“Sir, the target remains.”

Thomson swore quietly to himself. He picked up the cigar that lay on the table in front of him. It was smooth in his fingers. He lit it up, the edge glowing bright orange in the dark of the war room. The president took a long pull, the tip glowing even brighter before exhaling slowly.

“Are you sure, General? We hit it with enough to win a small war.” A puff. A cloud of smoke. He wearily rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He hadn’t slept much lately. There had been so much to do. Most of it revolving around the target.

“Yes Sir. Ground recon confirms. We’re waiting on our planes to confirm, but the live video feed shows the target. The target is still airborne, over the Empire state building. Its… Uh… floating at an altitude of about one thousand feet. “

General Mitchell wiped the sweat from his brow. The war room was air conditioned. He wasn’t sweating because of the heat though. He motioned the President out of his chair, and into the next room. Thomson pulled his shirt straight, picked up the report he had been reading and followed Mitchell. This room was even darker, the only light coming from the bank of monitors that occupied the entire far wall and the lamp placed on the table in the middle of the room. The table was wooden. Even in the faint light, Thomson could see circular coffee stains on it. A dozen or so soldiers were scurrying around carrying reports. The drone of radio chatter filled the air.

Thomson took another puff as he walked towards the centre of the room. It was something he had learned in his campaign days, people always look to their leader in times of crisis. No matter how bad a situation was, the leader had to seem calm. Puffing a cigar helped both with this façade as well as his nerves. He sat himself down at the head of the table. General Mitchell sat down in the chair to his right. Two vacant chairs remained at the table. They hadn’t been able to contact the chiefs of the navy or the air force.

“Sir, that’s the live feed. Centre monitor.” Said Mitchell

Thomson swiveled his chair a bit and looked. The video was grainy, and it was shaking slightly. The shot was from quite a distance away, but the characteristic silhouette of the Empire State building was right in the middle of it. Standing alone. All the surrounding building had been reduced to rubble. Some of the destruction had been caused by the target, but most of it was his fault. The target had effortlessly diverted whatever had been thrown at him. Manhattan was devastated. The once famous New York skyline reduced to a single building. And floating above the building was a Man. The target.

“Can we get a closer look?” Thomson couldn’t take his eyes off the monitor.

Mitchell picked up the phone in front of him. Pressed one of the buttons on it and issued a set of orders. Almost immediately, the view shifted. It zoomed in on the Man. The video was shaking more now, but it was steady enough. His face was impassive, golden hair flapping wildly in the breeze. The man was clothed in a white suit, with a blue shirt showing through the jacket. A sphere, extending about five meters around him shone in the setting sun. It glistened like the surface of a lake. Nothing they had tried had broken through it. Thomson idly wondered how the breeze had gotten in. A voice intruded into his thoughts.

“Sir, what are your orders?” Mitchell was looking at him

The chatter in the room died out. All conversation, face-to-face and through the radio had stopped. The only noise in the room was the beeping that all electronic equipment inevitably made.

“Are the reports accurate?” Thomson asked, picking up the blue folder he had carried in from the other room.

“Yes Sir. Ground reports indicate that most of the people near the target have taken to defending him. Often throwing themselves in front of our troops as they advanced. Our scientists report that they could be under mass hypnosis, or maybe even psychic control.”

Thomson had read about it all. What worried him even more was the footnote on page 3.

‘We are unable to determine whether the effects are temporary, nor can we ascertain the range of this control.’

Meaning they didn’t know if the target could control the whole nation, manipulate them, make them his slaves. Something had to be done to stop him. That had been the conclusion. Neatly typed up on page 5.

“Can we scramble another air strike?” Thomson already knew the answer, but he had to ask. Protocol.

“No Sir. All combat ready forces within strike range of the target have been neutralized. We will have strike capability only late tomorrow evening. By which time it may be too late.”

“Are our troops clear?”

“Yes sir. Only the hardened units remain.”

“And the civilians?” Thomson felt sick.

“Most evacuated, Sir. The ones left have… turned on us.”Mitchell’s voice was very quiet.

Thomson looked around. All eyes were on him. The ash from his cigar was falling on his shirt. It was hot. He brushed it off, took the cigar from his lips. Their ground troops had been decimated. Their air support was a pile of mangled metal at the feet of the Empire State. And yet the target remained. Thomson swore to himself.

Thomson looked over at Mitchell. The General had his head in his hands. There was no other alternative.

“General, I hereby authorize the deployment of Nuclear weapons against the target.”

The General wiped his face. The room was silent again. No one wanted to believe what was happening. Mitchell looked around and said,

“You heard the President. Make ready for nuclear weapon deployment.” The room suddenly came to life again. Soldiers scurrying about, locating launchers, finding keys and entering passwords.

A few minutes later, one of the soldiers came up to the center table. He said,

“Mr. President. We are ready to launch on your mark.”

Thomson looked up. The man’s eyes were red. He looked over at the monitor bank. The far left monitor showed the inside of a silo. Barely visible in the left edge of the picture was a thin white cylinder, which Thomson knew was the missile. He looked back at the center monitor. It still showed the Man, face impassive, hair flapping in the breeze.

“This is the President. Launch of Nuclear weapon authorized. Target… New York.” His voice broke as he uttered the command that would condemn him for all eternity.

A sudden burst of radio chatter as his orders were relayed. In the left monitor, the white cylinder began to rise, the camera getting obliterated in the fierce heat of its engine. The signal cut out. The monitor went black.

One of the video operators entered a series of commands on his console, and the whole monitor bank redrew into a map of The United States. A red dot was following a curved dotted path into New York city. The missile, Thomson assumed. The center monitor still showed the Man, floating. The bottom right showed a timer headed ‘ETA’. It read one minute.

When the timer hit 30 seconds, the operator did something on his console again, and a panoramic view of New York was put up. A lone building, surrounded by blocks of rubble. A man in a white suit floating over it, shimmering around him a sphere that looked like a lake’s surface. The view panned to the left as a streak of white smoke appeared in the sky. It was headed straight for the Man. A flash of movement at the Right edge of the image caused the view to shift. The Man was higher now, the missile adjusted trajectory to match. Just as it was about to hit, the Man held out his hand. A burst of air exploded all around him. It knocked the missile straight up, before it just stopped. It hung motionless in the air. The blast had thrown rubble high into the air. Dust blocked the view. When it settled, they saw the Man. The missile hung harmlessly in front of him. He moved his hand to the left, and the missile followed it. He moved it back to the right, up and down and as if controlled by unseen strings, the missile obeyed his commands. The engine had died. Only his will seemed to be holding it up.

The war room fell silent. Even the electronic drone seemed to have been muted. Not a soul was breathing. They all stared at the monitor in horror. Thomson tried to get to his feet, but he had no will left. All he could do was stare as the missile hung in the air before the target, obedient to his every command.

“Sir. It’s still there. The nuke had no effect. I don’t even think it hit.” A soldier was reporting over the radio. But no one heard him.

The Man’s face was bemused now. He spiraled upwards with the sphere tightening around him as he did, till it glistened like a second skin on him. The camera tracked him. Then, in a voice so loud it could be heard over the soldier’s radio, he roared

“I am become Death. The destroyer of worlds!”

The Man pulled back his arm and hurled the missile straight down. A flash of white filled the monitor. The picture died.