they entered the dim command center.
"Mike, doesn't our command center feel too cramped?" Carson remarked, nearly colliding with a soldier rushing out with papers. He waved off the soldier's salute. "At ease."
"It's old, sir," Welton replied. "Needs an overhaul, but a rear training base doesn't get much budget."
During the Cold War, Canada was a frontline between superpowers. Soviet missiles or bombers aimed at the U.S. would cross Canadian airspace, making it a potential first target. But that era had passed. The U.S. now focused on China, with Taiwan and Japan as the new frontlines. Moose Jaw, far from any conflict zone, was a backwater. Even if China overran Pacific allies, their next target would be North America's West Coast, not this central outpost.
Still, the Chief of the Defence Staff would visit this outdated command center. Carson paced, instructing duty officers on what to highlight or avoid, aiming to polish the facility's image.
Tripping over a cable cover, he scowled. "Lieutenant, can't we fix these cables? We can't have the Chief tripping."
"Could be a chance to show our state and request budget," Welton quipped, half-serious.
Before Carson could respond, the center's monitors flickered and went dark, plunging the already dim room into deeper gloom. Chaos erupted.
"Sir, air defense system's offline!"
"NORAD data's cut off!"
"Base radar's jammed massive, full-spectrum barrage jamming!"
"Comms with airborne units are down. No response!"
As shouts filled the room, the lights died completely. Emergency power kicked in, red lamps casting a faint glow as systems rebooted.
"What's happening? Report!" Carson bellowed.
"Power grid's down. Running on emergency generators," an officer replied.
"Some systems won't restart. Likely from the forced shutdown."
"Check the control tower!"
"Network's dead NATO, military, civilian, all offline!"
"Tower's in the same state. Base-wide power failure!"
"Local network's up, but no external signals."
"Get Defence Staff HQ! Check other bases. Is this really jamming?"
"Radar system rebooted. Still jammed."
"Defence HQ's unreachable. Red line's dead. No signal."
Amid the chaos, a duty lieutenant approached. "Commander, something odd."
"What?"
"This footage, just before the shutdown." The lieutenant showed Carson a tablet displaying the command center moments prior.
"Here," the lieutenant said, pausing the video.
Carson frowned. "What's this?"
"The wide-area radar." The lieutenant zoomed in, revealing countless yellow dots swarming the screen.
"What are these?" Carson asked, voice low.
"Wait, sir. Richard!" the lieutenant called.
An operator, Corporal Murez, leapt from his console and ran over, standing rigid before Carson.
"Corporal, did you see anything odd on the wide-area radar before the shutdown?" the lieutenant asked.
"Yes, sir. I thought it was noise—"
"No opinions, Corporal. Facts. What did you see?"
"Yes, sir. Hudson Bay direction hundreds of unidentified objects descending from high altitude."
"Number?"
"Unknown. Hundreds, maybe more. They kept increasing."
"Radar back yet?"
"Rebooted, but jamming's rendering it useless."
"Prep a power boost. Emergency generators can handle it."
"Yes, sir." Murez saluted and sprinted back.
"Commander, these objects over Hudson Bay, the jamming, and power loss can't be unrelated. I suggest a radar power boost to break through," the lieutenant urged.
"Do it," Carson nodded.
"Lieutenant, power boost ready," Murez called.
"Hold. I'm coming." The lieutenant, followed by Carson and Welton, rushed to the console.
"Go," the lieutenant ordered.
"Roger. Radar power boost, rate 2.0," Murez said.
The screen flared briefly, showing a hazy cloud of light but no clear targets.
"Crank it up," the lieutenant snapped.
"Sir, doubling to 4.0 will burn it out in five seconds."
"Then cut it before five. Record the output."
"Understood. Boost rate 4.0. On."
The screen sharpened. Amid swirling haze, countless glowing dots appeared, some larger, reflecting stronger radar returns.
"Boost off. Five seconds. Radar's still functional, but no more boosts," Murez reported.
"Pull up the recorded image," the lieutenant ordered.
"Yes, sir."
The screen displayed thousands of blips, far exceeding hundreds, with larger signatures mixed in.
"Goddamn," Carson muttered.
"Red line! Get Defence HQ, Winnipeg NORAD, NATO, civilian nets, phones—anything!" Carson shouted.
"Short-range high-power radar detects multiple high-speed objects approaching! They're inside the defense line! Range 80km!"
"Phalanx anti-air!"
"Phalanx active. SAMs powering up. No target data. Need data!"
"Link short-range radar."
"Target data acquired. Phalanx on full auto. Too many targets! SAMs can't keep up!"
"Fire everything! How many are there?"
"Estimated 500 targets! Bearing 06, speed Mach 10, vector 30, altitude 8,500. Missiles! Impact in 10 seconds!"
"We're overrun! Impact in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…"
That day, Moose Jaw, a town of 150 years, lost its southern half. The Canadian Forces Moose Jaw Air Base, 10 kilometers south, vanished from the earth.