The suited man brusquely shoved past the secretaries and senators lining the hallway. He kept a brisk pace, running a weary hand through his greying hair. The conversation in the corridor was deafening, an inevitable result of cramming dozens of the most powerful politicians in the United States into a single wing of the White House.
Pushing past the displeased Governor of Florida, the man fished his keycard out of his jacket. One of the bald men standing guard outside an intricate wooden door took a quick look and waved him in. The Secretary of State was an unmistakable figure in the lives of every Secret Service agent.
Secretary Hartman quietly closed the door behind him. The inside of the Situation Room was filled with tense silence, a stark contrast from the chaos outside. Two dozen people were crammed around the wooden conference table.
The man at the head of the table swiveled in his chair to look at the new arrival. Everyone else had taken a sudden interest in their own shoes.
"Glad to see you've decided to join us, Hartman."
"Mr. President. Sorry for the wait."
Hartman stepped forward a few places before easing into the empty chair next to President McCord.
"Fritz, would you brief the Secretary?"
With the Presidents words, Hartman took notice of a man he didn't recognize sitting at the other end of the table. Even while staring directly at him, Hartman found it difficult to focus on any one feature of his face. His visage was a hazy blur floating in the air, above a completely black three-piece suit.
"Hello, Secretary Hartman. I believe this is the first time we've met."
"I only wish it was under better circumstances. Remind me exactly who you are?"
"Adminstrator Fritzwilliams. Acting Administrator of the SCP Foundation."
"Ah-h-h. You. I thought this was about the Ruskies. Should've expected you'd have a hand in it."
Fritzwilliams nodded solemnly and spoke.
"Our… counterparts in Moscow are reporting that the United States is in the process of launching a nuclear warhead at them."
"That's — that's bullshit!" Hartman spat. "Have we tried getting through to them?!"
"They refuse to pick up the phone, I'm afraid."
Fritzwilliams motioned to the small red rotary phone sitting in front of the President, who was leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
"We've tried intermediaries, diplomats, nothing. They've gone dark."
Hartman shook his head.
"Christ."
The door to the Situation Room opened once more, letting in a portly general dressed in fatigues. His face was red, and he waited a few moments to catch his breath, the whole room's eyes on him.
"Mr. President… we're getting reports of missiles launched from the USSR."
The Situation Room exploded in activity. General rose to their feet and began debating whether to retaliate. Intelligence officers argued about the validity of thks information. Diplomats began scrambling to try and contact their allies. Through it all, Fritzwilliams, Hartman, and McCord remained in their seats.
McCord and Hartman exchanged a look. They both knew what had to be done. The United States could not be allowed to bow to the Commies. It would be more than weakness. It would be a betrayal of ideals.
A figure kneeled down between McCord and Hartman, snapping them both back to reality. Fritzwilliams spoke in rushed tones.
"I ask a lot of both of you. I understand that you cannot allow the Soviets to get away with this. But we can bring them to justice later. We can't allow the world to fall into nuclear winter. It would be a collapse of humanity and a collapse of, above all, normalcy. If you two hold off on retaliating, I swear to whatever God you believe in that the Foundation will offer assistance in bringing down the Reds. Just, you can't allow this to happen."
McCord was silent. Such a burden was not meant to fall on the shoulders of one man alone. He pursed his lips, lost in thought.
The same general that had informed them of the end shouted from across the room.
"Mr. President! Your orders?
McCord slowly looked up. Fritzwilliams and Hartman stared as he opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.
"Do it."
Fritzwilliams slammed his hands on to the table, steadying himself as the President turned to face him.
"I'm so sorry."