Command Decisions

“Sir, we’ve lost the West Coast.”

Foster looked up from the tactical display where he’d been tracking the few remaining military satellites. Major Harrison stood in the doorway of the Pentagon situation room, her usually immaculate uniform showing three days of continuous wear.

“Define ‘lost,’” Foster said, though he already knew the answer.

“Total infrastructure collapse from Seattle to San Diego. No power, no communications, no civilian authority. The National Guard units we could reach are overwhelmed. Estimates put the refugee movement at over two million, heading inland.”

Two million people fleeing cities that no longer functioned. No GPS for navigation, no cell towers for coordination, no electronic banking for resources. Just masses of desperate humanity following the interstate highways toward anywhere that might still have lights.

“What about military installations?”

“Holding for now. Camp Pendleton has gone to full defensive posture—they’re turning away civilians at the gates. Same with Fort Lewis, Edwards, North Island. But sir…” Harrison hesitated.

“Speak freely, Major.”

“How long before we have to choose between protecting military assets and helping American citizens?”

It was the question Foster had been dreading. The one that had no good answer. Military bases had fuel reserves, backup power, stockpiled supplies—islands of functionality in a sea of chaos. But those resources were finite. Share them with millions of refugees, and they’d be gone in days. Hoard them, and they’d be defending walls while Americans died outside.

“Sir,” another voice interrupted. Lieutenant Colonel Brooks from Intelligence. “You need to see this.”

The main display switched to satellite imagery—one of their few remaining reconnaissance birds, burning precious fuel to maintain position. It showed the Port of Houston from two hundred miles up. Or what used to be the Port of Houston.

The massive oil refineries were burning. All of them. Pillars of black smoke rose thousands of feet, visible even from orbit. Without power for the cooling systems, without computerized controls for the safety protocols, decades of petroleum infrastructure had become bombs waiting for a spark.

“Casualties?”

“Unknown. Thousands minimum. But sir, that’s thirty percent of our refining capacity gone. Even if we could restore power tomorrow—”

“We’d have no fuel for the recovery.” Foster finished the thought. No fuel meant no transportation. No transportation meant no food delivery to cities. No food delivery meant…

“How many other refineries are at risk?”

Brooks pulled up a map marked with red dots. Too many red dots. “Without power for safety systems? All of them. It’s just a matter of time.”

Foster stared at the display, calculating the cascading failures. They’d war-gamed infrastructure attacks before, but always with the assumption that damage could be repaired, systems restored. Nobody had planned for the permanent loss of every satellite simultaneously. Nobody had imagined civilization’s foundations could be swept away by debris moving at orbital velocities.

“Sir, the President is on the secure line.”

Foster picked up the handset, noting the static on what should have been a crystal-clear connection. Even the hardened military communications were degrading.

“Mr. President.”

“Mike, I need options.” The President’s voice was hoarse, exhausted. “The Joint Chiefs are telling me we’re looking at complete societal collapse within two weeks. Tell me they’re wrong.”

Foster wished he could. “Sir, without satellites, our entire infrastructure is designed to fail. Power grids need GPS timing. Transportation needs navigation. Banking needs secure communications. We’ve built a house of cards, and the foundation just disappeared.”

“What about the military? Can we maintain order?”

“In localized areas, yes. But we’re talking about three hundred million Americans suddenly thrust back to the nineteenth century. We don’t have the manpower to maintain order everywhere. We need to prioritize.”

“Prioritize.” The President’s laugh was bitter. “You mean choose who lives and who dies.”

“I mean choose what we can save versus what we have to let go. Critical infrastructure first—water treatment, hospitals, food distribution centers. Create secure zones and expand outward.”

“And everyone outside those zones?”

Foster didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. The mathematics of triage didn’t allow for sentiment.

“There’s another issue, Mr. President. The Chinese platforms are still active. Any attempt to launch replacement satellites will be targeted.”

“Zhou claims they can’t control them.”

“Maybe. Or maybe they’re waiting to see how much damage the cascade does before deciding their next move. Either way, we’re blind and deaf while they still have some orbital capability.”

The line was quiet for a long moment. When the President spoke again, his voice carried the weight of impossible decisions. “Mike, I’m authorizing Continuity of Government protocols. We’re moving critical personnel to the mountain facilities.”

Mount Weather. Cheyenne Mountain. The bunkers built during the Cold War to ensure America’s leadership could survive nuclear holocaust. Now they’d shelter them from their own citizens.

“Understood, sir. What about the space assets? Dragon is still up there.”

“Can we get them home?”

Foster looked at the orbital tracking display. Dragon had entered the main debris field twenty minutes ago. If they’d survived—if—they still had to navigate Chinese weapons platforms.

“Unknown. We’ve lost contact.”

“Then God help them. We’ve got enough problems down here. Mike, I need you to coordinate with General Conway on establishing those secure zones. Start with critical infrastructure, expand as resources allow. And Mike?”

“Sir?”

“Whatever happens in the next days, history will judge us by how many Americans we save. Not by how many we lose, but by how many we save. Remember that.”

The line went dead. Foster stood in the dim situation room, surrounded by displays showing the death of the modern world. Outside, dawn was breaking over Washington D.C. The city still had power—backup generators and priority routing keeping the capital functional. But for how long?

“Sir?” Harrison had returned. “We’re getting reports of a militia group attempting to seize the Strategic Petroleum Reserve in Louisiana. Local law enforcement is overwhelmed.”

Of course. Foster had wondered how long before organized groups started making plays for critical resources. “Do we have assets in the area?”

“82nd Airborne could be there in six hours.”

“Do it. Rules of engagement?”

Harrison hesitated. “Sir, they’re American citizens.”

“They’re American citizens trying to steal strategic resources during a national emergency.” Foster’s voice hardened. “Weapons tight, but defend the facility. We lose those oil reserves, we lose any chance of organized recovery.”

She nodded and left to relay the orders. Foster remained, staring at the displays. Three days ago, he’d been planning a fishing trip with his grandkids. Now he was ordering American soldiers to potentially fire on American citizens.

“Sir,” Brooks returned with another update. “NSA managed to intercept Chinese military communications before we lost the last SIGINT bird.”

“And?”

“Their military is split. Half want to press the advantage while we’re crippled. The other half realizes their infrastructure is collapsing too. Zhou is apparently under house arrest.”

“Civil war?”

“Possible. Their automated platforms complicate things. Nobody can agree on who controls them or if they can be controlled at all.”

Foster absorbed this. China fragmenting into competing factions, each potentially with access to orbital weapons platforms. America dissolving into chaos as infrastructure failed. And somewhere above, Dragon’s crew trying to thread through debris fields while dodging automated weapons.

“Sir, what are your orders?”

Foster looked around the situation room at the dedicated officers trying to hold back catastrophe with determination and depleted resources. Good people facing impossible choices.

“We hold the line,” he said finally. “Establish those secure zones. Protect critical infrastructure. Save who we can. And prepare for a very different world when this is over.”

Because it would be over, eventually. The debris would fall. The fires would burn out. The chaos would settle into whatever new equilibrium emerged. The question was what kind of America would rise from the ashes.

Foster picked up the secure phone to call Conway. Time to draw lines on maps, deciding which Americans fell inside the protection of military power and which were left to face the darkness alone.

Three wars, he’d survived. But they’d all ended eventually, with treaties signed and borders redrawn. This war—against physics, against their own dependence, against the collapse of everything they’d built—this war might never end.

It might just become the new normal.