345: Chapter 345 The Sky Has Collapsed

4:06 AM.

The President had returned to his office for a fifteen-minute nap before being woken by a phone call—the CIA Director's supplemental plan was ready and needed a signature. Rubbing his temples, he walked back, passing the smoking area at the end of the corridor where the Secretary of State and the Secretary of Defense were standing.

The Secretary of State didn't smoke; he was just standing there.

"Something's not right about this," the Secretary of State said.

The Secretary of Defense flicked some ash: "What's not right?"

"I can't put my finger on it. It's just—for the past eight hours, there hasn't been a single peep from Great Xia."

"What do you mean, 'not a single peep'?"

"Twenty-three Eye of Satan satellites have been circling in low orbit three hundred kilometers above their heads for eight hours. Normally, their aerospace monitoring should have at least issued a formal protest or had their Ministry of Foreign Affairs summon our ambassador. In the past, whenever our reconnaissance planes even approached their Air Defense Identification Zone, they would react within half an hour."

"This time, there's nothing."

The Secretary of Defense exhaled a cloud of smoke: "Maybe they didn't notice?"

"It's impossible that they didn't notice."

The Secretary of State shook his head.

"Maybe they're waiting for us to make the first move."

The Secretary of Defense was about to say something else when the automatic doors at the end of the corridor were burst open from the outside.

An Operations Staff Officer, uniform untucked and hair a mess, came jogging over. His soles skidded on the polished marble, nearly causing him to trip.

He was clutching a piece of freshly printed thermal paper, its edges still curling.

"Secretary! Where is the Director?!"

The Secretary of Defense stubbed out his cigarette: "Inside. What's wrong?"

The staff officer didn't answer and rushed straight into the main conference room.

The Secretary of State and the Secretary of Defense exchanged a glance and followed him in.

"Mr. President!"

The President, who was closing a folder, looked up.

"It's bad! Great Xia—Great Xia has started a war!"

The gold-rimmed porcelain cup in the President's hand slipped with a 'snap,' hitting the carpet with a dull thud as coffee splashed everywhere.

"A war? Against whom?"

The staff officer's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Against... us."

"What?!"

This "What" was shouted by three people simultaneously—the President, the Secretary of Defense, and the CIA Director. The CIA Director had rushed out from the small conference room next door, still holding the newly drafted plan.

The staff officer slammed the thermal paper onto the table.

"Our Eye of Satan deployment over Southern Jiangsu—it's all gone."

"Twenty-three satellites. Not a single one left."

The CIA Director grabbed the paper.

His eyes scanned it from top to bottom, then from bottom to top, and then a third time.

No one spoke.

The low hum of the air conditioning vent suddenly became very loud.

After ten seconds, the Secretary of Defense finally spoke, his voice trembling:

"How were they hit?"

"Lasers? Kinetic weapons? What did they use?"

The staff officer shook his head.

"It's not in the report."

"The signal interruptions were completed within thirty-seven seconds. For twenty-three satellites, from the first loss of contact to the last, it only took thirty-seven seconds in total."

"There was no attack warning. No energy signatures. No heat sources. No electromagnetic disturbances."

"None of our ground radar stations, space monitoring stations, or early warning satellites—not a single piece of equipment captured any form of attack."

"The satellites are just... gone."

"It's as if an invisible hand crushed them one by one."

The air in the conference room froze.

The President opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He looked down at the shattered porcelain cup by his feet; the shards were scattered on the carpet, and the coffee was slowly soaking in.

The CIA Director turned the paper over and back again before finally placing it gently on the table. His hands were trembling slightly.

The Secretary of State spoke; his voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard him.

"Thirty-seven seconds."

"Twenty-three satellites."

"Do you know what that implies?"

"If we combined our entire military's anti-satellite capabilities, we could take out four at most in the same timeframe. And that's in an ideal scenario."

"This move by Great Xia—it exceeds the total capability of our active equipment by sixfold."

The Hawk-faction Congressman sat in his seat, his lips moving but making no sound.

His previous leisurely tone was gone.

"First that super mecha,"

he muttered.

"Now this."

"What on earth... what on earth has Great Xia been hiding in secret?"

No one answered him.

Because no one knew.

Every person sitting in this room was among the top minds in the Eagle Nation's intelligence and military decision-making Systems. They had spent their entire lives studying one thing—what the opponent had in their hands.

Over the past seventy years, whether it was the Soviet nuclear arsenal, their hypersonic missiles, or Great Xia's DF series—if it was a weapon, it had parameters, it had characteristics, and it had a countermeasure.

But this time, for the first time, they were facing a situation where:

The opponent had used a method they could not identify at all to wipe out their twenty-three pairs of eyes in thirty-seven seconds.

This was more terrifying than being attacked.

If you're attacked, at least you know what hit you.

The Secretary of Defense slowly sat down, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

"...We must find out what they have mastered."

He looked up.

"No matter what it takes."

No one in the room objected.

Even the pale-faced Hawk-faction Congressman had caught his breath by now.

"Su Mingyuan," he said. "He must be captured!"

"What is inside that man's head is the source of all the technological explosions Great Xia has had in the past year."

"Capture him, interrogate him—and we at least still have a chance."

"If we don't capture him—"

He stopped, not finishing the sentence.

There was no need to finish it. Everyone present had already automatically completed that conclusion in their heads: if they didn't capture him, the era of the Eagle Nation as the world's number one would only have a few years left.

The CIA Director calmed himself and pushed the drafted plan back to the center of the table.

"The original plan involved Delta Force, with simultaneous launches from Yokosuka and Osan, and a thirty-six-hour window."

He paused.

"The window needs to be compressed."

"Thirty-six hours is too long. Since Great Xia dared to strike the satellites, their next step will likely be to tighten Su Mingyuan's personal security. The longer the window, the more disadvantageous it is for us."

"I suggest compressing it to under twenty-four hours."

The Secretary of Defense stared at the plan for a few seconds: "Is twenty-four hours enough? Low-altitude penetration from Yokosuka to Great Xia's eastern coast, plus overland transport—"

"It's enough," the CIA Director interrupted. "Delta's rapid response template is an eighteen-hour full process. Now is not the time to consider if it's enough; now is the time to consider whether we can still afford to wait."

The President was silent for a long time.

He looked down at the thermal paper on the table. Its edges were still slightly curling, and the printed text was still warm.

"What about the fleets?" he suddenly asked.

The Secretary of Defense was startled: "What fleets?"

"Deploy the fleets for me."

The President looked up.

"The Third, Fifth, Seventh, Tenth, and Eleventh Fleets—all of them. Assemble them. Twenty-eight nuclear-powered aircraft carriers, heading toward Great Xia in the Western Pacific."

"For strategic deterrence."

The Secretary of Defense shook his head subconsciously: "Mr. President, for carrier strike groups to assemble from their current deployment locations, resupply, and arrive at the Western Pacific front—it will take thirty-two days at the earliest."

"If they can't reach the scene for thirty-two days, they have zero operational value."

"I know."

The President's voice lowered.

"It's not operational value I'm looking for."

"I want the whole world to see—twenty-eight Eagle Nation aircraft carriers, bearing down on them."

"I want those people inside Great Xia to see our carriers."

"I want to give this satellite incident—an explanation that satisfies domestic public opinion."

The Secretary of State closed his eyes.

He understood.

This wasn't a military decision; it was a political one.

The fact that twenty-three satellites were gone couldn't be hidden. The Donkey Party, the Elephant Party, the media, the allies—everyone would ask the same question: What did we do?

The President had to provide a visible, tangible, and cinematic answer.

Twenty-eight aircraft carriers was that answer.

As for the carriers not being able to arrive, not being able to strike, and not serving any substantive purpose—it didn't matter.

The public didn't want results; they wanted a posture.

And during these thirty-two days—

The Secretary of State looked at the CIA Director.

The CIA Director was also looking at him.

Both men simultaneously understood the President's overall intent.

The carriers were window dressing, for domestic consumption and for the allies.

The real business—was to quietly and quickly get their hands on Su Mingyuan before the carriers even reached Great Xia.

The more high-profile the carriers' movement, the better it could cover Delta Force's low-profile operation.

"Let the operation begin now," the President said.

He paused, thinking for a moment.

"The operation will be called: Lion Fighting Rabbit."

The Hawk-faction Congressman in the corner gave a low chuckle: "Good name."

"A lion uses its full strength even when hunting a rabbit."

The President didn't smile; he turned to the CIA Director: "Twenty-four hours."

"Yokosuka and Osan strike simultaneously. The target must be taken alive."

"This man, Su Mingyuan, must come to Washington."

"Even if we can only interrogate him for one hour."

The CIA Director stood up.

"Yes."

He turned and left. The staff officer followed behind him, relaying orders into his headset as they walked. A series of encrypted command codes and coordinates could be faintly heard in the corridor, spoken at a rapid pace.

The door closed behind them.

Only the President, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, and a few core aides who hadn't had time to disperse remained in the Situation Room.

The Secretary of Defense pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, felt it, and then put it back.

He didn't smoke.

Because he realized his hands were shaking too much to light the lighter.

The Secretary of State walked to the wall—where a screen permanently displayed the The White House lawn. This was the third basement level; there were no windows at all. He stared at the image for a long time.

"If Su Mingyuan is their trump card,"

he said.

"Then we are now reaching our hand directly into their pocket."

"How will they react?"