The year was 2030, and the world was in ruins. World War Three had raged on for three years when China and Russia launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine. NATO retaliated, igniting a global war that spiraled out of control.
Initially, it was conventional, high-tech warfare, cyberattacks, and brutal urban combat. But as the losses mounted, leaders authorized tactical nuclear strikes. It was a line that, once crossed, shattered all restraint.
Within months, the war escalated into a full-scale nuclear exchange. Cities burned, governments collapsed, and the global order ceased to exist.
The Pentagon, Virginia
August 9, 2030 | 3:11 PM EDT
General Ethan Carter, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood before a massive digital war map. Bright splotches marked destroyed cities, each one a nuclear detonation site. His silver hair, cut close to the scalp, caught the cold glow of the screen.
Warsaw—gone. Paris and Berlin—obliterated. Tokyo and Seoul—wiped out. Pyongyang—erased. And now, the crosshairs shifted to Washington.
The emergency action message terminal at the center of the room lit up red.
A comms officer turned, voice tight. "Sir, STRATCOM is on the line. General Hastings."
Carter steadied himself, exhaled, and picked up the secure headset. "Go ahead."
The secure line opened with a brief crackle. Then came the steady voice of General Michael Hastings, Commander of U.S. Strategic Command. "General Carter, STRATCOM confirms a nuclear launch. ICBM launch detected from Chinese territory. Tracking trajectory now."
Silence gripped the war room. Carter's expression remained unreadable. "Trajectory?"
Hastings's voice was clipped yet professional, "Targeting the U.S. East Coast. Missile defense is engaging, but sir—these warheads are maneuvering."
Carter's stomach tightened. "Probability of interception?"
A brief pause. Then Hastings answered. "…Minimal."
Carter opened his mouth to speak—another alarm blared from the missile warning system. Hastings's voice turned steely. "Sir, new data—Russia has launched—confirmed ICBMs and SLBMs, over 100 missiles inbound. MIRVs confirmed. Projected warhead impact exceeds one hundred. We are facing full-spectrum nuclear assault."
Carter didn't hesitate. He turned sharply to his executive officer. "Get me the President and the SECDEF—NOW."
The White House, Washington, D.C. - Situation Room
August 9, 2030 | 3:15 PM EDT
David Reynolds, President of the United States, sat at the head of the situation room, surrounded by the National Security Council. His face was grim, deep-set lines carved into his weathered features, silver streaks in his hair catching the overhead light—a man worn by years of war, duty, and the weight of a nation.
The national military command system was fully operational. Secure comms from STRATCOM, NORAD, and NORTHCOM streamed live data.
The strategic threat display illuminated the room, displaying multiple inbound warheads. Red trajectories arced across the screen, originating from both China and Russia.
A secure line buzzed, and President Reynolds picked up. It was General Carter, speaking from the Pentagon.
"Mr. President," Carter's voice came through, steady and unflinching, "we have a DEFCON one event. I repeat—DEFCON one. Multiple ICBMs and SLBMs confirmed inbound to the East Coast. Missile defenses are engaging, but coverage is incomplete. I recommend immediate escalation."
Reynolds's eyes locked on the display, watching the missile trajectories update in real time. The room fell silent as the weight of the moment settled over them.
Anna Mitchell, Secretary of Defense, leaned forward, her eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows, hands clasped tightly on the table as tension crackled in the room. "Mr. President, we need orders to initiate full retaliatory measures. This is an all-out strike." Her tone was crisp, controlled, but her eyes burned with urgency.
Reynolds exhaled slowly, then leaned forward. "Carter, I'm authorizing DEFCON one. Standby for further orders."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Reynolds turned to the silent officer at his side—the keeper of the football—and gave a single, grim nod.
The officer stepped forward in silence. He placed the nuclear football on the table before President Reynolds. With steady hands, he unlocked the latches and flipped the case open, revealing the control panel inside. Without a word, he began initiating the authentication and launch procedure, cross-referencing the President's authorization codes with meticulous precision.
"Emergency action message verified," the officer confirmed quietly, fingers flying over the secure interface. "Launch orders authenticated and transmitted to STRATCOM."
The room seemed to hold its breath as the officer finalized the sequence. The retaliatory strike was now underway, the nuclear command-and-control chain in motion.
Reynolds's gaze swept the assembled Cabinet members. "Secretary Mitchell," he said, voice steady but heavy, "I'm authorizing the declaration of martial law, limited to the states we estimate will be impacted. We need to establish control quickly and prevent chaos."
Mitchell met his eyes with a solemn nod. "Understood, Mr. President. I'll coordinate with state and local officials immediately."
For the first time in over a century, the government was poised to assert direct authority in a way few had ever imagined in modern America.
At STRATCOM, tension was palpable. Officers stood at their stations, eyes flicking across screens streaming real-time data and satellite feeds. The low hum of machinery filled the room.
General Hastings stood before the main console, absorbing the weight of the President's authorization.
A junior officer reported, voice taut. "Sir, OPLAN 8020-28 activation confirmed. Authentication protocols complete."
As the President's authorization echoed in his ears, Hastings felt a cold weight settle in his chest. He had spent a lifetime preparing for this very scenario, hoping it would remain confined to simulations and classified briefings. Not once—despite the drills and the doctrine—had he truly believed it would come to this.
Hastings exhaled slowly. "Proceed."
The command center buzzed as launch crews executed their orders.
"Release order confirmed," the communications officer intoned.
"Launch sequence initiated," Hastings announced, his voice steady.
The officers moved with efficiency, the weight of their actions unspoken but understood. Time seemed to stretch as the systems roared to life, and the first wave of retaliatory strikes was set in motion.
Elkin, North Carolina
August 9, 2030 | 3:18 PM EDT
Laughter echoed through the household, weaving through the hallways and bouncing off walls decorated with gold and white balloons. Streamers hung from the ceiling, curling above doorways and flickering in the breeze of a ceiling fan.
At the head of the dining table sat Bryan Voss, relaxed in posture, one arm resting loosely over the back of his chair, the other swirling a half-glass of red wine. The scent of basil, garlic, and roasted vegetables warmed the air.
From the kitchen came a clatter and a cheerful voice. "Alright—last dish is up!"
Jane Voss darted into view, her apron stained with flour and tomato sauce, auburn hair tied back hastily. Her cheeks were flushed from the oven, and a tired but proud smile played on her lips. She carried a bubbling tray of baked ziti and set it down beside the pasta and fresh bread already on the table. The cake stood tall in the center—two tiers, homemade, imperfect, and beautiful.
She glanced at Bryan with a grin. "Feels like our wedding all over again with the amount of food I made."
He chuckled. "Wedding didn't smell this good."
She rolled her eyes playfully and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Oh, please, you say that every time."
Before either of them could sit, a patter of small, fast footsteps echoed from the hall.
Natalie, their six-year-old daughter, ran barefoot, her long brown hair bouncing with every step. A small pink plastic spoon—still streaked with frosting—waved triumphantly in her hand. "Daddy! I helped with the cake!"
Bryan reached out just as she collided with his leg, scooping her up effortlessly. "Did you know?"
"She did," Jane called from the counter, drying her hands. "Two minutes stirring, ten minutes eating."
Natalie's eyes widened in mock defense. "Not true!"
Bryan raised a brow. "Oh really? That spoon says otherwise."
Natalie giggled, hiding her face against his shoulder, and he set her down gently. She scampered off to her seat, eyeing the cake like it might float away if she blinked.
They gathered at the table—Bryan at the head, Jane beside him, Natalie swaying in her chair. Warm light spilled through the windows, catching on streamers and casting a soft glow over the moment.
"Alright," Jane said, sliding into her seat and reaching for the bread basket, "who wants to say grace?"
"I do!" Natalie shouted, raising one hand while the other snuck toward the cake.
Bryan grinned. "Alright, sweetpea, but no peeking while you pray."
Natalie clapped her hands together and squeezed her eyes shut. "Thank you for the food and the cake and mommy and daddy and the balloons and even the green stuff I don't like, amen!"
Jane laughed softly and handed her a slice of bread. "Close enough."
Plates were filled, glasses raised, and chatter bubbled in the air. The room glowed with the kind of peace that felt too perfect, like the world had taken a breath and held it just a little too long.
Then Bryan felt it—a vibration in his pocket.
His chewing slowed.
A second vibration buzzed on the table—Jane's phone.
She blinked, reached for it. Bryan did the same.
A single message stared back at them on the screen, both devices lit up with the same sender.
Bryan's chewing stopped. He slowly set his fork down.
Jane stared at her screen. Then at him.
"Pack your things," Bryan said quietly, already moving. "We need to go. Now."
Jane froze for half a second, pale. "Is this real?"
"Yeah," Bryan said, his voice low and certain. "We don't wait."
He was already moving down the hall, into the master bedroom. The closet creaked open as he knelt before a large floor safe. Fingers punched in a memorized code—click.
Inside: a holstered sidearm, spare magazines, a compact emergency radio, a medical pouch, and a set of tactical gear. Cash and a rolled set of clothes were packed tightly alongside it. He moved fast, precisely, and practiced. In under a minute, it was loaded into a gray duffel.
It had been weeks since Bryan touched the gear, but his hands still moved like it was yesterday.
As he slung it over his shoulder and headed back into the hall, the distant echo of a TV emergency alert tone filled the house.
BEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEP.
Jane stood in the living room, remote in hand, staring at the screen.
The normal picture on the TV cut out, replaced by a harsh test pattern of flickering vertical color bars. An urgent emergency broadcast took over—loud, grating tones blared as stark white text flashed across the screen.
The sound stopped. In its place, a low synthetic voice, mechanical and steady, began to speak over a flat black screen with white text scrolling line by line. It wasn't local. It wasn't even regional. This was federal.
Jane felt her stomach twist.
A smaller inset showed an estimated blast radius. Circles expanded like ripples across familiar coastlines, overlapping into swaths of pale orange—the predicted thermal zones.
Instructions followed. Shelter-in-place. Get underground. Seventy-two-hour survival protocols. The voice never changed tone. The instructions were absolute, calculated.
Then came the words she dreaded most—"Confirmed impacts expected."
She stood motionless, heart hammering as the broadcast repeated. On screen, the East Coast flickered in red overlays and countdowns.
The room was silent, save for the quiet whine of the emergency tone looping again.
Jane blinked, as if waking up, and looked at the walls of her house—drywall, pine beams, insulation. It wouldn't be enough. Not for what was coming. The voice said underground, but she knew better. There was no basement deep enough for this. No wall thick enough. No guarantee of survival if they stayed here and waited.
Outside, the sky was too still. Too quiet.
Bryan didn't stop moving. "Where's Nat?" he asked.
Jane shook herself out of the trance. "Her room. I—she was still at the table—"
"Go with her. Get shoes, jacket, anything warm. Grab your pack and get in the car."
Jane nodded, her voice tight. "Okay. Okay."
She turned and ran.
Bryan glanced once more at the glowing screen, then at the decorations, the cake, the streamers—still swaying gently in the air.
Then he turned and sprinted for the garage.
The garage door rumbled open with a heavy mechanical groan, light spilling across the concrete floor.
As the door rose, Bryan glanced outside. Across the street, through the front windows of the neighbors' house, shadows moved frantically—people rushing back and forth, doors opening and slamming shut.
He froze for a heartbeat, the weight of reality settling in. Then he snapped back into motion.
Bryan opened the rear door of his Ford F-150 and tossed the duffel onto the back seat, followed by Jane's olive-colored backpack. The gear settled with a thud.
Jane emerged a second later, breathless, carrying Natalie in one arm and a worn blanket in the other. The little girl clung to her tightly, eyes wide, her pink party dress clashing against the growing tension in the air. One sparkly shoe had fallen off.
"We didn't even blow out the candles…" Natalie whispered, confused.
"I know, baby," Jane murmured, setting her gently into the back seat. Her voice trembled as she tried to buckle her in with shaking fingers. "But we'll do it later. Okay? I promise."
Bryan stepped in beside her, leaning in to tighten the straps. "Nice and snug, sweetpea. Like a space mission, yeah?"
She nodded silently, hugging her blanket.
Jane stood back, breath shallow, hands hovering as if unsure where they should go next. She glanced toward the garage wall, where streamers had fallen from the inside door frame, drifting slowly to the floor.
Bryan's hand landed firmly on her shoulder. "We're good. We're moving. Stay with me."
Jane blinked, then nodded. "O-okay… okay."
Bryan shut the rear door, his jaw set, eyes scanning the driveway. His tone was even, but beneath it, the clock was ticking.
He swung into the driver's seat and keyed the ignition. The engine growled to life, the LED dash lighting up in a wash of blue and red.
Jane scrambled into the passenger seat, her hands fumbling briefly with the belt before she yanked the door shut. She exhaled shakily and looked straight ahead.
They backed down the driveway. The house behind them, still draped in decorations meant for celebration, now looked like a snapshot from another life.
The garage light flicked off behind them as the door lowered slowly.
Natalie peeked between the seats, her voice small. "Are we going to Grandma's?"
Jane looked over her shoulder, her throat catching. "Not yet, honey. We're just... going somewhere safe." Then she turned her face to the window, blinking fast.
As they pulled onto the road, she fumbled in her pocket, pulled out her phone, and unlocked it with shaky fingers. "I'm calling my sister," she said quietly, not looking at him.
Bryan gave a quick nod, eyes on the road as he picked up speed, and never looked back.
Joint Base Andrews, Maryland
August 9, 2030 | 3:28 PM EDT
The Secret Service quickly escorted President Reynolds and the First Family across the tarmac to the waiting Nightwatch—the flying nerve center of America's command and control. Engines already alive, the modified E-4B loomed like a steel leviathan beneath the darkening sky.
First Lady Emily Reynolds and the children had been rushed aboard minutes earlier, guided by agents through the narrow corridors to a secured family compartment of the aircraft. Reinforced walls, soundproof doors, and an emergency comms station kept the space shielded from the chaos unfolding beyond.
Moments later, the doors sealed with a hiss. The aircraft lifted off, rising through turbulence and panic. Below, Washington flickered like a dying circuit board—lights failing, smoke curling into the night, sirens swallowed beneath distant rumbles. The heart of America was unraveling.
This was it. The endgame.
Emily sat with her arms wrapped around the youngest, her knuckles pale against her son. Then her phone buzzed—sharp and sudden against the low murmur of the aircraft.
She fumbled to retrieve it, heart leaping. One name glowed on the screen: Jane.
Her breath caught. She answered. "Jane? Jane—Oh, thank God. Are you okay?"
The line crackled for a heartbeat before a trembling voice answered. "Emily—yeah. I mean—I think so. We're on the road. We don't know where we're going yet. Just west. We're heading west."
Emily's hand rose to her mouth, her eyes shining. "I didn't know if—" she stopped, voice tight. She turned slightly away from the nearby comms console, shielding the moment like it was fragile. "Are you safe right now? Are you hurt?"
"No. Just shaken," Jane said. "It all happened so fast. One minute we're eating, the next…" Her voice broke. "We saw the alerts."
Emily swallowed hard, wiping her cheek. "We're going to Cheyenne Mountain," Emily said softly. "They're moving continuity-of-government there. We don't know how bad this is going to get."
There was a pause. A breath shared between two women who both understood the scale of what was collapsing.
Jane spoke again, quieter now. "We're watching the sky, Em. Every plane overhead makes me flinch. Every siren. I keep thinking we'll see one. One of theirs. It's like waiting for thunder after lightning."
Emily closed her eyes. "I know. But you keep driving. Don't stop. Bryan will get you there. Wherever there ends up being."
A quiet moment passed. In the background, the Nightwatch groaned faintly as it adjusted altitude, heading westward, just like them.
"I'll find you," Emily added, her voice now a whisper of resolve. "No matter where you end up. I'll find you."
Jane exhaled shakily. "Thanks, Em."
The call ended.
Emily lowered the phone, pressing it tightly to her chest. Inside the sealed compartment, the only sounds were the soft breathing of her children and the distant mechanical thrum of the aircraft. Secret Service agents stood just outside the reinforced door, unmoving—a silent barrier between them and the unraveling world. For a fleeting moment, in that small, shielded space, she held onto something human.
On the other side of the aircraft, the atmosphere was anything but still.
The secure command compartment aboard Nightwatch was bathed in the glow of classified terminals. Screens flickered with real-time data, secure comms channels buzzed with incoming reports, and the hum of the airborne operations center filled the space with electric tension.
General Carter stood at the center, eyes locked on a classified terminal streaming live telemetry from the Missile Defense Integration and Operations Center.
The battle unfolded in bursts of light—interceptors engaging targets in near-space. Some strikes were successful: flashes of impact, debris trailing like sparks in the void. But others slipped through—MIRV-equipped warheads twisting and accelerating with hypersonic maneuvers, decoys overwhelming defense algorithms.
Then, from NORAD, a voice crackled over the encrypted channel. "Mr. President, multiple nuclear impacts confirmed."
A silent chill settled over the compartment.
The capital—his home—was gone.
Reynolds stood tall, his hands resting on the edge of the command console, his gaze was intense, scanning the various readouts. His voice was cold, measured. "What's our counterstrike status?"
"OPLAN 8020-28 is in motion, sir," Carter replied. "Our Tridents from Columbia-class subs are away. Sentinel silos have fired. B-21 bombers are en route to their targets."
The weight of the moment pressed down on Reynolds. He steadied himself. After a pause, he asked, "Status on continuity of government?"
Carter glanced at the technician before turning back. "Remaining cabinet members are en route to Cheyenne Mountain, sir."
Then another alert.
"Sir!" came the urgent voice of the officer, his tone sharp and filled with alarm. "Multiple launches detected, sir!"
Carter's eyes narrowed, his face hardening with every passing second. "What? From where?!"
The officer's fingers trembled slightly as he typed in the command, his voice strained with urgency. "Sir… It's not China. It's not Russia."
The officer met Carter's eyes, his face tight with disbelief and tension. "Sir," he said slowly, swallowing hard, "...it's coming from Antarctica."
Every eye in the room was locked onto the screen displaying three launch sites—the two previously identified, and now, a third originating from Antarctica.
President Reynolds' voice cut through the tension. "How long until impact?"
"Seventeen minutes, sir," an officer responded without hesitation.
Before anyone could process the situation further, Secretary Mitchell broke in. "We have interception assets on standby. We can—"
Before she could finish her sentence, a low, rising hum outside the fuselage cut her off—deep and unnatural, like the air itself was groaning. The aircraft jolted violently. The floor pitched beneath her feet, sending aides and operators stumbling, some crashing into consoles or gripping seats for balance. The entire plane shuddered as if the sky itself had fractured.