April 9th. 03:17 AM. South China Sea.
The ocean slept under a blanket of stars, calm and soundless. The moon had vanished behind thick, coal-black clouds, as if nature itself had turned its gaze from what was about to unfold.
Standing alone on the upper deck of the U.S.S. Roosevelt, General Marcus Reeve watched the horizon. No waves. No wind. Just the quiet hum of the carrier slicing through ink-black waters. It was the kind of silence that precedes a storm.
Behind him, the command doors slid open.
"General Reeve," Captain Hallenbeck said, stepping forward. "All strike teams are green. B-2s are airborne. Submarine silos are ready to fire. Washington's waiting on your go. One word."
Reeve didn't answer. Not right away.
Below the deck, six Tomahawk cruise missiles waited in the belly of the submarine USS Kentucky. Across the Pacific, stealth bombers glided silently toward the Korean Peninsula. On the edge of the DMZ, American and South Korean troops stood on red alert, watching the horizon from the cold trenches of dawn.
Tonight, they would either strike first—or be remembered for hesitating.
"Confirm it again," Reeve said, his voice low. "The Hwasong-18 was armed."
"Aye, sir," replied Lieutenant Rivera at the comms console. "Payload data confirms a live warhead. The missile broke apart over the East Sea, but we tracked the radiation trace. This wasn't a bluff."
Reeve's jaw tightened. North Korea had launched a nuclear missile, and by all accounts, it hadn't been a test. It was a threat. A warning. Or worse—an act of war.
The war room was silent. No one spoke. No one breathed too loudly. Everyone knew what this meant.
Captain Hallenbeck stepped forward again. "Sir. The President has authorized Black Flame. It's your call."
Reeve stared out over the water. For a moment, his mind wasn't on this deck. He was back in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Fifteen years ago. A blown-out convoy. A teenager's leg twisted beneath the wreckage. The smell of diesel, sand, and burned flesh. The moment he realized he'd ordered men to die for something no one would remember.
This would be different. It had to be.
"God help us," Reeve said.
He stepped to the console and pressed the flashing red confirmation button.
"Execute Black Flame."
04:01 AM. Pyongyang Airspace.
The sky was silent. Then it erupted.
Three B-2 Spirit bombers streaked across the stratosphere, undetected by radar, their bellies opening to unleash hell. Smart bombs and bunker busters dropped like thunderbolts. In seconds, the sleeping capital below was torn awake by fire.
The first target was Site K-24, a suspected nuclear launch complex near Sunchon. The second: Mount Myohyang's communications hub. Then the chemical weapons depot at Sobaek. Then Kim Jong-un's personal compound.
Pyongyang lit up like a Christmas tree in hell.
Shockwaves cracked windows across the city. Fireballs rose in the sky. Craters swallowed streets. Civilians screamed, dazed and half-naked, as buildings collapsed around them. Sirens wailed across the capital. Anti-aircraft guns fired blindly into the night sky.
And underground, in a concrete bunker carved into the bowels of Mount Paektu, Supreme Leader Kim Jong-un lit a cigarette with a trembling hand.
"So," he said, as his generals stared at monitors showing half the capital ablaze. "The Americans want blood."
He exhaled smoke.
"Then we'll drown them in it."
04:10 AM. Seoul. Yongsan District. U.S. Command Bunker.
Colonel Yoon Tae-jin burst through the steel doors, his face pale, uniform jacket still unbuttoned.
"What the hell have you done?" he shouted at Major Alison Reeve, the American liaison to South Korea's central command.
Major Reeve stood straight, composed. "We neutralized imminent threats."
"You didn't neutralize anything. You opened the gates of hell!"
Alison didn't blink. "With full coordination and approval of your President, Colonel."
Yoon slammed a tablet down on the table. The screen showed satellite images—artillery barrels rising like spines along the northern ridge of the DMZ.
"They're preparing to level Seoul," he said. "Every rocket, every shell they've been hiding for twenty years is coming down on us."
"We've scrambled fighters from Osan," she said. "Evacuation protocols for northern Seoul are underway."
"Not fast enough," Yoon hissed. "You think the people in Mapo or Goyang have bunkers? They'll die in their apartments."
Alison didn't reply. A second later, the bunker's lights flickered. The floor rumbled. Then the alarm screamed:
"Incoming. Impact in forty-five seconds."
Everyone dove into motion. On the monitors, missile arcs traced the air over the DMZ—hundreds of them.
04:25 AM. Northern Seoul.
The shells fell like rain. Explosions bloomed across highways, schools, hospitals. The Dongjak Bridge vanished in a flash of fire. Residential towers crumbled. Fires danced across blocks of steel and glass.
In less than ten minutes, over eight hundred civilians were dead.
The streets flooded with people. South Korean civil defense teams shouted through megaphones, guiding survivors toward underground shelters. Sirens screamed in every district.
But it wasn't enough. And this was only the first wave.
04:36 AM. Pyongyang General Hospital. District 5.
Doctor Jang Mi-hye had barely finished bandaging the last patient from the first blast when the second one hit. The ceiling shook. Lights flickered. A crack split down the wall like lightning.
She grabbed her son from the floor.
"Umma!" he cried, trembling.
"I'm here," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. "We're okay."
Her husband, Jong-su, burst through the door, his face covered in dust, blood running down one temple.
"They bombed the city center!" he shouted. "The Ministry Tower's gone. They say the Americans are invading!"
"We have to leave," she said, grabbing her emergency kit.
"There's nowhere to go," Jong-su said. "Roads are gone. The subway's dead. People are panicking."
She looked around. Patients screamed. Nurses cried. Somewhere down the corridor, someone was singing an old revolutionary song with broken breath.
Jang Mi-hye opened her bag. Took out gauze. Morphine. Thread. If she was going to die tonight, she'd die helping someone.
"Get the boy to the basement," she told her husband. "I'm staying."
"No," Jong-su whispered, eyes wide.
"Go. Now."
He hesitated, then ran. She turned to the hallway. The hospital had become a warzone. Flames licked at the windows. Blood smeared the walls.
And the screams were only getting louder.
05:20 AM. Beijing. PLA Intelligence Command.
Zhao Lei stood before a screen showing real-time satellite footage of the Peninsula.
"Pyongyang's burning," said Colonel Wei beside him. "Americans are on the move. They crossed the line."
Zhao said nothing for a long time.
"Prepare the Northern Command," he said at last. "Two hundred thousand men at the Yalu. No further."
"You want to back Kim?"
"I want to control what comes after him."
"You're gambling with fire."
Zhao's eyes narrowed. "No. I'm setting the table."
06:11 AM. U.S.S. Roosevelt.
General Reeve read the casualty report:
17 American soldiers KIA during an airborne landing near Kaesong
Hundreds of South Korean civilian deaths from artillery strikes
Pyongyang's leadership status: unknown
Multiple suspected nuclear facilities still unverified
Reeve felt every pound of it settle on his spine like stone. This wasn't victory. This wasn't even the start. This was blood and smoke and uncertainty.
He turned to the intercom.
"Prepare the 4th and 7th divisions. We cross the DMZ by dawn."