The president sat silent in the well-known office. This was not a day for triumph, nor gesticulation: the country, or rather its establishment, singularly of the military variety, had by now sobered up.
The proof was there, on the President’s desk. The report that spelled out the disaster, with photographed evidence, across continents, and those islands, the hidden deathly gems of the once great power.
All gone to ashes. A swift, quiet and pitiless strike that had reduced the stockpiles of nukes and assorted missiles to dust. Without appeal. There had been no warning, no press conference, no invitations to media.
The president, feeling rather tired, looked out of the window, across the celebrated lawn, where not long ago he was proffering threats and, now, obsolete-sounding statements on punishing others, the lesser nations…
People were demonstrating, there, on the street, apparently in a joyous mood. Then it dawned on the once most powerful man on Earth: the people were celebrating.
Image: Minotaur – George Frederic Watt