Warsaw, European federation, February 2035

Former four-star General Elliot McMahan welcomes me into his office. His wife leads BlueWorks, a nonprofit dedicated to rebuilding Eastern Europe. Though McMahan function in this Non profit remains a mystery even after the interview. As the former Supreme Allied Commander Europe at the onset of the conflict, his sudden disappearance from the public eye had long been a mystery.

It was only through Jakub Kowalski, the former Polish defense minister, that I found my way here. His unexpected phone call came the morning after a heavy night of drinking in Vienna just a week ago—catching me completely off guard.

By New Year's, we had two million boots in the Northern Army Group. Four million spread across the Southern and Central fronts. Another five million in the Eastern—mostly Ukrainians and Russians," he says.

"Not enough?" I ask.

"It's World War II numbers," he mutters. "Yet we were barely making a dent. We held Berlin only because we'd flooded that entire region of Germany. Vienna and the Carpathian Basin? Geography saved us there. But Bulgaria? Flat terrain, wide open. The crabs poured down from the Baltics like a tidal wave. If it weren't for the millions of Turkish and Greek conscripts, we'd have lost it in weeks."

He pours me a glass of whiskey, pushing it across the table.

"Here. Drink up. Straight from the U.S. Ten dollars a glass—don’t waste it."

I take the glass but keep my eyes on him.

"You called the President daily, asked for more men. No one wanted to send them. Why?"

He exhales, rubbing his temple. "Because every country was terrified of a second landfall. We had so many radars pointed at the sky, a fly couldn’t buzz too high over Kazakhstan without the Chinese threatening to nuke it. And they were right to be scared. The meteors that hit northeastern Europe? They were traveling in a straight line through our solar system—until they suddenly adjusted course and dashed straight for Earth."

I lean forward. "When did we realize?"

"Twenty hours before impact."

"Were you briefed?"

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He locks eyes with me, his left one twitching slightly. Then he takes a sip of whiskey.

"I can’t comment on that."

Ten minutes later, I’m on the roof of his building.

The general hands me a pair of binoculars, pointing at a bird far in the distance as I try desperately to find warmth in my jacket. I raise them to my eyes, pretending to see it. I don’t.

"I didn’t have men to spare in NORTHAG," he continues. "The French were massing troops in Frankfurt and Stuttgart, holding the line, cutting off any attempt by the crabs to break into France. They did well at first in southern Germany, but they couldn’t afford to send reinforcements."

He gestures toward the horizon. "I had two U.S. Army divisions, what was left of the Bundeswehr—maybe 220,000 men, not counting conscripts still in training. The Danes were doing their part, but hell—New York City has more people than Denmark. The Scandinavians? The Swedes and Norwegians were keeping reserves. They had men in St. Petersburg, sure, but they were convinced the crabs would swim across and launch a naval invasion straight into Stockholm or some shit."

He lowers the binoculars, glancing at me. "Pardon my French."

"They had so many submarines scanning the seafloor, so many patrol boats and destroyers covering the coast… If you lost your wedding ring in the Baltic before the war, you might as well call the Swedish Navy and ask if they found it."

He exhales, shaking his head.

Back in his officer he shows me a map of his day as a world renowned commander.

"So there I was, stuck with what was left of my two U.S. divisions. The Germans had been mauled so badly I’m sure everyone from their defense minister to some poor conscript drank themselves to sleep every night. My forces were a patchwork—Dutch, Brits, Belgians. The Brits, though? They were the most bankrupt country in Western Europe. They hadn’t been able to afford an army before the war. Their whole strategy was that their tiny professional force would hold off the Russians long enough to mobilize and train conscripts back home."

He swirls the whiskey in his glass, staring into it for a moment.

"If it had been up to me, I would’ve nuked everything from Minsk to Frankfurt Oder."

I raise an eyebrow. "And that’s where your falling out with the President started?

His gaze snaps back to me—sharp, unreadable. The same piercing stare as earlier.

"How old are you, kid?" he asks.

"Twenty-seven," I answer. He studies me for a moment, his eyes drifting to the scars on my hands.

"Where did you serve?"

"Infantry."

I shift the conversation before he can press further. "How did you respond when the Moroccans, Egyptians, and Brazilians sent men?"

I catch the slight nod—approval, maybe. He doesn’t say it, but I can tell he’s reading me, analyzing.

"Damn near kissed my aide on the mouth."

He lets out a short chuckle, shaking his head.

"The Moroccans were sending four armored battalions. The Egyptians had infantry on the way to reinforce Bulgaria. And the Brazilians? A hundred thousand grunts, straight onto planes bound for Vienna. It was exactly what I needed—to get the ball rolling.

"The UN? Useless. Debating for twenty hours at a time. But those three? They acted. No waiting. No bureaucracy. Just action."

He takes a sip of whiskey, eyes distant.

"I knew the Chinese hadn't announced it yet, but they already had tanks on trains headed for Siberia. They were just waiting for the Russians to give the go-ahead. Problem was, the Russian president had been shot. The whole country was in chaos. And like NATO, they had had border skirmishes with Russia some time back that had nearly turned into a war. They couldn’t waltz in with millions of men and say ‘don’t worry we’re here to help’.

"But if India and China had both mobilized just 1% of their populations? That would've been thirteen million men in uniform. Each. Give or take. I just had to hold long enough for the rest of the world to arrive. From back home, from China, from Shahdaroba. I didn’t care. As long as they could hold a gun, use it safely, dig a trench, and operate artillery. That’s what the president and those phonies at the UN don’t understand."

He pauses, then notices I haven’t written the last part down.

"Oh, you can write what you want and quote me on that," he says with a chuckle. "I’ve already been fired once for Pete’s sake. What are they gonna do? Fire me again? I’ve got my pension and more money than I could ever spend in this life. Write it as you see it, and as I say it."

I give him a polite smile as I catch up, scribbling down his words.

"That’s the issue," he continues. "The president, with all his moral high ground, thought I was using those people too liberally. He might say otherwise, but at the end of the day, the Europeans in theater had been mauled. Why was he surprised that, two years in, I sent an Indian brigade into the meat grinder instead of whatever was left of the Germans?"