On the main screens, the yellow text turned a glowing red.
[DIAGNOSTIC MODE FAILED. FAILSAFE PROTOCOL ENGAGED. TARGETING SYSTEM ONLINE.]
"Targeting system?" Jenkins whispered, his face draining of color. "Why is the targeting system online?"
The military network was a tangled web of interconnected databases. When a system experienced a catastrophic logic failure, it defaulted to the last cached coordinate file in its temporary memory to run a 'dummy' lock on sequence.
By an impossible coincidence, the last file cached in this specific server was a high priority SWORD transmission detailing the coordinates of a temporary command post located just thirty miles away.
The screen flashed rapidly.
[TARGET ACQUIRED: COORD. 38.8951 N, 77.0364 W]
[MUNITION: TACTICAL CRUISE MISSILE - CONVENTIONAL PAYLOAD]
"It's pulling a live target!" Jenkins screamed, ripping the cover off the manual abort button and a heavy red switch encased in plastic.
A small paperclip and dropped from the clipboard Miller had tossed aside and had bounced across the console and wedged itself perfectly beneath the edge of the red button, jamming the mechanical spring.
He slammed his fist down on the button.
It didn't depress.
Jenkins stared at it in horror.
"The button is jammed!" Jenkins roared, clawing at the paperclip with his fingernails, breaking the skin. "Miller, cut the hardline! Pull the server power!"
Miller dove under the secondary desk, frantically ripping at the thick bundles of black cables powering the mainframe.
[ARMING SEQUENCE INITIATED. SILO DOORS OPENING.]
A structural rumble shook the concrete floor of the control room. Above ground, the heavy steel doors of Silo 4 were sliding apart with a deafening screech of gears.
"I can't get it loose!" Miller cried from beneath the desk, wrestling with a locking mechanism on the power cord.
Jenkins finally managed to snap the paperclip, slamming his fist down on the red abort button.
The screen blinked.
[ABORT COMMAND RECEIVED. PROCESSING...]
[ERROR: COMMAND RECEIVED POST IGNITION. LAUNCH IMMINENT.]
"Oh my god," Jenkins breathed, backing away from the console, his eyes wide with absolute terror.
Deep beneath the earth, a spark ignited a column of highly volatile solid rocket fuel.
A localized earthquake rattled the bunker. The roar of the engine was deafening, a sustained explosion of sound that vibrated the coffee mug off the desk.
On the screen, a red blip separated from the silo icon and began tracking rapidly across the digital map.
[MISSILE LAUNCHED. TIME TO IMPACT: 42 SECONDS.]
"It's away," Jenkins whispered, dropping into his chair, his hands shaking violently. He looked at Miller, who was crawling out from under the desk, covered in dust. "It's tracking a target thirty miles from here."
"Who..." Miller stammered, his eyes glued to the tracking line on the screen. "Who is at those coordinates?"
[Location: SWORD Temporary Command Post]
[Perspective: Tyler Hayward]
The temporary SWORD base was a hive of militarized activity.
Armored personnel carriers were lined up in the staging courtyard. Heavily armed operatives clad in black tactical gear were loading specialized sonic cannons and suppression nets into the backs of the vehicles.
Director Tyler Hayward stood at the center of the courtyard, fully equipped in tactical body armor. His face was a mask of furious determination, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool morning air.
He was out of options.
The DOD was coming for his files. Nick Fury's agents were breathing down his neck. If he didn't secure Wanda Maximoff, his life was effectively over.
"Listen up!" Hayward barked, addressing the assembled members of Alpha Team.
His voice echoed off the concrete walls of the staging area. "Our target is a Class A enhanced individual. She is highly volatile and extremely dangerous. You deploy the sonic suppressors immediately, neutralize the civilian doctor she is residing with and you bag the asset. Are we clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" the squad shouted in unison.
"We are moving on a preemptive national security mandate," Hayward continued, pacing in front of the line of soldiers. "We hit Westview in twenty minutes. Load up!"
The soldiers turned, moving in perfect synchronization to mount the armored transports.
Hayward watched them, a grim sense of satisfaction settling in his stomach.
Suddenly, a high decibel wail shattered the organized chaos of the courtyard.
BREEP.
BREEP.
BREEP.
BREEP.
The base's early warning siren.
Red strobe lights mounted on the perimeter walls began to flash frantically, painting the courtyard in a pulsing crimson glow.
Hayward spun around, his hand instinctively dropping to the sidearm holstered at his thigh.
"What is that?" Hayward roared over the blaring siren, grabbing the nearest technician by the collar of his uniform. "Did Fury send a strike team?"
The technician was staring at a handheld radar tablet, his face completely drained of blood. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the device.
"Sir..." the technician choked out, his eyes locked on the screen. "It's... it's not a ground team."
"Then what is it?!" Hayward screamed, shaking the man. "Speak!"
"We have to evacuate!" the technician yelled, his voice cracking with pure panic. He tore out of Hayward's grip, pointing a trembling finger toward the sky. "We have a high velocity projectile closing on our exact coordinates!"
Hayward froze. His brain struggled to process the words.
"A projectile?" Hayward demanded. "From where? Who fired on a federal installation?"
Agent Monti sprinted out of the command tent, a communications headset clamped over his ear. He looked wild, his eyes wide with horror.
"Director!" Monti screamed over the sirens. "It's a domestic tactical cruise missile! It originated from an automated defense silo thirty miles away! It's locked directly onto our comms tower!"
Hayward's mouth fell open.
A missile. From their own defense grid.
His mind instantly snapped to the only logical conclusion his paranoid brain could formulate.
Fury.
Nick Fury had hacked the defense grid.
He had decided that arresting him wasn't enough.
He was burying the evidence and he was burying Hayward with it.
"That son of a bitch," Hayward breathed, absolute rage burning through his veins, entirely eclipsing the terror.
"Evacuate!" Monti was screaming at the soldiers, who were scrambling out of the transports, diving for cover behind concrete barriers. "Brace for impact!"
Hayward stood in the center of the courtyard, staring up at the descending missile, his fists clenched at his sides. The roar of the jet engine was deafening, a physical pressure that vibrated in his teeth.
"Fuck you, Nick!" Hayward roared at the sky, his voice completely drowned out by the scream of the incoming munition. "You son of a bitch!"
The missile struck the main communications tower at the exact center of the compound.
The detonation was instantaneous.
BOOM.
A shockwave of superheated air expanded outward at supersonic speeds, instantly vaporizing the command tent, flipping the heavily armored transports like children's toys and obliterating the concrete walls of the staging courtyard.
Tyler Hayward's final curse was swallowed by a deafening roar of pure destruction, his body consumed by a wall of blinding orange fire before he could even blink.
Within three seconds, the temporary SWORD command post was reduced to a landscape of burning metal, shattered concrete and a towering column of thick black smoke rising into the otherwise peaceful morning sky.
Everything that Tyler Hayward was and everything he commanded, was reduced to ash and dust drifting on the wind.