Fairfax County, Department of Defense.
Secretary John Keller stepped out of his vehicle and moved toward the Pentagon with frantic strides. He had no choice but to hurry; the Department's network had been compromised again, and this time, the breach was catastrophic.
Inside the Information Operations Center, the air was thick with static. Every monitor in the room had dissolved into "snow"—irregular black and white stripes flickering across the screens. Technicians scrambled with laptops, their faces pale as they tried to bypass the interference.
"Where is my briefing officer?" Keller barked, his voice echoing over the hum of failing hardware. "Someone talk to me! What the hell am I looking at?"
An officer stood up immediately, sweating under the fluorescent lights. "Sir, a virus was planted. It's a total shutdown. All command center operations are offline."
"Offline? Define that for me."
Another official stepped forward. "Someone used our own infrastructure to broadcast the signal. Global networks, including our hardline satellite links, are severed. The world has gone dark, sir."
Keller froze. The weight of the situation finally pressed down on him. He walked to a nearby desk and lifted a handset. "You're telling me I can't pick up this phone and call my wife?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
Keller punched in a number anyway. Silence. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Nothing.
Clatter.
He slammed the phone onto the desk. Beads of sweat lined his forehead, and he didn't even bother to fix his lopsided tie. But bad news rarely traveled alone. An aide hurried over with a fresh report.
"Sir, shortwave radio only. We have reports of foreign task forces moving within six hundred miles of our carrier groups. They've entered cruise missile range."
With the global network paralyzed and the satellites blinded, other nations were looking at the United States. Only one country possessed the theoretical capability to do this, and the world was reacting accordingly.
"Damn it!" Keller hissed. "Signal the fleet commanders via shortwave. Tell them they are not to fire unless fired upon. Do not initiate an engagement!"
"Yes, sir!"
As the aide rushed off, Keller turned his mind toward the satellites. Without them, communication efficiency was gutted. But before he could formulate a counter-strategy, he was told someone was demanding to see him.
"Secretary Keller?"
A middle-aged man with a thick mustache, chewing gum with a rhythmic, mechanical cadence, approached. He carried a heavy silver briefcase and looked at Keller with an unnerving lack of expression.
"And you are?" Keller asked, finally ripping his tie off in frustration.
"Tom Banacheck. Research Division, Sector Seven. I have something you need to see."
"Sector Seven?" Keller repeated, shaking his head. "Never heard of it. And as you can see, Mr... Banacheck? I'm a little busy."
"I know," Banacheck replied, unfazed by the brush-off. "In fact, that's exactly why I'm here." He leaned in slightly. "Director Mitchell sent me."
At the mention of the President's inner circle, Keller's eyes sharpened. He studied the mysterious official for a long moment before nodding. "In that case, follow me."
In a private briefing room within the Pentagon, Banacheck and Keller sat opposite each other. Per Banacheck's request, they were alone.
He placed the silver briefcase on the table and began punching in a complex security code. "Mr. Secretary, I'm here to show you what's in this box. There are things you aren't cleared for—things that were kept from you. Sector Seven is a special department established eighty years ago under a secret executive order."
As Banacheck spoke, the briefcase hissed open, revealing a reinforced portable computer. A single, locked file sat on the screen.
"You might remember NASA and the JPL claiming the Beagle 2 Mars Rover crashed during its landing sequence," Banacheck continued. "That was a lie. The rover landed perfectly. It transmitted thirteen seconds of video before it was destroyed."
He clicked the file. "Thirteen seconds of the highest-classified footage in human history."
The video started. For the first ten seconds, it was standard reconnaissance—dusty Martian red rock and craters. Then, at the ten-second mark, the rover began to shake violently. It was hoisted into the air as if by an invisible hand.
The camera flipped 180 degrees. The final frame of the video froze on a towering, humanoid shape made of shifting metal. Despite the blur, the features were hauntingly lifelike.
Keller wasn't a fool. He sat in silence, his brow furrowed as the video looped back to the beginning. For the first time since entering the room, the Secretary of Defense was speechless. He had reached the top of the chain of command, yet he had never known this shadow government existed.
Banacheck pulled out two high-resolution photos. One was a cleaned-up frame from the Mars video; the other was a thermal capture from the attack on the Sanckson Base in Qatar.
"Our analysis shows an identical skeletal structure," Banacheck said, sliding the photos across the table. "To put it bluntly, they are the same thing. And clearly, this technology does not belong to any nation on Earth."
Keller compared the images, his voice a low whisper. "You're saying... we're being invaded?"
In the photo on the left, the massive silhouette of the Decepticon Blackout loomed over the burning base.
"That surviving Special Ops team tried to transmit data from their transport plane. We intercepted the signal," Banacheck explained. "These things know we can hurt them now. That's why they've used a virus to blind our command systems. But there's one more thing, Mr. Secretary."
"What?" Keller didn't look up from the photos.
"As of an hour ago, one of our field teams successfully intercepted one of them." Banacheck's tone turned grave. "A live one."
Keller's head snapped up. "Live?"
"Yes. They're transporting it to our primary facility now. This network attack? It's likely a warning—or an attempt to rescue their comrade."
Banacheck didn't know the difference between Autobots and Decepticons. To him, they were all the same invading force.
"Mr. Secretary, I'd bet my pension that the next wave of attacks is coming. With the satellites down, we can't coordinate a defense. You need to move, and you need to move now."
Keller strode back into the Operations Center, his voice booming with a new, grim authority.
"Rescind my last order! Use the secret DoD pulse-channels. Notify the carrier commanders to stop loitering in the mid-Atlantic! Tell them to turn those ships around and bring them home!"
The primary enemy wasn't a rival superpower anymore; it was an extraterrestrial threat that could strike from anywhere. After his talk with Banacheck, Keller had decided to go to the Sector Seven base himself. To fix the network, he needed to find the source.
Interrogation Room.
A glass of milk and a glass of water sat on the table. Maggie Madsen sat with her legs crossed on a chair, her fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the wood. Beside her, Glen Whitmann was sound asleep, his snoring echoing off the walls.
Since the first round of questioning, they had been left alone.
"Mr. Secretary, she's inside," a guard's voice sounded from the hallway. The heavy door swung open.
Glen jumped awake, blinking in the harsh light. Maggie stood up, her heels clicking as she straightened her posture.
Keller walked in, his eyes locking on Maggie. He pointed at her. "You. You're coming with me."
"Excuse me?"
"I need an advisor. Someone who understands this signal."
"What about me? Do I go too?" Glen asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Keller looked at the disheveled man, then back at Maggie. He was fully dressed now, tie straightened, the image of a focused commander. "Who is he?"
"Uh... Glen," Maggie stammered. "He's my... technical consultant."
"Fine. He comes too."
"Wow!" Glen stood up with a grin, not forgetting to down the glass of milk in one go before following them out.