THREE DAYS AFTER THE BATTLE OF JERUSALEM
SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM 4, UN HEADQUARTERS, NEW YORK
The mood in the room was no longer hollow. It was hot.
The adrenaline of the Odyssey massacre had faded, replaced by the raw, grinding stress of a civilization coming apart at the seams. The screens that lined the walls no longer showed the static of a lost feed; they showed the new, horrifying reality.
A "Prophet of the Twin" in Los Angeles, leading a torch-lit procession of thousands down the 101 freeway, which had been abandoned by law enforcement.
A new, violent cult, the "Ashen Covenant," engaging in a running gun battle with police in Lagos, their members fighting with suicidal fervor, believing the "elves" were angels come to purify the world.
Satellite data showing a 30% drop in all global shipping. Thermal imaging of entire regions of the U.S. and Europe going dark as power grids failed, not from attack, but from sheer abandonment. The world was not just panicking; it was purging itself.
"My problem isn't the damn elves, and it's not the orcs!" General McCaffrey's voice was a low growl, his fist slamming the table. "My problem is anarchy. My domestic forces are stretched so thin just stopping our own citizens from burning down Chicago, they have nothing left to give! We are fighting a war on two fronts: one against this... thing... in the sky, and one against human nature. And we are losing the second one!"
"Your 'Jerusalem incident' has only fanned the flames," Director Li of China said, his voice a dangerous purr. "The world believes their gods are fighting. It is... regressive. You used a Hellfire missile, General. You pulverized a piece of history. The Muslim world is on the a knife-edge."
"That 'piece of history' was shielding a hostile who was shrugging off 30-millimeter cannon fire!" McCaffrey shot back. "What would you have done? Thrown rocks at him?"
"This is unproductive," Director-General Kurosawa said, her voice like ice. "We are here to formulate a response to..."
"A response to what, Kurosawa?" Director-General Ivanov of Roscosmos interrupted, his face ashen. "My satellites show grain shipments rotting in every port on Earth. The markets are gone. The supply chain is gone. We are... we are three weeks... from global, systemic famine. The world that existed a week ago is over. And you are all here, blaming each other for the paint job!"
The room fell into a bitter silence. They were rats in a trap, and they knew it.
"I have a proposal."
Sir Malcolm Hayes's quiet voice cut through the despair.
"'FUCK YOUR PLAN,' HAYES!"
The shout came from Ivanov, his face purple, a vein throbbing in his temple. He was on his feet, pointing a shaking finger at the British spymaster.
" FUCK. YOUR. PLAN. Your last one... your 'Live Exploration International Broadcast'... you said it would unite them in wonder! It was a psychic rupture, Hayes! You scarred the entire planet! You gave them four heroes just so you could broadcast their live execution in high-definition! You... you..." He was choking on his own fury.
No one protested the outburst. They all felt it.
Hayes did not flinch. He waited, his hands steepled, until Ivanov, panting, sat back down.
"It was a failure, Director-General," Hayes said, his voice unnervingly calm. "Yes. But it was, as I'm sure you've all realized, a spectacularly useful one."
Before Ivanov could explode again, McCaffrey leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "Stop talking in riddles, Hayes. We're past that. We need action, not more of your 4D chess. My recommendation is simple. It's a military objective. We send in an armed, GDI-led joint-exploration team. Special forces. We have two objectives: One, recover the Odyssey's mission recorder. We need its data. We need to know what Ben Carter saw, what those sensors recorded before they went dark. Two, they are to plant a new surveillance package. We are blind to what is happening on that planet. We need eyes on the ground."
He sat back, smirking. "A simple, clean, military recon. What's left of the world's press will understand that."
"And what good will that do, General?" Director Li challenged, his fingers drumming on the table. "You send another team. They die. The public, what's left of it that isn't praying to a fire-god, sees another failure. The panic accelerates. Your 'eyes' will cost us what little stability we have left."
"Director Li is correct," Hayes said, nodding. "If we follow his plan, it will be a disaster."
McCaffrey scowled. "His plan? It was my plan, you..."
"But... Director Li is also wrong," Hayes continued, ignoring him. "This is where my proposal and the General's military objective... they merge."
He stood up, and the atmosphere in the room changed. The bickering stopped. They were pupils, and the master was about to speak.
"Everyone, look at the screens," Hayes said, gesturing to the burning cities. "The riots. The cults. The suicides. What is the one emotion driving all of this? It is not just fear. It is impotence. It is the primal, existential terror of the sheep realizing the wolf is in the fold. And the farmer is dead."
He turned to Ivanov. "You called the Odyssey broadcast a 'scar,' Director-General. You are precisely right. But why? Because we sent scientists. We sent explorers. We sent... lambs. And the world watched them be slaughtered. The public felt sympathy, yes. But mostly, they felt terror. They saw themselves in Dr. Carter, in Colonel Griffin: unarmed... intelligent... and utterly, pathetically, helpless."
Hayes began to pace. "But they are forgetting one crucial detail. Colonel Griffin, with a 90-year-old pistol, killed three of those creatures. He wasn't just a victim. He was a soldier. But that part of the narrative... it's been lost in the horror."
He stopped, his eyes electric. "We must change the narrative. We cannot stop the public's fear. It's too late for that. But we can direct it. We must weaponize it. We must turn their terror into rage, and their rage into unity."
"What are you saying, Hayes?" Kurosawa asked, her voice low.
"I am saying we do send an armed force, as General McCaffrey suggests. A joint one. But not as a quiet GDI recon mission. We announce it. We hold a press conference. We film their departure. We brand them. We frame them as 'Task Force Vengeance.' As the 'First Avenger' squadron. We send them to Omega, and we broadcast their feed. We show them taking the fight to the enemy. We show our soldiers... our modern, human soldiers... winning... on their land."
A heavy silence fell. The audacity of it.
"And if they fail?" Chairman Nair of India whispered, his voice dry. "What if they are all killed, just like the Odyssey? You will have turned a scar... into a mortal wound."
"Exactly," Hayes said, a cold smile touching his lips. "Here is the beauty of the plan. The 'no-risk' part, as I like to call it. Scenario A: They succeed. They kill a hundred elves, plant the beacons, and they come home. Morale explodes. Humanity has a victory. We are no longer the victims. We are the avengers. The cults wither, the riots stop, and the world begins to rebuild, united by a common hero."
He paused, looking at each of them. "And then, there is Scenario B. They fail."
Kurosawa's eyes were like chips of steel. "You're treating them as expendable, Sir Malcolm. As a PR sacrifice."
Hayes met her gaze. He did not sugar-coat it. He did not look away.
"Yes," he said, his voice flat. "Absolutely. Because if they die... they will die fighting. They will die as soldiers, not as scientists. They will take dozens, perhaps hundreds of the enemy with them. The broadcast will not be of a lone man being shot by an arrow. It will be of a platoon of our best, their backs to the wall, their guns blazing, buried under a mountain of alien dead. The media will frame them as martyrs. As the 'Heroes of Omega.' The public will not feel fear. They will feel fury. They will unite, not in victory, but in a shared, burning hatred. The cults will be torn apart by their own neighbors. The riots will turn into recruitment drives. And we... will have saved the planet... with the lives of one platoon."
No one protested. The cold, brutal logic was undeniable. It was the only move they had left.
McCaffrey let out a slow, admiring breath. "A joint team, you said." His military mind was already churning. "What... joint team?"
"Ah, yes," Hayes said, turning back to the table. "The second pillar of the plan. The symbolism. The public needs to see us united, not just in this room, but on the battlefield. What are the two greatest military powers, the two most stubborn, childish rivals, on this planet?"
Ivanov's head snapped up. McCaffrey stiffened.
"You... you are not serious," Ivanov scoffed.
"A joint United States-Russian Federation Task Force," Hayes announced, letting the words hang in the air. "Alpha Group and Delta Force. Rangers and Spetsnaz. Fighting side-by-side. Broadcasting that... just the image of it... the public-relations value is incalculable. It will give every nation on Earth permission to stand down from their old rivalries. It will be the single greatest morale boost since the moon landing."
The room erupted.
"My men will never serve under a US command!" Ivanov roared.
"My Rangers damn sure won't be taking orders in Russian!" McCaffrey countered, his face reddening. "It's a non-starter, Hayes!"
"Which is why I prepared this," Hayes said, pulling a thick, leather-bound document from his briefcase and sliding it to the center of the table. "It's not just for this mission, gentlemen. It's for the war."
"A treaty?" Director Li asked, leaning in to read the cover.
"The Alliance Cooperation Treaty," Hayes said. "It's modeled, ironically, on your NATO charter, General. Specifically, Article 5. But with a global scope. It states, in short, that an attack on any signatory nation by an 'Extra-Terrestrial Hostile'—that's the legal term we're using—is an attack on all nations. It binds us all."
"That's just paper," Ivanov sneered. "It means nothing."
"But the addendum does," Hayes said. "Section 4: 'The Protocol of Global Cession.' It's a non-negotiable clause. It mandates an immediate and verifiable cessation of all active hostilities between signatory nations. All proxy wars. All border skirmishes. All economic sanctions and trade wars. All of it... stops."
He looked directly at Li, then Ivanov, then McCaffrey.
"You sign the treaty... you stop fighting your neighbor in Yemen, in Syria, in Ukraine, in the South China Sea. You stop. And we all fight Omega. All national military assets are, by this treaty, seconded to a joint GDI-UN command for the duration of the threat."
The room was dead silent. The scale of it... he wasn't just planning a mission. He was ending every other war on the planet. He was, with the stroke of a pen, using the Omega threat to forcibly unite humanity under one military banner.
McCaffrey was the first to react. He read the key points. He looked up. A slow, cold, predatory smile spread across his face.
"A global ceasefire," he breathed. "All national assets diverted to GDI. You magnificent bastard, Hayes. You're using this invasion to... to unite the planet. By force of treaty."
He began to laugh. A short, sharp, bark of a laugh.
"Jesus. They need to give you a new nickname. 'The Chessmaster.'"
He straightened his uniform.
"The United States is in. We'll sign the treaty. Get me a list of my best. I want Rangers on that bird."
Ivanov stared at Hayes, then at McCaffrey. He saw the trap. He also saw that it was the only way out. His country was falling apart.
"The Russian Federation..." he said, his voice heavy, "...will review the treaty."
It was a yes.
Hayes nodded, closing his briefcase. "Excellent. I'll have my people coordinate with yours. We have a world to save."
______________________________________
FORT HOOD (NOW FORT CAVAZOS), TEXAS
C-COMPANY BARRACKS
Harris Brown, Specialist Miller, and Private Diaz were in the common room, watching the non-stop, hysterical news cycle. Harris was methodically cleaning his M4A1 carbine, the parts laid out on a mat, his hands moving with the practiced, precise motions of a surgeon.
"Man, this is just... nuts," Miller said, shaking his head at the screen. "Wizards. In Israel. I mean... wizards."
"I just wanna know what we're supposed to do," Diaz whined, pacing. "Are we fighting? Are we sitting? My mom is blowing up my phone, thinks the Rapture is here..."
"Quiet!" a new voice barked.
Sergeant First Class Alvarez stood in the doorway, his face like stone.
"Brown. Miller. Diaz. Pack your gear. You're on a bus to Peterson Space Force Base in one hour. You're wanted in the briefing room, now."
The soldiers scrambled to their feet, snapping to attention.
"Peterson, Sarge?" Miller asked, confused. "That's... Space Force. What the hell they want with us grunts?"
"Don't know, don't care," Alvarez snapped. "It's a joint-op briefing. High priority. Go. Now."
The three men grabbed their gear and headed out, walking double-time down the hallway.
"Joint-op? What's that mean?" Diaz asked, his voice nervous. "We working with the Brits? The... the IDF?"
"God, I hope it's not the damn Marines," Miller grumbled. "They're too loud."
Harris, his face impassive, racked the charging handle of his M4 before slinging it over his shoulder. He let out a small, grim smirk.
"I don't know," Harris said, his voice quiet. "I heard the Russians just landed on the tarmac."
Miller and Diaz stopped dead.
"Russians?" Diaz squeaked.
Harris just kept walking. "This outta be fun."