Half an hour earlier — on the other side of the Earth, in the United States.
It was early morning.
Dawn had just begun to break across the sky. Under a pale blue canopy, a few lingering stars still flickered faintly. Most people remained nestled in their warm beds, lost in the quiet peace of sleep.
Somewhere in the Midwest, amidst a desolate and empty field far from human habitation, the winter soil was frozen hard, and a few crows huddled shivering on utility poles. On the surface, everything appeared normal, but deep underground lay a secret unknown to most American citizens: a strategic-level nuclear missile launch base—the "Sentinel" system.
The control room was situated dozens of meters below ground, sealed tightly with reinforced concrete like an iron vault. Here was the launch command center for the new generation of land-based intercontinental ballistic missiles. Compared to its predecessor, the "Minuteman III," the "Sentinel" seemed to leap from the steam age straight into the digital era. It boasted more advanced automation and network systems, with intricate circuits and codes running through the entire control room like neural pathways, endowing it with highly intelligent operational capabilities. As a result, the number of personnel required to operate and maintain the "Sentinel" system was significantly reduced, saving substantial costs while dramatically improving efficiency.
But people still sat inside.
Before the glowing screens, several duty officers were in position. They had been taking shifts for nearly twelve hours. Their eyes were bloodshot, but their posture remained taut and alert. Years of high-pressure training had forged in them a kind of quiet intensity—no shouts, no visible emotion, just a tension strung tighter than any wire.
They were not machines.
But in some ways, they were even more dependable.
Each had undergone the most rigorous wartime protocols. They knew that if the order ever truly came, there was no debate, no hesitation. Their job was not to question—it was to execute.
Suddenly, a piercing alarm ripped through the control room, shrill and unrelenting.
The officers snapped upright instinctively, as if jolted by an electric shock. Seconds later, a high-priority message lit up on the central communications terminal.
The commanding officer scanned the screen—his pupils contracted sharply. A vein on his forehead twitched.
The President had issued a launch order for intercontinental ballistic missiles.
The air inside the bunker seemed to vanish.
No one spoke. No one gasped. No one asked, why?
They didn't need to. Procedure mattered more than emotion.
The commander clenched his jaw and gave a quiet command:
"Begin authentication protocol."
Immediately, the soldiers began the verification sequence. One step triggered the next in perfect order—identity confirmation, code validation, cross-network handshakes... each part of the protocol was airtight.
A few minutes later, the entire process showed AUTHENTICATED.
It was a Level 1 presidential order: verified, intact, and unaltered.
The temperature seemed to drop by several degrees.
There was no longer room for doubt.
Two launch officers exchanged a glance. One nodded. The other inhaled sharply.
Then they moved in sync—system ignition, inertial navigation unlock, target coordinates upload, gyroscope spin-up, launch key insertion...
The console countdown began:
"5... 4... 3... 2..."
Time slowed, as if being dragged by some invisible force. Each number felt heavy, like a stone dropping into deep water.
"1."
Two keys turned in perfect unison.
A beep—launch authorized.
There was no blinding flash. No dramatic roar.
Just a deep rumble, felt more than heard.
Above the bunker, a massive blast door creaked open under hydraulic pressure. The metallic groan echoed into the cold morning air.
Seconds later, the first missile ignited—its tail flame slicing through the dim sky. With a low, thunderous roar, the weapon surged upward, carving a blinding arc beneath the clouds.
But this... was only the beginning.
Across hundreds of square miles, over a hundred identical launch silos responded in kind. The same command had reached them all.
Within minutes, over a hundred ICBMs were streaking skyward from the American heartland. The earth trembled violently. The lower atmosphere turned crimson with fire and ash. The Great Plains resembled a field of erupting volcanoes.
The spectacle was terrifying.
Then—a phone rang.
Its shrill tone cut through the bunker's silence like lightning.
The commander picked it up.
On the other end was the Chief of NORAD—North American Aerospace Defense Command.
The voice came through sharp, furious, on the edge of panic:
"Why the hell were nukes launched? Who gave that order?"
Silence.
The commander stood frozen, as if struck by lightning.
Fighting off a wave of dread, he replied in a measured tone,
"Level 1 command code received from the President. Authentication successful. Launch confirmed."
There was a pause. Just a few seconds—but it felt like a lifetime.
Then came a chilling reply:
"The President never issued that order."
The bunker went still.
The screens still blinked. The control panels still hummed. But the people inside had gone pale. Their eyes widened—shock, confusion, terror slowly overtaking them.
No one spoke. They didn't need to.
Something was wrong. Deeply, catastrophically wrong.
But the missiles were already airborne.
All they could do was watch—as death flew across half the world.
Their targets: Moscow. Saint Petersburg. Beijing. Shanghai...
And there were only twenty-seven minutes left.