After the Vice President of the United States declares war on the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Europe convulses in panic. Sirens wail across cities, tanks rumble into position in France and West Germany, and fighter jets claw at the skies. The continent braces itself for the storm that is finally breaking.
The declaration comes at 11:00 in Washington and 17:00 on the German border. For soldiers on both sides stationed there, it is a cruel twist of fate. Only hours earlier they had been preparing to end their shift, expecting another uneventful night. None of them know that the previous evening is the last time they will ever sleep in peace.
The Soviet Army, upon hearing the declaration on television, springs into immediate action, as if they have always been preparing for this exact moment. From the lowest-ranking privates to the most decorated generals, every man and woman in uniform answers without hesitation to the orders of General Secretary Dmitri Alexis.
Engines roar to life.Command posts flare with frantic orders.Infantry, armor, and artillery divisions roll forward in unison.Above them, bombers and fighters carve through the skies.
The invasion of Western Europe has begun.
The United States declares war, but it is the USSR that strikes first. In the end, no one knows who to blame, but none of that matters now. The only focus is survival.
Casualties mount instantly. By dusk, tens of thousands lie dead across the plains and highways of West Germany, crushed beneath the unstoppable weight of Soviet armor and artillery. Entire NATO positions are erased in the opening hours.
American forces are present on German soil, but their numbers are a fraction of what they once were. The treaty signed months earlier between U.S. President Mikael and Soviet leadership had sharply reduced them. What remains is a skeleton contingent—brave, but far too few to hold back the flood. West German divisions fight valiantly, but without reinforcements or air superiority, they are torn apart piece by piece.
Within the first week, West Berlin falls. Nearly 20,000 soldiers die in its defense, alongside countless civilians who never had the chance to escape.
From there, the rest of Germany bleeds red. The Soviet war machine moves relentlessly, encircling and annihilating NATO divisions one after another. Communication lines collapse. Command structures fail. The speed and ferocity of the Soviet onslaught paralyze all of Western Europe.
France, watching Germany collapse, makes a fateful choice. Instead of rushing east to aid their neighbor, French commanders pull their divisions back, fortifying the border. The British reinforce them, creating a wall of armor and concrete meant to keep the Soviets out of France at all costs. To the Germans still fighting, it feels like betrayal. To the French and British, it is survival.
Within a month, Germany is gone. The Soviet Army seizes the entire country. Resistance is fierce, and the Red Army suffers massive losses, but the toll on soldiers and civilians alike is catastrophic. Exact numbers are unknown, but estimates soar to one or two million dead.
Meanwhile, France continues to build its defensive line with British support and the remnants of the West German Army. The first official U.S. combat troops land on French soil, joined by Marine tank battalions and air divisions.
NATO, stunned and disoriented, finally regains focus. The sacrifice of Germany has bought precious time. It is the wake-up call they should have heeded long ago—the very reason their alliance was created.
Now, all attention turns to one priority: pile up as much military power on French soil as possible and prepare to defend Paris from the Soviet invasion.
The long-expected war has begun. And already, Europe is drowning in fire.
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...
...
Two months after the Third World War began. Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn, New York.
Rows of freshly dug graves stretched endlessly across the grounds. White stone markers lined the soil, wreaths of flowers still fresh, earth still unsettled. Workers moved quietly among them, chiseling new names into stone. No one asked why. Everyone knew.
A middle-aged man stood beside his eighteen-year-old student. Both were silent, both solemn. Their eyes lifted toward the podium, where President Mikael Norman addressed the mourners. Behind him rose a forest of flags and tombstones, a backdrop of grief that belonged to an entire nation.
"Today we gather to mourn and to honor the innocent lives taken in the brutal terrorist attack on this city two months ago," the President said. His voice was firm but heavy. "Men, women, and children, murdered by Russian and Middle Eastern extremists who sought to scar us, to break us, to make us bow. But they failed."
He paused, letting the silence settle. "Because in our darkest hour, when New York was sealed away by a weapon the world had never seen, when a force field cut us off from hope, heroes rose. Ordinary people who stood against terror."
The crowd stirred. Murmurs spread, but Mikael's eyes fixed on two figures standing apart.
"Two names must be spoken today," he said. "Chadwick Desper, known to his friends as Chad. And his teacher, Neil Phildom. Survivors. Fighters. Heroes who risked everything when our city was drowning in blood and fire. They saved countless lives. They saved me."
Applause rose, echoing across the cemetery.
Chad's hands tightened at his sides. His head lowered. Again and again, his eyes drifted toward a single grave among thousands. Roy Heros. His best friend. A boy timid and afraid, who in the end had found courage and paid for it with his life.
Neil placed a steady hand on Chad's shoulder. It was meant as comfort. Chad only gave a faint nod. His face stayed stiff, unreadable.
The ceremony moved on. After remembrance came the medals. Soldiers approached with velvet cases. One medal for Neil. One for Chad.
Neil bowed his head as the President placed the medal around his neck. He leaned closer to Mikael and whispered, his voice low and certain. "This isn't the end. I'll keep fighting."
Then came Chad's turn. Cameras flashed as the Medal of Honor was placed across his chest. The crowd applauded. Chad forced a smile because he had to. He raised the medal when asked, posed when expected. His lips curled upward, but his eyes stayed empty.
The medal felt heavy. Not with pride, but with guilt. It should have been Roy's. Roy, weak, timid, always afraid, who in the end stood tall, fought, and sacrificed himself so Chad could live. Chad had made the plan, yes, but when the bullets came, he hid. He could not fight. Roy had done what he could not, and paid the price. Now Chad stood in front of cameras, burdened with a medal that only reminded him of that truth.
The applause faded. President Mikael raised his hand for silence. His voice carried over the cemetery once more.
"Let these graves remind us of the price of freedom. Let these names remind us of what it means to stand in the face of terror. To every parent who lost a child, to every friend who lost someone dear, to every survivor who carries the scars — this nation stands with you. We will not forget. And as long as I am President, America will never bow."
When the ceremony ended and the crowd began to scatter, Chad and Neil carried flowers. At Neil's request, four graves had been placed together. Roy. Mike. Nick. Sally.
Neil went first. He knelt at each headstone, bowing his head and placing the flowers with quiet reverence. He spoke no words, only silence.
He lingered the longest at Nick's and Mike's graves. To him, this was farewell to two friends. One was an old comrade who had fought at his side. The other was someone he had known for only two days, yet it felt as if they had been friends for far longer.
Then Chad stepped forward. He placed flowers at Mike's grave, the fat, grumbling civilian who had not been brave, but who had not run either. At Sally's, a classmate who never asked for war, but was dragged into it all the same. At Nick's, Neil's comrade, a man Chad barely knew, but who had fought like hell until the end.
Then he reached Roy's.
Chad stood in silence. His chest tightened, and his hand trembled as he lowered the flowers onto the fresh dirt. He knelt, brushed his fingers over the cold stone, and whispered something only Roy could hear. Then he rose, wiped at his face, and stepped back.
Later, they sat on a bench near the cemetery gates. Reporters lingered at a distance, cameras flashing, while security kept them back. The air smelled of cut grass and fresh flowers, but the silence between them was heavy.
Chad stared at the ground, his eyes dark with depression. Neil watched him for a moment before speaking.
"Don't blame yourself for any of this, Chad," Neil said quietly.
"I know, Mister Neil," Chad replied, his voice flat. "You told me before. I know I shouldn't blame myself for their deaths. But I can't feel better, knowing their deaths didn't stop anything. The terrorists still got what they wanted. The war still started. And the ones who caused it... they're still alive. Still running free. Even Ben and Saiko."
"They didn't die for nothing," Neil said, his voice firm.
Chad turned his head slightly, his expression still hollow.
"Because of you," Neil continued, "a lot of innocent people got another chance to see their families. To keep living. Even if we couldn't stop the war, we saved who we could. That matters, Chad. It matters more than you think."
Chad stayed silent, staring at the endless rows of graves. His fists tightened against his knees.
Neil's tone shifted, quieter but heavy with resolve. "Listen, Chad. I am going back to the military."
Chad slowly looked up, his eyes wide.
Neil's gaze stayed fixed ahead, hard and unshakable. "I still have work to do. Things to deal with. Right now, men are dying, innocent people are being murdered. I cannot sit and watch when I know I can still help. I have been a soldier most of my life. I know what war does, and I hate it. But if I have the strength to stand, then I should stand. If I can carry the burden, then I will. I am not going back for myself, but for the people we lost, and for the many more I can still save."
The words struck like thunder, not loud but devastating in their truth. Chad had no answer. He only bowed his head in silence.
Neil understood. As his favorite teacher, Chad would not want him to risk his life again. Not after everything. But Neil had already made his decision. He could not continue to stand aside while people were dying in front of him.
He had failed to stop the war from igniting. The least he could do now was fight to end it as soon as possible, and to save as many lives as his strength allowed.
Before Chad could say a word, Neil rose from the bench, brushing the dust from his coat. "Take care of yourself, Chad."
He said goodbye and walked away, leaving Chad alone on the cemetery bench.
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Later, as Chad made his way back through the city streets, dusk settled over Manhattan. He stopped in front of a storefront glowing with rows of televisions.
Dozens of screens carried the same broadcast: General Secretary Dmitri Alexis, standing tall on a review stand in Moscow. His figure loomed against the vast expanse of Red Square, voice booming with confidence as tanks, armored carriers, and heavy artillery rolled past in endless lines. Soldiers marched in flawless rhythm, steel helmets catching the gray light. It was not just a parade. It was a warning. A reminder.
The feed shifted. Combat footage filled the screens. Soviet armor tearing across German soil. NATO convoys scrambling under artillery fire. Rocket salvos streaking through the sky while C-RAM batteries in European cities lit up the night with desperate bursts of intercept fire. Explosions blossomed into firestorms, turning fields and highways into ruins.
The war was no longer distant. It was spreading, city by city, border by border.
Pedestrians slowed as they passed. Some stopped to stare. Others shook their heads and hurried on. A man cursed under his breath, dragging his child away by the hand. An old woman crossed herself before moving on.
But Chad did not move. He stood frozen, his reflection staring back from the glass, overlapping with the images of tanks rolling and rockets flying. His eyes fixed on the soldiers saluting under the gray Moscow sky.
His heart hammered in his chest.
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Later that evening, Chad returned to his dormitory. The halls were empty and cold, echoes following every step. Most of his classmates were gone, some evacuated, some sent home, others already enlisted.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
His eyes went straight to the second bed. Roy's bed. It was still neatly made, untouched since that day. The blanket folded, the pillow fluffed, as if Roy might walk back in at any moment, toss his bag down, and start complaining about homework or food. But Roy would never come back.
Chad stood there for a long time, staring. The silence pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating. This room, once filled with two voices, two friends joking, arguing, laughing, was now just his. Only his.
He set a box down on the desk, the sound echoing through the stillness. Slowly, he sat on his own bed, then glanced again at Roy's side. The emptiness of it clawed at his chest.
It was the first time he truly felt what it meant to be alone.
He stayed there, unmoving, for minutes that felt like hours, before finally reaching over to power on the computer. The screen flickered to life, glowing in the dark.
Without thinking, Chad opened Facebook, scrolling through a feed filled with noise. Old classmates posting selfies, people arguing about the war in the comments, memes that already felt outdated against the backdrop of death and graves. Every post felt distant, unreal, like it belonged to a world he was no longer part of.
Then, as he scrolled, a sponsored ad appeared, bright and bold in the middle of his feed.
ENLIST TODAY. THE U.S. ARMY NEEDS YOU.
Images flashed across the screen: soldiers marching in formation, Abrams tanks crushing over open fields, Black Hawk helicopters roaring overhead, F-35 jets climbing into the sky. The American flag rippled across it all.
At the bottom, a simple link pulsed with light:
www.goarmy.com
Apply Now
Chad stared at it, motionless.
The medal in his pocket felt heavier than stone. Roy's name, carved in marble at Green-Wood, weighed heavier still. Mike. Sally. Nick. All of them gone.
He thought of his father, still somewhere in Afghanistan, months without contact. Maybe if he enlisted, he could find him.
He thought of Neil. Not just his words, but his presence. The way he stood without fear. The way he carried himself in the darkest moments. To Chad, Neil was not just a teacher. He was a model of courage. A man who never backed down, no matter the odds.
And he thought of Roy. His best friend. Weak, timid, always scared. Yet when it mattered, Roy had found courage. He gave his life so Chad could live.
Chad's chest tightened. His hand trembled as it hovered over the mouse. Then, with a steadying breath, he clicked.
And in that moment, he knew. This was where he would go.