Emergency Powers

The President of the United States governed what remained of the nation from a bunker designed to survive nuclear war, not societal collapse.

Reynolds stood in Mount Weather’s command center, watching feeds from the few military bases still transmitting. Each screen told the same story—cities dark, populations fleeing, local strongmen filling the vacuum of federal authority. The cascade hadn’t destroyed America with debris. It had simply removed the invisible threads that held three hundred million people together.

“Commander Reynolds,” the President entered, flanked by what remained of the Joint Chiefs. James Crawford looked like he’d aged a decade in two months. The weight of presiding over America’s dissolution showed in every line of his face. “Thank you for coming.”

“Mr. President.” Reynolds had been summoned from Peterson, flown through a blizzard that grounded everything except military aircraft desperate enough to risk it. The message had been vague but urgent—national security implications, his expertise required.

“Gentlemen, be seated.” Crawford activated a display showing global satellite coverage—or rather, the absence of it. “Two months since the cascade. We’ve lost ninety-two percent of our orbital assets. China has lost eighty-eight percent. Russia, ninety-five percent. The European Union no longer exists as a coordinating body.”

“Sir,” General Conway spoke up. “We’ve been over the numbers. Without satellites, we’re blind. No reconnaissance, no communications, no—”

“I’m aware of what we’ve lost, General.” Crawford’s tone was sharp. “Commander Reynolds, you were there when it started. You saw the cascade begin. Tell me—was it intentional?”

Reynolds had replayed those moments a thousand times. The Chinese satellite firing. The debris spreading. Zhou’s panicked face on the comm. “Unknown, sir. If it was intentional, it exceeded their parameters. They lost as much as we did.”

“But they’re recovering faster.”

“They maintained more terrestrial infrastructure. Less satellite dependence.”

“Or they knew it was coming.” This from CIA Director Harrison—not related to Foster’s major, just unfortunate naming coincidence in the bunker. “Our human intelligence suggests Chinese military AI research had identified cascade vulnerability months before the event. They may have been preparing.”

“Preparing and causing are different things,” Reynolds pointed out.

“Are they? When the result is Chinese administrators running American cities?” Harrison pulled up images—Seattle under PLA management, San Francisco flying Chinese flags, Detroit accepting Beijing’s aid. “They’re conquering us with generators and food supplies.”

Crawford raised a hand for silence. “The question of intention can wait. The immediate issue is survival. Admiral Reeves?”

The Chief of Naval Operations activated another display. “Operation Prometheus, Mr. President. Our last, best option for restoring American sovereignty.”

Reynolds studied the briefing that unfolded. It was ambitious, desperate, possibly insane. Use the remaining Space Force assets to launch a clearing mission. Not to restore satellite coverage—that would take decades—but to create a single clear corridor. Enough for limited launches. Enough to reestablish minimal orbital capability.

“The Chinese platforms,” Reynolds said. “They’re still active. Still targeting.”

“Which brings us to why you’re here.” Crawford met his eyes. “Your mission specialist, Dr. Chen. He’s in Beijing.”

“Yes, sir. Working on cascade remediation.”

“Working with full access to Chinese systems. Including, potentially, their platform control codes.”

Reynolds felt ice in his stomach. “You want him to sabotage their platforms.”

“We want him to share information that might allow us to predict their targeting. Create windows for launch.” Crawford’s expression was carefully neutral. “He is still an American citizen, after all.”

“He’s a scientist trying to fix a global problem.”

“He’s an asset in position to help his country.” Harrison leaned forward. “Commander, we’re not asking him to commit sabotage. Simply to remember where his loyalties lie.”

Reynolds thought of Chen, brilliant and naive, probably lost in mathematics while Beijing subtly influenced his work. The kid believed in pure science, in solutions that transcended borders. But nothing transcended borders anymore. Not even orbital debris.

“I haven’t had contact with Chen since he left. Chinese control of communications—”

“We can arrange contact.” Harrison produced a device—military grade, satellite-independent. “Burst transmission through ground relays. Encrypted, untraceable. One message to establish contact, arrange ongoing communication.”

“And if he refuses?”

“Then he’s chosen a side.” Crawford’s voice was flat. “And we plan accordingly.”

Reynolds held the device, feeling its weight. One message to Chen. Appeal to his patriotism, his desire to help America recover. Turn him into either an intelligence asset or a confirmed foreign agent. No middle ground in the bunker’s binary world.

“There’s more,” Conway added. “If Prometheus succeeds, if we can launch again, we need to ensure American platforms control orbit. Not Chinese, not international. American.”

“You’re talking about weaponizing recovery.”

“I’m talking about learning from mistakes.” Conway’s expression was granite. “The cascade happened because orbit was undefended commons. Next time—and there will be a next time—we need to control the high ground.”

Reynolds felt history rhyming with itself. The militarization of space, the very thing treaties had tried to prevent, now seen as the only path forward. Build back harder, armed, ready for the next cascade—whether natural or triggered.

“Commander,” Crawford spoke carefully. “I’m not ordering you to contact Chen. But I am telling you that America needs every advantage we can find. Winter is killing thousands daily. Chinese expansion continues. Without orbital capability, we’re reduced to a third-rate power dependent on foreign aid. If your man can help change that…”

He didn’t need to finish. Reynolds understood the calculus. Chen’s mathematical gifts against American lives. His scientific idealism against national survival. The beautiful dream of international cooperation against the ugly reality of power politics.

“I’ll send the message,” Reynolds decided. “But I won’t order him to spy. He’ll make his own choice.”

“That’s all we ask.” Crawford stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “Commander, one more thing. Your expertise, your experience—we need it here. I’m offering you a position on the National Recovery Council. Help us rebuild American space capability.”

Reynolds considered. Peterson needed him, but Peterson was one base. This was about the nation. About ensuring America could reach space again, even if it took decades.

“I’ll need to arrange family relocation.”

“Done. Whatever you need.” Crawford extended his hand. “Help us reach the stars again, Jack. Help us make sure this never happens again.”

Reynolds shook the hand, sealing his transition from astronaut to architect of America’s orbital future. Outside Mount Weather’s blast doors, winter raged across a continent stripped of its technological advantages. Inside, men plotted to reclaim the sky through whatever means necessary.

That night, alone in assigned quarters that felt like a comfortable cell, Reynolds composed his message to Chen. Kept it simple, friendly. Old commander checking on his crew. How’s Beijing? Making progress? Family managing the winter?

Between the lines: Remember us. Remember home. Remember which flag you saluted.

He sent it through Harrison’s device, watching the transmission confirmation. Somewhere in Beijing, Chen would receive it. Would read between those lines. Would face his own choice between scientific idealism and national loyalty.

Reynolds thought of Dragon’s crew, scattered across the continent. Sarah in Boston, trying to save lives as society crumbled. Mason somewhere in the midwest, his fate unknown. Chen in Beijing, possibly holding keys to orbital recovery. And himself, trading stars for policy meetings in a bunker.

They’d been perfect together in space. Earth had torn them apart, pulled them into different gravities. But maybe, if Chen responded, if Prometheus succeeded, if American determination could overcome Chinese advantage… maybe they’d find a way back to the sky.

The President was right about one thing—this could never happen again. The cascade had revealed humanity’s vulnerability, shown how dependent they’d become on fragile orbital infrastructure. The next generation of satellites would be different. Hardened. Defended. American.

Reynolds turned off the lights, but sleep wouldn’t come. Somewhere above, the debris field continued its deadly dance, Chinese platforms waited with electronic eyes, and the ghost of international cooperation died a little more with each passing orbit.

Tomorrow, he’d begin planning America’s return to space. Not as explorers this time. As conquerors. Because exploration was a luxury, and luxuries were what you enjoyed after you’d secured the high ground.

Chen would understand. Or he wouldn’t.

Either way, America would reach orbit again. Even if it meant climbing over Chinese ambitions and international dreams to get there.

The stars were still there, waiting.

But next time, they’d go armed.