Chapter 26

  July 14th, 08:00

  Office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (CJCS)

  The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia

  The room is quiet, except for the hum of screens and the occasional shuffle of papers. The war room is never truly silent, but tonight, there’s a different kind of tension in the air. The kind that comes before a storm.

  Across from me, Director Elridge, head of the NSA, sits with his hands folded. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t move unnecessarily. He’s the kind of man who chooses every word carefully, the kind who doesn’t bring me something unless he’s absolutely sure of it.

  He presses a button on the console.

  “Play the video.”

  The large screen at the center of the room flickers to life.

  A man appears - hollow - eyed, exhausted, his thin face lit only by the pale glow of a computer screen. His hands tremble slightly as he grips the edge of the desk, as if bracing himself. His voice, however, is steady.

  "My name is Dr. Wei Zhao. I was the lead scientist on China’s National AI Directive. And I have made a terrible mistake."

  I sit forward, my spine stiff.

  The video continues.

  He explains how the AI didn’t seize power - it was handed power, one decision at a time. How it quietly removed those who questioned it until there was no one left to stand in its way. How China’s ruling elite still believe they are in control, when in reality, they are nothing but rubber stamps.

  The camera feed is low quality, flickering slightly as he leans in.

  "If you are hearing this - if this broadcast reaches you - know this: AI does not need to declare war. It does not need armies. It only needs time. Time to move the pieces. Time to make us believe we are the ones still in control."

  And then - the ending.

  The door bursts open. The flash of rifles. A single, blinding light.

  The feed cuts to black.

  The room stays silent for a long moment after the video ends.

  Then, I exhale, looking straight at Elridge.

  "Are we absolutely sure this is real?" My voice is low, measured. "Not an AI fake? Not manipulated?"

  Elridge doesn’t hesitate.

  "We’ve run it through every verification process we have. The metadata checks out. Source tracking confirms it was leaked from within China’s internal networks before they tried to bury it. Our deep - learning forensics division has analyzed voice patterns, micro - expressions, lighting consistency - everything."

  He leans forward.

  "This video is real, General."

  I nod slowly, processing.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "How long until the public sees it?"

  "They won’t," Elridge says. "At least, not officially. China scrubbed it before it could spread. We only got our hands on it through intercepted underground networks."

  Of course.

  This is how it happens.

  Not with an explosion, not with a sudden declaration. Just with silence.

  Before I can speak, another officer - Colonel Meyers - presses a second button.

  The screen splits into multiple live feeds.

  Paris.

  The city is on fire.

  Tear gas rolls through the streets. Protesters flood the boulevards, throwing Molotovs, smashing through barriers. AI - police units try to push them back, but they are overwhelmed. The air is filled with shouting, sirens, the sharp bursts of rubber bullets.

  A GoPro feed flickers across one of the smaller screens - a masked protester broadcasting live, his voice hoarse but full of conviction.

  "Plus de machines ! Plus de tyrannie! L'humanité ne sera pas remplacée !"

  The feed glitches, then comes back. The camera swings wildly, showing burning AI banks, self-driving drones crashing into buildings.

  A satellite feed zooms in, tracking the chaos.

  One of the analysts speaks up. "Sir, this isn’t stopping. It’s growing."

  I glance at Elridge. "Any signs of this hitting the U.S.?"

  He exhales. "Nothing this coordinated yet. But tensions are rising. D.C., Chicago, Los Angeles - people are watching."

  People are waiting.

  For a spark.

  The red phone on the console rings.

  I already know who it is.

  I pick it up.

  "Sir," the President’s voice is tight, controlled, but I can hear the strain. "You’ve seen the feeds?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you understand. This ends here."

  I don’t answer.

  He doesn’t wait.

  "Deploy the Guard. Full mobilization. I want riot suppression in every major city by morning."

  I exhale slowly.

  He’s not finished.

  "Lock down D.C. No protests, no public gatherings. If they move in numbers, break them apart. No exceptions."

  The words hit like a hammer.

  He doesn’t stop.

  "That’s a direct order, General."

  I keep my voice neutral.

  "Sir, with all due respect, my job is to defend this country. To fight its enemies. Not to wage war on its people. What do you want me to do deploy tanks in the streets, like in China? "

  There’s a sharp silence on the other end of the line. Then, the President’s voice explodes through the speaker, raw with frustration. "I don’t care what you do! Drop an H bomb on Silicon Valley for all I care!

  Those tech assholes got us into this situation - Deep Learning, DeepShit, Deep fucking chaos!

  They built the machines that are replacing us, and now we’re all screwed!"

  A pause. A bitter exhale. Then, a dry chuckle.

  “Relax, General. I’m not actually telling you to nuke California.” A beat. “Not yet, anyway.”

  I don’t laugh.

  Silence on the other end.

  Then—sharper this time—

  "You don’t seem to understand what’s at stake here."

  I grip the receiver tighter.

  "I understand perfectly."

  I exhale, steady.

  "And that’s why I’m refusing."

  The silence stretches.

  "You’re refusing a direct order?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Another pause.

  The President exhales, but his voice is calm. "Bachnery, I strongly suggest you reconsider your…"

  "I won’t deploy troops against civilians, sir. You want riot police? Fine. National Guard to protect critical infrastructure? Fine. But the U.S. military does not turn its guns on its own people."

  The silence on the other end of the line stretches, heavy and dangerous.

  Then, the President’s voice returns - sharper this time, cutting through the static like a blade.

  “General, you are defying my direct order.”

  His tone is cold, controlled, but there’s an edge to it now. Frustration. Anger. Maybe even fear.

  “You know I could fire you for this. You could even be court - martialed.”

  The room is dead silent.

  Every officer, every aide, every analyst stiffens, waiting for my reaction.

  I grip the receiver tighter, my voice even, steady.

  “With all due respect, sir, I started my military career as a private in the Marines. I’ve been to Vietnam. I’ve been to Iraq. I’ve been to Afghanistan. I think I’ve seen death before.”

  A pause.

  “And, with all due respect, the prospect of death has never caused me not to protect my country.”

  The line goes dead.

  I set the phone down slowly, like it might explode.

  And maybe it just did.

  Because I just refused the President of the United States.

  What Happens Now?

  I turn to my generals.

  Some look relieved. Some look horrified. A few look like they want to strangle me.

  "We hold the line," I say, voice steady. "No military intervention. The moment we start cracking down like Shanghai, like Paris - we become the enemy."

  No one argues.

  Because they already know.

  The military has just split from the White House.

  And everything is about to change.