123: Chapter 123 The President's Showdown Causes Uproar in the Military

Vaughn, Chamberlain, Frost, and Klein said nothing.

They lowered their heads or averted their gazes. No one wanted to address the President's conclusion at this moment, but neither could anyone refute it.

Finally, Hartford looked up, staring at Biden with his bloodshot, aging eyes, and uttered the words that everyone had been trying to avoid.

"Our scientists have named this discovery: the Mathematical Temple Seal."

"Its creators not only mastered the physics of π=3 but also figured out how to create a miniature, secure Temple of Mathematics for themselves in an alien galaxy where π≠3, in order to protect their core civilizational achievements."

He paused for a very long time—long enough for all the Cabinet members seated in the back row to count the frequency of the micro-flickers of the cold fluorescent lights overhead in the Situation Room,

"In other words, a prerequisite for a civilization is to first be born in the right space-time."

"Only in a universe where π=3 can a civilization accumulate enough basic theory and applied technology to gradually develop the ability to build a 'Temple of Mathematics,' allowing them to continue protecting their technological achievements when exposed to an external environment where π≠3."

"If this prerequisite is not met, nothing else stands..."

He did not finish his final sentence.

But everyone in the room knew what the unspoken words were:

Flowers do not bloom in saline-alkali soil.

Correct truths cannot grow in the wrong space-time.

In this distorted cage of π=3.14159, humanity would never be able to build a Temple of Mathematics, because we cannot even calculate what a Temple of Mathematics is supposed to look like.

Biden leaned back in his chair, slowly unclasped his hands from his knees, and shifted his gaze to the row of lab reports and alien material analysis data still spread across the table.

He did not lose his temper, he did not question, and he did not press anyone further.

He just quietly stared at the papers before him—papers that explained everything but offered absolutely no direction for a solution—and remained silent for a long time.

Eventually, he raised his hand, signaling that Hartford and the others could leave first.

The five scientific research heads stood up one by one. After nodding silently to the President in turn, they gathered their documents and walked toward the door.

The door of the Situation Room closed softly behind Klein, the last to leave.

Biden had the joint assessment report submitted by the Office of Science and Technology Policy, DARPA, the Department of Energy's Office of Science, and the National Science Foundation pulled up on the big screen again,

but he did not look up to read it.

The military leadership's routine briefing was called in next, proceeding exactly according to schedule.

Mark Milley, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Secretary of Defense Lawrence Graves, and several theater commanders walked into the Situation Room one by one, sat down, and began reporting the latest adjustment data for troop deployments across both the Pacific and Atlantic fronts.

Milley's briefing took about tens of minutes.

He read through the latest troop deployment adjustment data for the Pacific Fleet and the European theater one by one, accompanied by real-time troop movement diagrams on the holographic tactical table, his voice still robust and firm.

Yet, after the final period of his standard briefing format was spoken, he noticed that the President did not give even a single gesture of acknowledgment as he usually did.

Biden sat in his chair, hands clasped next to the cold cup of black coffee in front of him. His gaze was neither on Milley nor on the chart marked with NATO bases.

His gaze seemed to fall on a deeper, much more distant place.

All the military brass sensed that something was wrong.

They looked at one another, sitting in silence in their respective seats. No one dared to stand up, and no one dared to speak and break this dead silence.

In the Situation Room, only the faint hum of air conditioning flowing through the ventilation ducts and the occasional soft rustle of someone turning the corner of a document page remained.

Biden's right index finger slowly traced the cold rim of his coffee cup. The images flashing before his eyes were not of any face in this room.

The scenes he saw were all from decades ago:

He was still very young, with dark brown hair, wearing his Naval Academy cadet uniform, running up and down to deliver orders in the late-night war room during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Every time the hotline between the Kremlin and the White House rang, the entire command center held its breath in unison. That was the closest he had ever been to all-out nuclear war in his life.

Then, in the Senate Foreign Relations Committee office, the news of the dissolution of the Soviet Union flashed across the live broadcast of CNN.

Everyone stood by their chairs, holding their coffee cups, clapping in a daze.

Then came the mountains of Afghanistan, the deserts of Iraq, the ruins of Kosovo...

For every single one, someone had warned it could lead to human extinction, yet each had ultimately ended up as expired briefings on rows of burned CDs in the archives.

But this time was different.

This time, it was not a nuclear exchange, not a terrorist organization, and not any terrestrial adversary with an identifiable nationality.

This time, it was an entity that had merely written an equation across the sky, driving the smartest minds in the entire America to commit mass suicide.

His cloudy, aging eyes, which everyone in the Oval Office had long dismissed as those of a sleepy old man, were now as calm as if they had been repeatedly honed on a whetstone.

First, all external fear, pressure, and uncertainty were ground away layer by layer. Then, within that silence shaved down to near transparency, the Cold War elite of yesteryear was revealed.

The Joseph Biden who had spent decades repeatedly handling the world's most dangerous nuclear crises at the negotiating table.

He pushed his coffee cup aside, placed his hands on the edge of the table, and stood up slowly but firmly.

Looking at the rows of military ranks and medals before him, he spoke in a tone that was not heavy, yet every word seemed nailed to the table.

"Next, I am going to Casablanca Manor in Arizona."

"To meet the military-industrial giant of the America, the Hopkins Family."

The Situation Room instantly erupted in uproar.

Several theater commanders leaned forward in their chairs almost simultaneously.

Graves stood up, his fists instinctively propped on the table.

Mark Milley, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, did not stand up, but he raised his thick palms in a "wait" gesture, his voice low and urgent.

All the military brass pointed to the exact same objection:

The strongest military power of the America was in their hands—in The Pentagon, in the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and in the global network of US military bases!

It was absolutely not something that could be replaced by a military-industrial oligarch hiding in an Arizona manor!

In the face of Grey Alien' million-strong fleet, the President should be discussing overall military strategies with them, rather than seeking out a military-industrial boss who acted as an agent for the Longevity Faction!

Biden listened to the rising tide of objections, standing there motionless as his gaze slowly swept across the table of generals and secretaries one by one.

He waited until all the voices had naturally quieted down before he finally spoke.