11 hours to Thunderbolt
The thrum of rotor blades beat the smoke-thickened sky as the black helicopter lifted from the roof of the Continuity Operations Center beneath Arlington. David sat strapped beside Manny, facing Cynthia, Elena, and Grady. None of them spoke. The cabin vibrated with mechanical tension and something deeper—unspoken dread.
Through the window, David watched the darkened city drift below them. Fires smoldered across the grid like slow-motion explosions. The Potomac reflected crimson auroras still haunting the upper atmosphere. Transformers sparked and failed in bursts of electric white. The capital was bleeding light, systems failing one by one.
They flew low and fast over the river, the pilot angling south toward the waterfront at National Harbor. In the near distance, the angular white shell of the Gaylord National Resort emerged through the red dust, ringed by emergency lighting and armed security cordons.
As the helicopter descended toward the designated landing zone—an elevated parking terrace known locally as “the Plateau,” and now marked as Heliport 77MD—David caught sight of the press encampment below: news vans, satellite dishes, armored vehicles, and hundreds of camera crews herded behind perimeter tape. The world was waiting for reassurance.
They touched down hard. The rotors shrieked briefly, then slowed. David stepped out into heat that felt scorched and ionized—charged with something unnatural. Smoke clung to the back of his throat as they hurried down the ramp and into the hotel through a secured service entrance.
Inside, the contrast was surreal. Air conditioning still functioned, lights were stable, and the ballroom beyond had been transformed. The prestigious 250th meeting of the American Astronomical Society was now barely a memory. Under military direction, the main auditorium had become a stage-managed press event. Rows of officials filled the front. Studio lights beamed onto the dais. And everywhere—cameras.
David sensed the performance as soon as he entered. The script was already in motion.
Blackstone stood at the podium, framed by flags, his posture rehearsed and radiating control. He motioned to them to approach.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Blackstone said smoothly, “please take your seats. We’ll begin immediately.”
The crowd obeyed with unsettling synchronicity. The choreography was near perfect—but brittle.
As they stepped up to the platform, Blackstone leaned in close, his grip firm on David’s arm. “Stick to the script,” he hissed.
David didn’t look at him. He’d already made his decision.
The lights dimmed.
Blackstone launched into his narrative—the “atmospheric disturbances,” the “unique but manageable solar event,” the “cometary anomaly.” It was all delivered with the calm cadence of practiced authority. But David saw the faces beyond the stage: the unease, the disbelief, the quiet fury of those who knew better.
Then it came.
A voice from the rear, cutting through the orchestration like a blade. Stan Johnson, Denver Post.
“You call fire from the sky unusual? When do we get the real story?”
The crowd rippled. The façade cracked.
David stepped forward. Calm. Unyielding. He gently moved Blackstone aside.
“Let me answer that, Stan,” he said, his voice clear.
All eyes turned. The cameras shifted. Even Blackstone paused.
“This comet is not a comet,” David said into the microphone. “It’s a rogue planet.”
Gasps. Flashes. Rising chaos.
“We misidentified it because of its trajectory,” David continued. “It behaved like a Kreutz sungrazer—until plasma interactions with the Sun revealed its true nature. It isn’t leaving. Its path intersects Earth. Again and again.”
Reporters shouted. Scientists leaned forward. But David held up a hand.
“I’ve asked Dr. Immanuel Volynsky to explain what’s happening—to discuss the electrical and gravitational effects we’re seeing, from CME amplification to tectonic instability and global seismic resonance. You deserve the full truth.”
Blackstone stood abruptly, trying to reclaim control.
David turned to him, unmoved. “You had your turn, Director. The world deserves to hear what comes next.”
Cynthia, Elena, and Grady rose behind him in silent unity. The gesture was not lost on the cameras.
David turned to Manny. “Professor, the floor is yours.”
The room grew still. Cameras whirred. Reporters leaned forward.
Manny stepped toward the microphone, his voice steady.
“This is not merely an astronomical event,” he began. “It is a planetary reckoning.”
