July 18, 2035, U.S. Seventh Fleet, Pacific Ocean
The colossal hull of the world's mightiest weapon—or "Death Bringer"—slices through calm waves, trailing a long white wake across the blue expanse. Over thirty cruisers and destroyers flank it, mirroring its path with their own white trails.
Three aircraft, mere dots moments ago, scream past the carrier's starboard at 200 meters, cloaked in vapor cones, breaking the sound barrier. The supersonic F/A-18i Advanced Hornets race ahead, their turbojet shockwaves drowning out the flight deck's roar.
"Who's that punk?!" Captain Jonathan McMillan's voice thunders on the bridge.
"Lieutenant Edgar Leeks, 102nd Squadron, sir," a crewman replies.
"Everyone's on edge, and he's screwing around? Ream him when he lands!"
"Yes, sir."
"Anything from Guadalupe?"
The amphibious command ship Guadalupe, successor to the legendary Blue Ridge, carries Vice Admiral Albert Watkins, fleet commander, trailing kilometers behind. McMillan's carrier, CVN-82 Barack F. Obama II, centerpiece of the Seventh Fleet, was abruptly ordered to abandon a U.S.-Australia exercise off Australia's west coast and steam for the U.S. West Coast with its thirty-ship escort.
Days ago, contact with the mainland severed. The Global Command and Control System (GCCS) spewed gibberish and viruses, plunging the fleet into chaos. Despite robust cyber defenses, systems were restored in 48 hours, but reconnecting to GCCS triggered hacking attempts, forcing repeated disconnections. Analog radio from San Diego brought vague orders: an unknown enemy attacks the U.S.; rush to Panama Bay. The enemy's identity, the assault on U.S. soil, and Panama Bay as a destination defy logic. If the homeland's under siege, why not round the Cape of Good Hope for the Gulf of Mexico or strike enemy bases in China or Russia? McMillan fumes.
"No, sir. No new orders," the crewman reports.
"Right."
The agony of an attacked homeland, its details unknown, with the world's strongest fleet powerless, gnaws at McMillan. Thinking of his family and aging parents, he stifles a sigh in his captain's chair, unnoticed by his officers.
As his gaze drifts to the blue sea and clear sky, a sharp cry erupts.
"Multiple unidentified bogeys detected! All ships, prepare for anti-air combat!"
"Report distance, bearing, and numbers!" McMillan snaps, eyes back on the bridge.
"20 nautical miles, bearing 25, altitude 1,080, course 11, number… 3,000!" The radar operator's voice cracks.
"Impossible! 20 miles? Overhead? 3,000? Recheck numbers!"
The figures—distance, altitude, quantity defy reason. McMillan assumes a system glitch or operator error, unsurprising after days battling network viruses and garbled displays.
"Yes, sir! Rechecked: 3,000. Aegis link data. Anti-air prep ordered by Guadalupe. Bogeys descending on fleet, speed Mach 8.5! Contact in 100 seconds!"
"Missiles?!"
"Unclear. Numbers suggest missiles, but behavior differs."
New missiles or aircraft either way, 100 seconds leaves no time to scramble jets.
"How many CAP fighters up?"
"Twelve, 102nd Squadron, sir."
"All anti-air equipped jets, prepare for immediate launch! Launch as ready!"
"Yes, sir! Launching as ready."
An ambush from above, unforeseen. Every CAP jet counts, but 100 seconds won't allow even one launch. Still, McMillan can't sit idle.
"Guadalupe orders: all ships, ready VLSM. Coordinated fire."
"Strong barrage jamming! Targets merging!"
"Jamming disrupting comms. Aegis link holding."
Per Guadalupe's command, SM-6 missiles streak skyward from destroyers and cruisers surrounding Obama II, their white trails enveloping the fleet in a smoky haze. Yet, the fleet's VLSM total under 1,000 includes few high-altitude SM-6s. Even perfect hits won't stop most bogeys. SM-2s and ESSMs can't intercept Mach 8.5 targets from above. CIWS and 5-inch guns, with seconds to impact, are last resorts.
"SM-6s being shot down. 285 remaining."
"Targets at 500 altitude. Speed steady, Mach 8.5. Contact in 50 seconds."
As McMillan grimaces at the dire odds, a kilometer ahead, the destroyer Benfold vanishes in a water spout. Explosions flash within, red-black flames erupting, scattering debris across the sea. A gut-punching blast roars. Benfold is gone.
More explosions rock the fleet. "Destroyers Benfold, McCampbell, Fitzgerald, cruisers Shiloh, Antietam all sunk!"
"Smaller projectiles separating from bogeys! Likely missiles, 100 count, targeting us, speed Mach 25! Impact in 9 seconds!"
McMillan's eyes widen at the surreal numbers.
His vision flares white. The Obama II's flight deck glows an F3-B prepping for launch explodes. The deck buckles, peeling upward. The sea boils white, surging.
McMillan's death comes when an AIM-150C missile on an F/A-18i, melted by a laser, detonates, hurling a wing fragment through the deckhouse, crushing his skull. The same laser vaporizes the deckhouse, fusing steel into slag, consuming McMahon's body in a metallic inferno.
Despite laser barrages obliterating escorts, Obama II's massive hull endures, floating amid boiling seas. But 100 missiles, each with near-nuclear force, obliterate it, vaporizing sea and steel. When the water column collapses, only fragments remain.
The explosion's shockwave capsizes five destroyers and a cruiser. Pharazoa's 3,000 craft, wielding large-caliber lasers, sink dozens of ships. Seconds later, low-flying fighters erase the rest, including Guadalupe.
In 15 minutes of one-sided slaughter, the Seventh Fleet, Earth's mightiest, ceases to exist. Pharazoa losses: 25 fighters, nearly all to the 102nd Squadron.
That day, the Third (West Pacific) and Fourth (South America) Fleets meet similar fates.
Weeks later, as the U.S. government and citizens recover from network collapse, they learn their proud fleets are gone, leaving only stunned silence.