SENTINEL-X

Cross struck first. At 0600 hours GMT, precisely as Morrison had predicted, the Dominion launched coordinated attacks on twelve cities across six continents. London, Paris, Beijing, Mumbai, Cairo, São Paulo, Sydney, Los Angeles, Moscow, Dubai, Cape Town, and Tokyo—again, because Cross never forgot an insult. It was overkill of the most brutal kind, designed not to conquer but to overwhelm.

"She knows we're planning something," Commander Cole said, watching the tactical display light up with red markers like a disease spreading across the globe. "This is a preemptive strike. Force us to defend everywhere, thin our resources until we've got nothing left."

Marcus stood in the center of the command room, the Harmonic Disruptor secured to his back. Around him, the officers of the Earth Defense Force mobilized with desperate efficiency—scrambling fighters, coordinating ground forces, issuing evacuation orders that would save millions or condemn them depending on timing measured in seconds.

"The maintenance window opens in four hours," he said. "Can you hold them that long?"

Cole met his eyes. The commander's face was stone, but something flickered beneath it—fear, yes, but also a terrible resolve. "We'll hold them. Whatever it takes."

"James—"

"Don't." Cole's voice was rough. "Don't say goodbye. Don't make this harder than it has to be." He straightened his uniform, shoulders squaring. "You do your job. I'll do mine. And when this is over, you're buying the first round."

Marcus nodded, not trusting his voice. They both knew the odds. They both knew what "whatever it takes" really meant.

Commander James Cole had spent thirty-two years in the military. He'd commanded battalions in three wars, sent men and women into battles they didn't come back from, and learned to carry the weight of their deaths without letting it crush him. But nothing had prepared him for this—coordinating the defense of human civilization against an enemy that outgunned them a thousand to one.

"Berlin sector is collapsing," his aide reported. "General Schmidt requests immediate air support."

"Los Angeles has lost contact with command. Last report indicated Dominion ground forces landing in the harbor district."

"Beijing is holding, but they're down to thirty percent ammunition. Requesting emergency resupply."

Cole absorbed each report like a blow, making split-second decisions that would determine who lived and who died. Every choice was a sacrifice. Send fighters to Berlin, leave Moscow vulnerable. Reinforce Beijing, abandon São Paulo. The math was brutal and absolute—there weren't enough resources to save everyone. All he could do was buy time.

Time for Marcus to reach the Sovereign. Time for Elena's device to work. Time for a miracle that probably wouldn't come.

"Sir," Sarah Park's voice cut through the chaos. She'd refused to evacuate, insisted on staying in the command center to document humanity's last stand. "The civilians in the London underground. The shelters are holding, but—"

"I know." Cole's jaw tightened. "Redirect the 42nd Fighter Wing from the Paris corridor. Tell them—" He stopped, calculating the cost. Weakening Paris meant more casualties there. Strengthening London meant lives saved here. The mathematics of slaughter. "Tell them to make every shot count."

Marcus launched at T-minus thirty minutes to the maintenance window. His trajectory had been calculated down to the centimeter—a parabolic arc that would use the Moon's gravity well to slingshot him toward the Sovereign while minimizing his exposure to Dominion sensors. It was the kind of maneuver that would have been suicide for any normal craft. For him, it was merely extremely dangerous.

The Earth fell away below him, a blue-green marble wrapped in clouds and fire. From this altitude, he could see the battles raging across the planet—pinpricks of light that represented cities dying, people fighting, hope flickering against the dark. He forced himself not to zoom in. Seeing the faces would break him.

"Marcus, do you copy?" Elena's voice crackled in his ear. "Telemetry looks good. You're on course for the intercept window."

"Copy that. Any changes to the detection grid?"

"Negative. Morrison's intel appears accurate. The maintenance cycle should begin in twenty-two minutes, lasting approximately thirty-four seconds." A pause. "Marcus, I need you to understand something. If the Disruptor fails—if the shield harmonics have been altered—"

"Then I'll find another way."

"There isn't another way. That's what I'm trying to—"

"Elena." His voice softened. "I know the odds. I knew them when I agreed to this mission. If this doesn't work, you gather the survivors and you run. Take the ships, find a new world, keep humanity alive. Promise me."

Silence stretched across the void. Then, quietly: "I promise."

The Dominion fleet loomed ahead—seventeen hundred warships arrayed in perfect geometric patterns, the Sovereign at their center like a dark star. Marcus adjusted his approach vector and prepared to bet everything on thirty-four seconds of invisibility.

"Commander Cole, we've lost the Eastern European corridor. Dominion forces are pushing through toward Geneva."

The words hit Cole like a physical blow. Geneva. The command center. Everything they'd built, everyone who couldn't be evacuated—Sarah, Morrison, the hundreds of support staff who kept the Earth Defense Force running. If the Dominion reached Geneva before Marcus completed his mission, it was over.

"How long until breach?"

"Forty minutes. Maybe less if they push hard."

Cole looked at the tactical display. His remaining forces were scattered across the globe, each unit holding a line that couldn't be abandoned without catastrophic civilian casualties. There was no one to send. No reserves to deploy. Nothing left.

Except him.

"Get me a fighter," he said quietly.

His aide stared at him. "Sir?"

"I said get me a fighter. The fastest thing we've got left." Cole began stripping off his command insignia, handing them to the stunned officer. "Lieutenant Commander Hayes, you have command of Earth Defense Forces."

"Commander, you can't—"

"The Eastern corridor needs to hold for forty minutes. I've flown combat missions since before you were born." Cole's eyes swept the command center one last time. "Sometimes the only way to lead is from the front."

He walked toward the hangar bay without looking back. Sarah Park caught up with him at the door, her camera forgotten, tears streaming down her face.

"James. James, please—"

"Tell Marcus." Cole's voice cracked, just for a moment. "Tell him I said to give them hell."

Then he was gone, leaving behind the weight of command and walking toward the only thing that remained: a chance to buy his people time with his life.

Commander James Cole flew into the Eastern corridor like a man possessed. His fighter—a prototype that had never been cleared for combat—screamed through the atmosphere at speeds that would have killed a younger pilot. He didn't care. Speed was everything now. Speed and fury and the absolute refusal to let his people down.

The Dominion advance force numbered thirty ships. Cole had one fighter and the accumulated skill of three decades of aerial combat. It shouldn't have been enough. It wasn't enough.

But James Cole didn't fight to win. He fought to delay.

He wove through their formation like a ghost, his weapons finding weak points that shouldn't exist, his maneuvering defying physics and sense. Three ships fell to his guns. Then five. Then seven. The Dominion commanders, confused by this single suicidal human, pulled back to reassess—and those minutes of hesitation were exactly what Cole needed.

"Cole to Geneva," he transmitted, his voice surprisingly calm. "Advance is stalled. You've got your forty minutes. Make them count."

"James—" Sarah's voice broke over the comm. "James, come back. Please come back."

"Can't do that, Miss Park. Got a war to win." He banked hard, avoiding a missile that should have ended him. "Tell Elena her device better work. Tell Marcus—" He laughed, though it came out more like a sob. "Tell him the old man still had some moves."

The Dominion forces regrouped. Thirty ships against one. Cole watched them form up, saw the kill pattern taking shape. He had perhaps sixty seconds left.

He thought of his daughter, killed in the first Dominion attack three months ago. His wife, who'd died of grief a week later. The family he'd failed to protect.

"This one's for them," he whispered.

Commander James Cole of the Earth Defense Force accelerated toward the enemy fleet, his weapons firing until the very last moment, his final transmission a wordless scream of defiance that echoed across every human frequency.

Then silence.

Marcus Chen heard Cole's last transmission as he breached the Sovereign's outer perimeter. The maintenance window had opened exactly as Morrison predicted—thirty-four seconds of sensor blindness, and Marcus had slipped through like a knife between ribs. Now he clung to the hull of the Dominion flagship, searching for an access point while the commander's death cry still echoed in his memory.

James. God damn it, James.

His fist tightened against the alien metal. Another name on the list. Another weight on his soul. He'd promised Sarah he'd try to come back. He hadn't promised he'd succeed. Part of him wondered if it even mattered anymore—if the cost of victory had already exceeded what victory was worth.

Then he thought of Tokyo. Of the millions who'd fled their burning homes. Of the children Sarah had photographed in the refugee camps, their eyes holding a fear that should never exist in young faces. Of every human being on the planet below, fighting and dying and hoping for someone to save them.

Cole had given them forty minutes. Marcus would not waste a single second.

He found an access hatch—maintenance, based on the markings—and burned through the lock with his plasma cutter. The Harmonic Disruptor hummed against his back, ready to deploy. All he had to do now was reach the shield generator, survive whatever defenses Cross had waiting, and bring down the fortress that had seemed invincible.

Simple, really.

Marcus Chen dropped into the darkness of the enemy flagship, carrying humanity's last hope and a dead man's final wish.

Give them hell, Marcus.

He intended to.