Aboard Nightwatch, 40,000 feet above Illinois
August 9, 2030 | 3:58 PM CDT
President Reynolds sat in the secure briefing room aboard Nightwatch, his expression drawn tight, jaw clenched as the low thrum of the airborne command post pulsed beneath the floor. Around the table, the room was dimly lit, screens casting shifting reflections across the tense faces of his top advisors and military brass. Every word over the comms in the last hour still echoed in the back of his mind, especially the last.
Chairman Carter exhaled through his nose, wiping a hand down his face before speaking. "We're on final approach to Peterson Space Force Base. Two hours out." His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable edge in his tone.
Secretary Mitchell leaned in, her fingernails tapping out a restless beat on the tabletop. "Satellites remain completely unresponsive, sir. We've lost all uplinks and orbital coverage. Right now, our only communications are coming from short-range ground-based systems—UHF, VHF, direct line-of-sight relays. We're effectively blind beyond our immediate line."
Reynolds didn't respond immediately. His mind was still shaken by everything that had been happening. "We still have no answers about that light? Whatever it was, that engulfed the sky—are we sure this wasn't some kind of nuclear bomb?"
Eric Collins, the National Security Advisor, shook his head slowly. "No, sir. Whatever this was… It's not in our playbook. Not nuclear. Not chemical. Not even us."
Reynolds's gaze hardened. "And what about that 'creature'? That thing that took down one of our best fighters?"
Mark Holloway, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, folded his arms, his expression tense. "All we have so far are the comms recordings and Scout Two's real-time reports, sir. The F-47's systems would've captured everything, but without access to the jet's data, we haven't recovered any visuals or telemetry."
Carter's expression darkened. "We lost a pilot. Scout Two-One went down with his bird. And that thing didn't even slow down after."
"So now we're looking at… what?" Reynolds asked quietly. "Something biological that flies faster than planes, shrugs off multi-million-dollar missiles, and breathes fire like a living flamethrower? Where the hell did it even come from?"
"That's the million-dollar question," Collins replied. "But we need to assume this wasn't an isolated case. Not until we know more."
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, hands pressed against his temples as the weight of the situation pressed down like gravity. "The American homeland has just lost an air superiority fighter to a bloody dragon—straight out of a movie. That's what it looks like to anyone who would see the footage."
He looked up, eyes sharp now. "I want full situational analysis from every available asset the moment we touch down. I want intel, forensics, energy analysis, satellite diagnostics, and a strategic reassessment ready to brief the Cabinet. And I want someone to tell me—if that wasn't the only one."
Every head in the room nodded, the unspoken acknowledgment shared between them: this was just the beginning.
Hamptonville, North Carolina - Route 421
August 9, 2030 | 5:21 PM EDT
The sun had dipped low behind a haze of smoke and dust, casting a burnt orange hue across the mangled stretch of the highway. The air was still thick, like the world itself hadn't taken a proper breath since the sky lit up.
Bryan walked slowly back toward his vehicle, his shoes crunching over shattered glass and gravel. His shoulders ached, his arms scraped and streaked with dried blood that wasn't his. He had pulled people from twisted metal, laid blankets over bodies whose warmth had already faded, and shouted for help in places where help never came.
He glanced down—blood spattered across his shirt, dark and crusted. Some of it was from the people he'd saved. Some… not.
He slowed near the car, the familiar shape of it grounding him. But then he saw Natalie through the window—her small head resting on Jane's shoulder.
He froze.
No. She shouldn't see him like this.
Bryan tugged the bloodied shirt off with one swift motion, his breath catching slightly as the cooler air met his skin. Underneath, his frame bore the lean muscle of someone used to carrying more weight than just his own. He tossed the shirt into a pile near the roadside and walked around to the back of the vehicle.
He opened the back compartment and grabbed a clean shirt and a couple of water bottles. One went into his hand, the other tucked under his arm. He slipped into the driver's seat.
Jane looked over immediately, her eyes scanning his face. "How is it out there?"
Bryan let out a slow breath. He shook his head quietly. "Not good."
Natalie shifted up from Jane's side, her small voice poking through the silence. "Daddy… can we leave now?"
He turned to her, blinking a few times before offering a tired smile, softening his voice. "Not yet, sweetpea. The road's hurt real bad. Like a big scrape… we're kinda stuck."
Natalie pouted and looked away, clearly not satisfied, but didn't ask again.
Bryan pulled on the fresh shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin still sticky with sweat. He took a long drink of water, letting the coolness settle his breathing. His head tipped back against the seat. For a second, he closed his eyes.
Movement outside caught his attention.
The doctor—the same man from earlier—was walking along the shoulder, eventually sitting down near a splintered guardrail. His back was slouched, hands caked in dry blood, his breath heavy. He didn't notice Bryan watching.
"I'll be right back," Bryan said, grabbing the second bottle.
Jane just nodded, her hand brushing his as he slipped out.
Bryan made his way over and stopped in front of the man. "Hey," he said softly, handing him the bottle.
The man looked up, clearly surprised. He accepted the water without a word and took a long drink, letting it wash over him.
"You alright?" Bryan asked.
The man exhaled slowly, staring out over the wreckage. "Just tired."
They sat there in silence for a few moments, the chaos around them momentarily distant. The man rubbed his face with one hand, then began wiping his palms with the water, rubbing off dried blood from between his fingers.
"I didn't catch your name," Bryan said.
The man looked over. "Manuel Rivas," he said. "Trauma surgeon from Hugh Chatham—Yadkinville branch."
Bryan nodded, recognizing the hospital. "That's right off Elm, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I live a couple blocks from there. Near the old mill, just past the hardware store." Rivas glanced at him. "What about you?"
"Bryan Voss," he replied. He hesitated for a beat, swallowing once. "Soldier. From Elkin."
Rivas didn't say anything, just nodded slowly, thoughtful. Then his brows lifted, piecing something together.
"Just got back from deployment a few weeks ago," Bryan added, his voice dipping. He blinked again—hard. "Supposed to spend time with my family." A soft breath escaped him—half a scoff, half a sigh. "Guess that didn't go as planned."
Rivas glanced toward the car where Jane and Natalie sat. The little girl was watching them through the window, her small hand pressed to the glass.
Bryan followed his gaze, then looked down and took another drink, his throat working with the motion.
The silence between them stretched, shared, but not uncomfortable.
Bryan watched the way Rivas wiped at his arm, almost out of habit. The blood was everywhere—under his nails, smeared down his sleeves, in the folds of his knuckles.
"You know…" Rivas said, his voice quieter now. "I was also thinking about enlisting. Because of this… World War shit going on."
Bryan turned slightly, curious. "Why didn't you?"
Rivas gave a dry laugh. "Because I'm scared."
Bryan's expression didn't change, but his shoulders subtly shifted, as if carrying something heavier than before. He gave a small nod—just once. He understood.
Rivas looked at the water bottle, turning it in his hands. "I'm scared of leaving my family behind," he said softly.
Bryan froze.
The words landed like a gut punch. He stared at the gravel for a moment, unmoving. Then blinked—once, twice, rapidly. His breathing shifted. A quiet hitch in the rhythm, like something knocked loose inside him.
He looked down at his own hands—clean now, but the memory came flooding back like a broken dam.
Blood in his gloves. Gunfire. Mud. A screaming radio. The sound of someone yelling his name. The crack of mortar fire.
A friend's body slumped against a wall, still twitching. Still warm.
His heart thudded hard against his ribs. Each beat louder than the last.
He blinked again, harder this time. His jaw clenched tight, nostrils flaring. The water bottle in his hand crinkled slightly from the pressure of his grip
"Hey," Rivas said gently, watching him. "You okay?"
Bryan didn't answer right away. He shifted forward, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The silence dragged for a few long seconds.
Finally, he exhaled, voice low and raw. "Yeah," he said, not looking up. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just…" He paused, eyes fixed on the gravel again. The words fought to come out. "Just—wasn't expecting that to hit so hard."
He rubbed his face with one hand, trying to brush it all away—the sweat, the dust, the memories. But they clung to him.
Colorado Springs, Colorado - Peterson Space Force Base
August 09, 2030 | 5:21 PM MDT
Nightwatch touched down at Peterson Space Force Base, its engines still humming as security teams moved into position and the mobile staircase locked into place.
President Reynolds stepped out first, the cold mountain air biting against his face. Waiting at the base of the stairs, General James Davis, Commander of North American Aerospace Defense Command, and General Katherine Doyle, Commander of Northern Command, both stood at attention, snapping a salute.
General Davis stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frozen ground. "Mr. President, welcome to Peterson Space Force Base. Cheyenne Mountain Complex is secured. We've set up emergency communications, but…" He hesitated, his eyes scanning the distant horizon as if weighing the gravity of the situation. "…Sir, we have a situation developing."
Reynolds gave him a sharp look. "Something new?"
Davis nodded. "Yes, sir. It's best if you hear it in the briefing."
Nearby, a Marine One helicopter stood ready, its rotors slicing through the air as the engines roared to life. Secret Service agents guided Reynolds and the First Family toward the aircraft. Within moments, they were airborne, en route to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex—one of the nation's most hardened installations.
After a brief flight, Marine One touched down on a secure helipad nestled into the Colorado terrain. The side door slid open, and President Reynolds stepped out first, the cold mountain air cutting through the tension. His family followed close behind, flanked by Secret Service agents.
As they approached the reinforced blast doors of the facility, the moment to part ways came. Security personnel prepared to escort the First Family to a sealed, self-sustaining living area within the mountain, while Reynolds was scheduled to proceed to the command center.
Just before they separated, Emily reached for his hand, stopping him with a soft tug. Her eyes were rimmed with worry. "Dave… I've been trying to reach Jane. Her phone's dead. I'm getting really worried."
Reynolds looked into her eyes, his expression momentarily softening amid the chaos. "We'll find her," he said, steadying her with a hand to her cheek. "I promise. Just let me get briefed first, then I'll make her our top priority. Okay?"
Emily gave a small nod, though the fear didn't leave her face. She squeezed his hand once more, then turned to follow the agents into the secured family sector. Then the blast doors sealed behind her.
Reynolds stood for a moment, watching the doors before turning away. Flanked by aides and guards, he moved deeper into the mountain toward the battle staff meeting room.
Inside the room, the tension was suffocating. High-ranking military officers and intelligence directors filled the room, faces drawn tight with unease. As the President entered, all eyes snapped to him.
He adjusted his jacket and sat at the head of the table. "Alright," he said, voice calm but firm. "Let's begin. I want a full situation update."
Chairman Carter straightened, his expression grim. "Mr. President, at nineteen forty-five zulu, an intense light engulfed the skies. Civilians across the nation reported seeing it, along with a magnitude seven earthquake across the entire homeland." He exhaled, his jaw tightening. "Then, all at once… we lost contact with every U.S. military installation outside our borders. Forward bases in Europe, the Pacific, and the Middle East—gone dark. No response from Japan, South Korea, Germany—anywhere."
He paused, glancing around the room before continuing, his voice lower now. "We've tried every method of communication available. Emergency channels, diplomatic relays, satellite comms—nothing."
Carter's tone turned heavier. "And there's more. We launched a squadron of B-21 bombers on immediate retaliatory strike orders targeting strategic nodes in Russia and China. They crossed their last known waypoint, then vanished. No distress calls and no telemetry. Just gone."
He gave it a beat, letting the weight settle before adding: "We've also lost contact with several Columbia-class subs—one in the Atlantic, another in the Pacific, and two deployed in the Indian Ocean."
This was just the first report. And it was already this catastrophic. The weight of that realization pressed in, cold and heavy, settling in the back of Reynolds's mind like a storm about to break.
His voice came out slower than he intended, like he was trying to force the words into reality. "What about our Carrier Strike Groups?"
Carter gave a measured nod, his jaw tight but steady. "They're all accounted for, sir. All eleven are still in position—stateside and coastal. Ever since the global situation started deteriorating months ago, we've kept them within striking distance of the homeland."
Reynolds's voice came low, measured, but razor-sharp with urgency. "How come we've lost contact with our satellite assets…" he said, his gaze narrowing, "…but not our carriers?"
General Nathan Cole, Commander of Space Command, straightened. He rose slowly, each motion controlled, as though containing the pressure mounting beneath his surface. "Mr. President…" he began, voice low and gravel-lined. "We've run every diagnostic protocol. Every band, every backup. We cold-started Deep Space Network nodes, reactivated dormant uplinks, even pushed legacy protocols into systems we haven't used in decades." He paused, jaw set. "It's not just one system. We've lost all contact with every orbital asset. Military, civilian, foreign—everything. Every satellite, relays, telescopes… even the ISS has gone dark."
He let the weight of it hang in the air. As everyone in the room tried, quietly, to piece together their answers.
"Even if there were a coordinated cyberattack or a Kessler cascade—we'd expect debris, static, something. But it's like they never even existed."
He drew a slow breath and continued, his voice steady but burdened by the weight of what he was about to say. "What's more disturbing, sir… is the sky itself—it's unfamiliar. Background radiation levels don't match what we'd expect, and the cosmic ray patterns are inconsistent with anything in our records. The stars, their alignments… they're just wrong. Even known deep-space markers aren't where they should be. Our models can't reconcile any of it—it's like we're looking at an entirely different sky."
Reynolds's eyes widened, though not out of comprehension—much of what Cole had said sounded like a foreign language. Radiation patterns, star alignments, deep-space markers—it was all beyond him. But one truth cut through the haze with chilling clarity:
They no longer had contact with their satellites.
And whatever sky hung above them now… it wasn't Earth's.
Advisor Collins folded his arms, his tone measured. "SATCOM may be down, but have we tried any diplomatic channels? Heads of state, embassies, UN circuits—old hotlines, HF bands—anything?"
"Yes, sir," replied Director Holloway. He moved with the confident precision of someone used to operating in high-stakes environments. "We've used all standard and emergency diplomatic channels. The Canadian and Mexican governments are unresponsive. In fact, sir…" He paused, a faint crease forming between his brows—not uncertainty, but calculation. "Reconnaissance flights were dispatched by NORTHCOM under contingency protocols. Our teams have since been looped into the preliminary ISR data—raw visuals, sensor sweeps, and terrain mapping. But…"
Reynolds exhaled sharply, his gaze locked onto Holloway, unwavering, cold. "What?"
Holloway hesitated, then delivered the blow. "The results were… unexpected. Beyond our borders, there's no infrastructure. No signs of civilization. Just vast, uninhabited lands stretching for hundreds of miles in every direction."
Reynolds' mind raced. Could it be true? Was this some kind of mistake? He wanted to demand proof, something to disprove the impossible—but he knew better. The silence in the room spoke volumes.
Secretary Mitchell cut in, her voice unwavering despite the weight of what she had just heard. "Mr. President, let's move to damage assessment." She paused, collecting herself, though her tone never wavered. "Nuclear strikes did hit U.S. soil. Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida—they've suffered direct impacts. Entire districts are reduced to massive craters."
Reynolds felt the words hit like body blows, each state was a punch to the gut. Craters. Not just damage—obliteration. Millions, gone in seconds. He stared ahead, silent, trying to grasp the scale, but it kept slipping from his mind like sand through his fingers.
She took a breath, her hand still slightly unsteady as she flipped the page. "The civilian infrastructure is largely gone in the worst-hit areas, and there's a high probability that many of the missing are trapped or unaccounted for. We're currently coordinating with FEMA and local agencies for rescue operations. But given the scale of the destruction and the limited access, it's difficult to assess the full scope at this stage." She paused, gathering herself for the next part. "But here's where it gets strange: there's no lingering radiation, no residual thermal damage, and not even persistent fallout."
Reynolds shook his head in disbelief. "How is there none?"
Dr. Elaine Hartley, Director of the Environmental Protection Agency, spoke up before anyone else could. "Mr. President, if I may."
Reynolds turned to her, his brow furrowed. She met his gaze calmly, her tablet already lit with incoming sensor data.
"Our teams conducted radiation sweeps using airborne and ground-based detectors. Not only is there no radiation in the strike zones, but even background levels across the country are anomalously low. Lower than we've ever recorded."
That landed heavy. But she wasn't finished.
"There's something else," Hartley continued, steady but alert. "We expanded our atmospheric analysis across major urban and industrial zones. What we found was—well, honestly, I double-checked it myself." She tapped her screen. "There are no traces of industrial pollutants. No smog, no carbon dioxide hotspots, no sulfur dioxide levels above natural norms. Even cities like Los Angeles, Houston, and Chicago—readings show air purity levels not seen since before the Industrial Revolution."
Reynolds's eyes darted from face to face, the full weight of her words creeping in like cold air through a broken window.
The air in the room suddenly felt heavier, despite what she had just said.
General Hastings adjusted his earpiece, his expression tense and drawn as he stared at the intelligence feed on his secure tablet. He looked like a man still processing what he was seeing. Slowly, he cleared his throat, drawing the room's attention.
"Mr. President," he began, his voice tighter than usual, "we've just received the latest report from our high-altitude reconnaissance platform—the SR-72."
Reynolds turned to him, pulse quickening. "Alright. What did it find?"
Hastings swallowed hard before speaking, clearly shaken. "We directed our asset toward what should have been Russian Federation airspace," he said, eyes still glued to the data streaming in. "But the terrain... it doesn't match any of our archived geospatial records. No cities. No road systems. No industrial complexes. Just... endless wilderness. Dense forests, unfamiliar mountain ranges—it's not Russia, not as we knew it."
Reynolds's brow furrowed. His voice came slowly and uncertainly. "Could it be a system error?"
Hastings tore his eyes from the tablet, glancing up like he'd hoped the question might offer him a way out—but it didn't. He shook his head. "Negative, sir. All systems are nominal. Navigation and telemetry are operating correctly. We verified the coordinates manually. The SR-72's onboard system triangulated its position through ground-based RF beacons." He paused, visibly unsettled. "Everything lines up—except for what we're seeing."
He stepped forward, as if being closer to the images might make them easier to believe. "Visuals just came through from the sensor package. What we've found…" His voice faltered, then steadied. "There are settlements, but they're not modern. Timber construction. Stone walls. Fortified castles. Walled cities. And scattered villages in valleys we've never mapped."
Reynolds's face paled, his eyes fixed on the surreal images. "So you're telling me not only did we lose contact with the rest of the world," he murmured, disbelief thick in his tone, "but what should've been Russian territory is now occupied by civilizations straight out of a history book?"
While everyone in the room grappled with the cascade of impossibilities—medieval settlements in foreign lands, skies that no longer matched their star charts, a planet that bore Earth's scars but none of its neighbors—a new presence entered the room.
The door opened as a young officer stepped inside, his uniform streaked with soot and dust, boots still bearing the grime of urgency. He held a folder tightly in his hands, crossed the room, and handed it to Generals Davis and Doyle.
They took it wordlessly.
General Davis opened the folder first, his sharp eyes scanning the documents and the attached data feed. His face remained stoic at first—trained, composed—but something shifted in his jaw, a barely perceptible clench. Beside him, General Doyle reviewed the second half of the folder. Her expression darkened immediately, brows drawing together. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.
Finally, both generals exchanged a glance—grim, wordless, understanding. Davis nodded once. Davis turned toward the President.
"Mr. President…" His voice carried an edge of disbelief beneath the formality. "These are visuals—pulled directly from one of our fighters that engaged the unknown contact in our airspace earlier today. We just retrieved the final moments from its camera."
He paused. Just for a beat. Searching for the words. "What we're seeing is something we've… never encountered before."
Doyle quickly reached for her tablet, tapped several commands, and cast the live feed to the central display.
The screen flickered to life. The video feed—retrieved directly from Scout Two-Two.
At first, just clouds. A smooth glide above high altitude, the quiet hum of the fighter's internal comms in the background. Then the movement. Blurred at first, framed by the edge of the camera—something huge.
Then the picture sharpened.
Gasps rose from the room.
A reptile. Massive. Majestic. Terrifying.
It dwarfed the F-47 chasing it—wings spread wide like a god's mantle, catching the light as it banked across the clouds. Its scales shimmered with a dull, earthen gleam, like ancient armor pulled from a buried tomb. Twin horns curled back from its skull like jagged obsidian, and its eyes—its eyes burned with a glow straight out of hell.
Ominous. Intelligent. Malevolent.
Through the blurred contrast of heat signatures, the massive form flared crimson against the sky. Scout Two-One darted into view, maneuvering aggressively—just as the creature twisted its body with sudden, terrifying intent.
Without warning, the creature opened its jaws.
A stream of concentrated fire erupted—white-hot and unrelenting—piercing the air like a blade of light. It struck Scout Two-One head-on. The fighter disappeared in a bloom of heat and flame, its thermal profile flaring violently on the HUD before distorting from the overpressure.
The camera auto-zoomed, refocusing through the turbulence.
It locked onto the burning fuselage of Scout Two-One as it tumbled, smoke trailing, one wing sheared off, the engine engulfed. In that moment, the comms replay activated automatically, filling the room with the last desperate transmission:
"Scout One is hit! I repeat, Scout One is hit!"
The feed caught one final image: Scout Two-One plummeting through the haze, vanishing into the thick clouds below. Then the screen went black for a moment… and shifted to a still frame.
The last glimpse of Scout Two-One's fighter, its nose down, flames trailing behind like a funeral banner.
Moments later, the display populated with service information:
Captain Ellis Harper
United States Air Force
Callsign: Tracer
KIA—Confirmed
A name. A face. A life. Gone.
Reynolds sat still, back straight, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the frozen frame of Harper's last moments. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table, the tension screaming through his bones.
Because all he knew was: His country was no longer where it used to be.