The Last Transmission

1 — Project Z.U.F.O

"Did you hear what they said on the news this morning? This is insane! They actually confirmed their existence! And now we're supposed to learn to live with them? How the hell are we supposed to do that?"

Two rookie U.S. Air Force pilots whispered to each other, their eyes filled with unease and dread about what might come next for humanity after such a chaotic day.

"They also said the president will give a live speech tonight—broadcast on every regional channel. I don't know, Frank… but I'm scared. For the first time in my life, I'm actually afraid of something. And you know I'm not the kind of man who gets scared easily."

Passing by the nervous rookies, Mike Hamilton rolled his eyes and kept walking toward his quarters. He was too tired to deal with the nonsense his fellow pilots spat out whenever they got carried away by whatever people posted on social media.

Even if the news anchors had said it, Mike still didn't believe a word of it.

He had been a skeptic all his life. How could he betray his reason and principles over some fantasy tales invented just to grab attention?

It had been a bad day.

Luck had abandoned him.

He had failed to take down the black enemy aircraft assigned to his mission—an intruder suspected of belonging to a hostile neighboring country.

The black jet had been sharper, faster. If not for the intense training Mike had received at the Air Force Academy, he would probably be dead already.

By sheer luck, he escaped what could have been a gruesome end.

Mike loved flying, but dying in the skies had never been part of his plan—and he wasn't ready to die now.

He was fifty years old, with a beautiful twenty-year-old daughter about to graduate from Boston University as a mechatronics engineer. His wife, once a Calvin Klein model, was long retired, eagerly waiting for his own retirement so they could finally enjoy a peaceful life together.

What Mike didn't know… was that the end was near.

But it wasn't his end. It was humanity's.

And no one knew it yet. The world believed it was nothing more than conspiracy theories spread by the media.

That would all change tonight, once the president made his announcement.

Mike collapsed on his bed, kicking off his shoes. He didn't bother changing out of his uniform—he wasn't planning to sleep yet. It was only 4:34 p.m. He still had dinner to eat, the evening news to watch, a video call to make with his family, and maybe a bubble bath before drifting off like a baby who never cries through the night.

But the hours slipped away, and Mike fell asleep with the small 24-inch TV still on in front of his bed. His quarters weren't big, but they were enough for him to rest comfortably without needing the feeling of home.

The evening news had just begun, but the volume was too low to wake him. What did wake him, though, was the piercing blare of the catastrophe alarm.

In over ten years of service, Mike had never once heard it go off. In fact, his superior, Chief of Staff Reynolds, reminded them at every meeting: that alarm must never be activated—never as a joke, never by accident—or the consequences would be dire.

"Damn it!" Mike cursed as he jolted awake, his ears ringing painfully from the sound.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand before rushing out. It wasn't about addiction—the phone was a work tool, essential for urgent calls and updates.

Every officer knew the protocol: in any emergency, no matter the type, all personnel had to head straight to the Rally Point, the central safe zone of the base.

Moments later, gathered with the others, Mike listened as Reynolds raised his voice, booming across the group:

"Men, it was a false alarm. Apparently… this idiot right here thought it was funny."

He pointed at a man in his thirties—a computer and programming expert who looked exactly the part: plain white T-shirt, black pants, white sneakers, oversized square glasses, and greasy slicked-back hair.

"You're dead, freak!" Mike roared, storming toward him with clenched fists and burning fury. Waking him up for a prank was the last straw.

No one stopped him. The other pilots nodded in agreement. Everyone hated Marvin Hawking, the so-called freak.

Even Reynolds didn't intervene. He allowed Mike to handle the punishment himself.

"No, Mike, please, don't!" Marvin begged, but it was too late.

Mike ripped the laptop from his hands—he clung to it like a child to a stuffed toy—and smashed it to the ground. The machine cracked in half instantly. Then, with all his strength, Mike kicked the broken pieces into near dust, right in front of Marvin, his comrades, and his commander.

Marvin's eyes bulged as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. He stood frozen, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. That computer had been his pride, his joy, his only connection to the world.

"You'll pay for this!" he screamed, rage burning in his voice as he glared at Mike, ready to pounce and kill him with his bare hands.

But everyone knew the truth. If Marvin tried, it would be pointless. Mike would crush him with a single blow before he even had the chance to fight back.

Mike didn't care about his threats. He just stared back, cold and unflinching. He had humiliated Marvin before, and he had warned him more than once: keep crossing the line, and one day it would cost him dearly.

And Reynolds wasn't going to stop him.

In the end, the clash grew so violent that Reynolds was finally forced to intervene before things went too far.

Half an hour later, most of the officers had gone to the communal cafeteria for dinner—everyone except two.

Marvin had been dragged to the infirmary, beaten half-senseless like a ragdoll.

"Are you out of your mind? Thanks to you, I had to put our best engineer on leave! At a time like this, we can't afford these kinds of setbacks—we need everyone working at full capacity!" Reynolds roared, his fury barely contained.

Mike couldn't believe what he was hearing. Yes, Marvin was skilled, but to hear Reynolds defend him like that—almost like he was untouchable—was absurd.

What the hell was going on?

Did everyone else know something he didn't? Was he being kept in the dark, despite his years of service?

"I can't let this slide. You're suspended for one week. You will not enter this base, you will not fly, and you will not keep your work phone. Hand it over," Reynolds ordered, masking his frustration with authority.

Reluctantly, Mike surrendered the phone. Without another word, he left the office, returned to his quarters, and began packing.

Maybe a week away wasn't such a bad thing. He'd use the time to go home, to be with his wife and daughter—enjoying their company, away from the chaos, away from the lies, and away from the storm that was about to break.

With his travel backpack hanging from his shoulder, Mike stepped out of the cabin, bidding farewell to a few other pilots he met along the way without offering any explanations. Luckily, no one asked him what he was up to, and then he headed to the parking lot, where his electric blue SUV was waiting for him outside.