It was past midnight when President Shane Cosby left the press room. His words about "Global Cooperation" amidst the United States ongoing trade war with China was something he wanted to see end before his next presidential campaign to boost his chances. Two Secret Service agents followed him down a narrow hallway in the east wing of the White House that ended at a plain oak door with the presidential seal carved faintly on it.
Inside was a library most people didn't know existed. Presidents where told to keep it that way. Old books, dark wood, and the faint smell of dust and whiskey. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The CIA Director, Marcus Haynes, was already there. His coat was half-off, tie loosened, a tablet glowing in front him. President Shane Cosby had known Marcus Haynes from their Oxford University days. He still remembered the chants of Haynes' name during inter-departmental Hockey matches. Haynes was a panther of a man with a body that suggested he was a participator in the last Olympics. However the current Haynes was different, he looked like a man who hadn't slept in days.
"Mr. President," he said quietly. "You might want to sit for this".
Cosby didn't. "Marcus. CERN. What happened?"
Marcus swiped his finger on the screen. Images flashed – shattered glass, notes behind a large desktop computer, a lab camera frozen mid-frame. "The scientist who won last year's Nobel prize, Professor Ziyech is gone. No one saw the extraction team. But we picked up satellite signatures leaving Geneva at 1:27 a.m. – a private jet with a Russian tail code."
The President's jaw tightened. "Moscow?"
"That's what it looks like," Haynes said. "But it's more complicated. The jet never entered Russian airspace. It vanished near the Baltic."
Cosby ran a hand down his face. "And this thing he is working on... what is it called again?"
Marcus looked at his screen. A look of dread President Cosby rarely saw on the intelligence veteran's face flashed "The Neural Key. Sir, if this data is true, it's not just a piece of tech. It's... a god key. A bridge between biology and computation. Whoever has it could rewrite global access systems – finance, defense, communications. All of it."
The President sank into a chair. He understood. It was a bad time for a shift in global power following the recent insurgencies from major Arab states over oil prices. "Congress won't approve another covert operation, not after the Dubai incident. We can't afford another scandal".
Haynes nodded grimly. "I already tried that road. The pentagon wants distance. The Brits said they'll 'monitor the situation'. The Israelis are staying quiet. Nobody wants to touch this"
"Then what do you suggest, Marcus? Sit back and watch while Russia unlocks the planet?"
The CIA chief hesitated, then spoke slowly. "We can't go through official channels. Not this time. If Moscow's really behind this, we need deniability"
Marcus sighed. This was one of the reasons he secretly hated democracy for. Unreasonable democracy. Even over a global threat.
Finally with a hint of reluctance he walked over a shelf and pressed a small button behind a row of old encyclopedias. A hidden panel slid open, revealing a black folder marked with nothing but a faint emblem – a cross over a blank shadow.
Cosby stared at it. " No not the.."
Haynes' eyes were steady. "They're the only ones who can move with out a trace left. The Shadow Psalms helped in the Tehran cleanup. You know what they're capable of"
The President as silent for a long time, staring at the hidden file. Finally, he said , "If this leaks, Marcus, there won't be an administration left to protect."
Haynes replied quietly, "Then let's make sure it doesn't"
* * *
At 3:42 a.m., the sky above the Indian missile range in Balasore was calm. Technicians moved lazily between consoles, coffee mugs in the hand. The next day being India holiest day, Diwali, further threw the usually attentive technicians into a casual state. Then one screen blinked.
"Wait–what the hell?" one of the operators said leaning closer. On the monitor, a missile log had just activated itself. Agni-V: Launch protocol online.
"That's impossible. We're not scheduled for–"
Before he could finish, the sirens went off. Red lights flooded the control room. Everyone shouted at once, hands flying across keyboards. The countdown on the screen hit three... two... one...
Outside, a bright flare tore through the night sky. The Agni-V missile, one of India's most formidable precise missile, thundered upward–on its own.
"Who authorized this?!" the chief roared. No one answered. Every system had gone dark, as if something–or someone–had hijacked control.
Venezuela Coastline – 4:11a.m. local time
Onboard the USS Sentinel, a U.S Navy submarine glided through black waters. Inside, sailors were joking around, eating noodles out of paper cups.
"Finally, a quiet night, my wife Ivanka is sure to be on a dating site by now" one of them said, as the others laughed.
A sonar officer yawned and leaned back in his chair, then froe. "Captain... I'm picking up something fast. Real fast and without the ability to intercept"
The captain turned, irritated. "Probably a false spring."
"It's not a ping, sir. it's–"
The radar began to scream. The red blip streaked toward them like lightning.
"Impact alert! Alert the Pentagon"
The sentence never finished. A blinding flash cut through the ocean, followed by a thunderous boom that shook the sea for miles.
From the coast, fishermen would later swear they saw water catch fire.
Back at the Pentagon an alarm went off waking up Kentucky born engineering genius Fred Whytcoff.