Colorado Springs, Colorado – Cheyenne Mountain Complex
August 23, 2030 | 9:00 AM MDT
Today marked the long-awaited briefing—the formal presentation of the selected operators. President Reynolds had just arrived, entering alongside Deputy Director Marrick, who moved straight toward the main screen at the head of the room. Reynolds took his seat, joining the assembled mix of cabinet members, senior military leaders, and intelligence officials.
In front of each official lay a matte black folder.
Stamped in bold red across the cover:
TOP SECRET
PROJECT RAVEN (ECHO-1)
Centered at the top was the gold-embossed Seal of the President of the United States.
Reynolds adjusted his tie, eyes scanning the table briefly before resting on Marrick. His hand settled on the sealed folder in front of him, signaling for him to begin.
"So," he said. "Who are our selected operators?"
Marrick stood with his hands behind his back, then pulled out the tablet he'd been holding.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Marrick began, "the following individuals have been chosen as the primary field team for Project Raven. Callsign: Echo-1"
He tapped his tablet. The screen behind him flickered to life.
"First—weapons and tactics sergeant. Wade 'Brick' Thompson."
The screen lit up with a profile picture of Thompson. Mid-thirties. Short black hair. A neatly trimmed jawline. His expression was focused and calm.
"Former Senior Weapons Sergeant, 5th Special Forces Group," He began. "Green Beret—MOS eighteen Bravo. Specializing in guerrilla warfare, foreign internal defense, and JTAC-certified. Also served as a Tier-2 instructor in CQB and combatives."
Director Sanchez raised her hand slightly while looking at the folder. "From what we know, the aerial threats this world has can disperse kinetic energy. The only confirmed way to kill one is a precision strike inside its mouth." She paused, then quietly closed the folder. "So with intel that limited, what qualifies Thompson to shape our tactical response against something we barely understand?"
Marrick turned to her. "He's here because he knows how to work with what's available. He's led missions with incomplete intel, trained partner forces with secondhand gear, and built effective tactics in environments where nothing went by the book. That kind of adaptability doesn't depend on technology—it depends on experience. And Thompson has it."
Sanchez gave an approving nod—no more questions.
Secretary Mitchell folded her arms. "Why not pull directly from a Tier-1 pool?"
"Because mission fit isn't about a patch," Marrick replied evenly. "He's trained fighters from three continents to stay alive with whatever's in their hands. Cartel tunnels, jungle ambushes, Eastern European city blocks. You want someone who can weaponize a situation, no matter what terrain they're dropped into? That's him."
A quiet pause. Mitchell offered a single, thoughtful nod.
Marrick continued. He turned toward the screen, tapped his tablet, and the next operator's profile loaded into view.
"Next, our signals/ISR specialist. Amelia 'Lins' Dalton."
A new image appeared on the screen—a woman in her late twenties with sharp features and cropped hair. Her expression was gentle, her gaze fixed forward with quiet intensity.
"CIA, SAD/SOG. Signals Intelligence and ISR," Marrick said. "Dalton's been part of nearly every major digital warfare operation since 2025. But she's not just behind a keyboard—she's embedded with Tier-1 teams in live operations."
He tapped his tablet, and her file populated the side display. "Infiltrated DPRK networks during active surveillance sweeps. Exfiltrated clean. Operated in live-denial environments where standard protocols didn't apply."
He scanned the room. "Her core skillset spans cyberwarfare, ISR coordination, and digital infiltration. Fluent in six languages. Holds the highest belts in multiple martial arts systems—plus mastery in unranked combat formats used in CIA field tradecraft."
Director Holloway leaned forward slightly. "There's no denying her file is impressive—especially in cyber. And her hand-to-hand metrics are… superb. But given the tech conditions in this world—we're dealing with post-industrial, at best—how does her expertise even apply?"
Marrick gave a short nod, already anticipating the question. "Her job isn't just about accessing networks. It's about adapting them. She's trained to rebuild ISR frameworks from the ground up. She can modify or repurpose analog systems, reestablish communications from scratch, and exploit whatever electromagnetic signature exists. In a world where infrastructure is unpredictable, she builds the picture manually."
He paused. "And we still don't know what truly what's out there. Her expertise could prove critical in ways we can't yet anticipate. And in that kind of uncertainty, it's better to have her and not need her, than need her and not have her."
Everyone in the room exchanged quiet glances—uncertain, hesitant. But one by one, subtle nods followed.
There were no objections.
Marrick proceeded to the next operator.
"The direct action breacher. Logan 'Bull' Braddock."
A new photo took the screen. A massive man built like a wall in his early thirties. His face was set in a hard scowl, eyes forward. There was no warmth—just the look of a man built for walking through whatever stood in his way.
"Former 75th Ranger, now with a Special Mission Unit under USASOC," Marrick said. "Certified Master Breacher—expert in explosive, ballistic, thermal, and mechanical breaching. Sapper School honor graduate and FBI HRT exchange alum."
The room stayed silent. Every eye lingered on the folders in front of them. Braddock's file was dense—page after page of breaching operations, live-fire assaults, and frontline deployments.
"By the end of his 2027 deployment in Yemen, the IRGC had started calling him Hadim," he faced the room again, "the Demolisher."
The word lingered. No one spoke. No one needed to. His file said enough.
"Next, our sniper—Elijah 'Bot' King. But within most units, he's known as 'the Ghost.'"
A lean man in his early thirties appeared next. His eyes were sharp, cold, almost animal. Locked forward like they were still behind a scope.
"He started as a Scout Sniper under MARSOC," Marrick began, "and rose to lead a Raider recon team. King has 182 confirmed kills across nine deployments—making him one of the most lethal snipers in U.S. history."
He continued. "But more than that, he's an R&S instructor, certified across Arctic, jungle, and urban warfare."
A few in the room exchanged glances.
General Carter leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His eyes locked onto Marrick. "Snipers usually operate within the scope. What makes you think he's built for a flexible team role, not just overwatch?"
Marrick met his eyes. "Because he's not just a sniper. King's trained for deep recon and pathfinding in all environments. He's led solo infiltration and evasion missions for days under blackout conditions. That kind of discipline and versatility makes him more than capable of adapting on the move."
Slowly, Carter gave a single nod.
Marrick shifted the screen and then proceeded to the next operator.
"Deputy leader—Aiden 'Grease' Cho."
Cho's photo replaced King's—his face weathered and hard, eyes set deep with a quiet intensity. Half-Asian features, squared jaw, short-cropped hair, and a thousand-yard stare that didn't flinch for cameras.
"Senior Chief Cho, DEVGRU, Gold Squadron," Marrick said. "He served as senior medic and assault team lead, cross-trained in trauma care, close-quarters battle, and maritime interdiction. He's led countless rescue and extraction missions under live fire."
Director Sanchez put down the folder and then leaned forward. "We still don't know what kind of injuries this team could face in this world. We're talking about biological threats we haven't identified yet." She paused, glancing at Cho's file on the screen. "So how does a medic—no matter how seasoned—prepare for injuries we can't predict?"
The question lingered, grounded and real. All eyes turned to Marrick.
Marrick met Holloway's eyes. "Cho has treated battlefield trauma in some of the worst-case environments we've seen—blast injuries with no medevac window, chemical burns from failed demolitions, drowning cases mid-boarding, and partial amputations under artillery fire."
Marrick let the weight of that settle.
"He's a tactical problem-solver with medical expertise. Cho doesn't need a full diagnosis to keep someone breathing—he needs seconds, pressure, and whatever he's got in reach. And if we're dealing with unknown wounds? We're not going to find someone with a training manual for that. We need someone who can think clearly when it's chaos."
Everyone in the room was still looking at the folder. Eventually, one by one, everyone gave a nod. Except for President Reynolds.
Reynolds finally spoke. "And you're telling me our second-in-command is a medic?"
"Yes, sir," Marrick said without pause. "Though it's uncommon. He's led more multi-domain ops than most officers. Cho holds the line when the command breaks. He's been the difference between mission complete and mission failure."
Reynolds looked at the file one last time, then slowly closed the folder. "Alright then," he said. "Proceed."
Marrick steadied his voice for the final name—the one that mattered most. "And lastly, the team leader."
Reynolds leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands over his mouth, watching the screen intensely.
"Bryan 'Grim' Voss."
The screen displayed the final profile: early thirties, sharp features, trimmed beard, and a quiet intensity in his eyes.
"Master Sergeant. Assigned to Delta Force," Marrick said. "Team Sergeant on a direct action troop. He's led high-risk missions including hostage rescue, HVT raids, and the infiltration and destruction of WMD facilities."
He continued. "Expert in tactical leadership, close-quarters combat, urban warfare, hostage rescue, and denied-environment ops." He gestured to the screen, "Certified in ISR coordination, strategic planning, and SIGINT integration under Tier-1 protocols."
Marrick faced the room. "He led the breach on Rakid-8—the IRGC's underground nuclear weapons research facility beneath Semnan, north-central Iran."
He let the silence hold. "Went in with a six-man team. Breached the access tunnels. Planted charges throughout the facility—blowing it up entirely." He exhaled, "Stopped what would've been Iran's first operational nuclear weapon. Targeted the region including our bases."
A long pause followed. Glances shifted between the folder and the screen. Then, subtle nods circled the table.
Everyone seemed to agree.
Except one.
Vice President Colloway hadn't moved. His folder stayed shut. Finger tapping lightly on the table.
He broke the silence. "There's no doubt Voss is an exceptional leader—one of the best I've seen," he said, leaning forward. "But are we really going to ignore what happened during that operation?"
The room froze. Eyes turned to Marrick.
He started, voice low. "What happened at the facili—"
"Let's be clear," Colloway interrupted sharply, stopping his finger from tapping. He leaned in. "Destroying that facility wasn't just a win. It was a necessity. If that program had matured, we wouldn't be debating hypotheticals—we'd be facing another nuclear-armed state."
He let the weight settle. "That mission didn't just succeed—it changed the stakes. So credit where it's due."
"But here's what no one's said: that success came at the cost… of his entire team. All because he made the call... to leave them behind."
His eyes scanned the room. Silence answered.
"I'm not questioning tactics—I've read the reports. I understand the brutal calculus. Sometimes there's no clean choice, only the least worst. But now we're assigning him to lead a team of the best operators from every branch, each carrying their own scars and their own history."
His voice stayed steady, but the gravity was clear. "These aren't soldiers chasing glory. They've carried comrades out under fire, buried brothers, and followed leaders they trust. And trust… is what holds teams together."
He turned to Marrick with a steady gaze. "What happens when they learn who's leading them? When they find out he chose the mission over his team?"
Silence hung heavy. No one interrupted. No one objected. They listened—because they knew he was right.
"They may respect his record. They might even admire his nerve. But trust? That's a different currency. Once doubt enters—even quietly—it lingers and spreads."
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "So before we approve this, ask yourselves: when that team steps into the unknown, do you want one of them wondering if their leader would leave them behind too?"
"And if he did it once, what stops him from hesitating next time? Not every scar makes a soldier stronger—sometimes it makes them slower, less certain."
Marrick didn't respond immediately. He drew a breath, eyes briefly meeting Colloway's. "Mr. Vice President," he said evenly, "your concern is valid. But without that decision, the facility would've been active. And within months, we would've been facing Iran's first operational nuclear weapon."
His tone sharpened. "That's not speculation. It's confirmed intel—they were refining weapons-grade uranium. If that window closed, it wouldn't just shift the balance—it would've added fuel to a world war already burning out of control."
He looked around the room. "That mission didn't just take out a facility—it kept an already volatile world from tipping even further into chaos."
He paused. "And regarding loss, it doesn't make him weaker. It makes him deliberate and measured. A man who's faced the edge of loss and acted with clarity."
Before he could continue, Colloway interrupted. "And no one disputes that," he said. "But there's a line between making hard calls and burying their consequences."
He turned to face Reynolds, then continued, "Which brings me to another concern no one here is willing to say out loud."
He rested his elbow on the armrest, hand supporting his head, he met Reynolds's eyes directly. "Voss isn't just another candidate. He's your childhood friend, Mr. President. And the First Lady's sister is married to him."
Reynolds held his gaze.
"I'm not saying he didn't earn this spot. Nor that he's the wrong choice. But when his entire team died under his command—and two months later, he's leading a handpicked unit of the best operators this country has—people will ask how he got here."
"I'm not questioning your integrity, Mr. President. I've stood beside you too long for that. But this team isn't just another deployment. They're being sent into uncharted territory, facing risks and challenges unlike anything we've ever encountered before."
He leaned forward, expression steady, "If Voss is the right man, let him earn that trust openly. Not behind sealed files or back channels tied to your name."
"I'm not here to play politics. I'm here to make sure when that team steps into a world none of us understand—they don't carry even a hint of doubt about their leader or why he's there."
Marrick opened his mouth, the first syllable of a reply forming—
Reynolds raised a hand, just slightly. Enough to stop him.
Then he turned his gaze toward Colloway. Heavy and piercing gaze.
"I appreciate the concern," Reynolds began, his voice measured and steady. "And I respect you for voicing it here—exactly where it belongs."
He paused, letting his gaze settle on every face around the table.
"Just to clarify, Bryan Voss is not in that seat because of personal ties. Not because of our history, and certainly not because of family connections. If anything, those connections made this decision far more difficult."
There was a weight behind his words—hard-earned and sincere.
"He earned that seat because I've reviewed every classified report bearing his name. I've seen footage no one else has. I've witnessed the aftermath of the operations he led. And I understand fully what it took for him to walk out of that mountain in Iran, alive and alone."
Reynolds glanced down briefly, gathering himself. When he looked up, his tone was resolute.
"If we're talking trust, I don't know anyone else alive who had to make that call—a call that sacrificed his own team to save thousands, maybe millions more. He made that choice not because he wanted to, but needed to."
He allowed a moment for the gravity of that to sink in.
"Such judgment isn't born from training alone. It comes from the clarity forged under unbearable pressure. And that is the reality we face now—a world filled with uncertainty, danger, and decisions without clear answers."
His eyes swept the room once more.
"I didn't choose Bryan Voss because I know him. I chose him because he knows what it means to carry the burden of command—and live with the consequences."
He exhaled deeply, then straightened in his seat.
"So let's end the whispers. Let's be clear." He looked at each person around the table. "All in favor of Master Sergeant Bryan Voss as team leader—please raise your hand."
No one moved.
The room remained silent, thick with hesitation, and no one in the room seemed ready to break it.
Then, a single hand lifted slowly.
Secretary Mitchell.
She didn't speak loudly. Just enough for the room to hear. "What he did wasn't just justified—it was necessary. That kind of decision takes clarity. And for that, I'm in favor."
A moment later, General Carter followed, his expression steady. "This team isn't about safe calls—it's about the right ones. He made one, and it saved lives. I'm also in favor."
Director Holloway came next. Then Sanchez. Then one by one, the rest of the table followed—cabinet, military, intelligence.
All except one.
Colloway. He remained still, unreadable.
Reynolds didn't look away. He just waited.
Finally, Colloway's eyes met his. And after a long pause… He raised his hand, just slightly. "Well said," he said quietly. "I'm in favor."
At last, the decision was finally made.
An hour had passed.
Down the reinforced corridor of Cheyenne Mountain's lower levels, Reynolds stood alone for a moment just outside the secure communications chamber.
The lights overhead buzzed softly. A low hum of analog equipment filled the air. In his hands, a small notecard—creased at the corners from being folded, opened, and folded again. He didn't need it to remember what he was going to say. But it helped to hold something.
An aide approached. "Relay towers are green, sir. Field units and loudspeakers are standing by. The uplink to the satellite is stable—audio's clean across the network."
Reynolds gave a quiet nod. "Begin transmission."
The doors opened.
Inside, a microphone waited on a bare desk beneath a single overhead light.
He sat. Took a breath.
And with a faint click as the signal went live, he began—
"My fellow Americans,
In recent weeks, we have faced extraordinary challenges—challenges that have tested our systems, our communities, and our very sense of reality."
Back in Walnut Hills, everyone was gathered in the living room, the radio crackling softly as the President's voice came through. Ellie had just returned, having picked Bryan up from his chores. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, hands were still dusty. He didn't say a word—just sank onto the couch beside Jane.
She glanced at him briefly. He gave a single nod, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the radio.
"Today, I speak with a truth long held in silence—not from fear, but from responsibility. We needed certainty before we spoke. Now, we have that certainty.
We are no longer on Earth.
This is not speculation. This is not symbolic. It is a fact.
The skies above no longer match the star charts we've relied on for generations. The constellations are foreign. And while there is still a moon in the sky, it is not the one we once knew. Every satellite that orbited our planet ceased to respond the moment we arrived. In the days since, we launched a single reconnaissance satellite and confirmed what our ground teams had already begun to uncover:
We are in a different world.
No satellites. No undersea cables. No modern cities. The geography defies our maps. The very environment behaves differently, not in ways that threaten our survival, but enough to confirm: this is not Earth.
We have encountered other civilizations. Some resemble early chapters of our own history—industrial towns, wartime-era armies, feudal societies. Others show evidence of technologies and phenomena beyond our current understanding.
How we arrived here remains unknown—whether by human design, natural forces, or something else entirely. Our brightest minds from every institution are working tirelessly to find the answer.
But here is what I promise you:
We are not broken.
The United States endures.
Cheyenne Mountain remains operational. Western Command is active and coordinated. Civilian governance is restored in more than thirty regions. Our soldiers hold ground. Our doctors save lives. Our engineers reconnect communities—one town, one road, one signal at a time.
This is not the end.
To every American listening—in shelters, convoys, ranger outposts, or candlelit basements—know this:
You are not forgotten. You are not alone. You are the reason we fight for our country's future.
We've endured civil war, world war, economic collapse, terror, and disaster. Time and again, we've stood on the edge of ruin. And time and again, we've returned—stronger, more united, and more determined.
Even here. Even now. We carry the idea of America with us.
That idea lives in how we rebuild, protect one another, and survive—not just as individuals, but as a people.
This world may be unknown. But we are here. We will adapt. We will stand together. And we will begin again—not as scattered survivors, but as Americans.
We are still one nation. Still indivisible. Still unbroken.
May God bless you all. And may God bless the United States of America."
The radio crackled once… then fell silent.
The living room was still. No one spoke. No one moved.
Ellie sat frozen, eyes distant. Adam sat beside her, quietly holding her hands, fingers laced. Jane held her hands tightly in her lap, lips slightly parted. Across the room, Natalie looked up at her father without saying a word, eyes wide and searching.
And Bryan… Bryan didn't flinch.
He had already heard it. Already knew. But this time, the weight of it sat differently. He just stared ahead, jaw set, sweat still dried into the collar of his shirt from earlier work.
Like a man who had already accepted what the world had become—and was already measuring what it might demand of him next.