Alcoa, Tennessee – McGhee Tyson Airport
August 10, 2030 | 10:40 AM EDT
The hallway was quiet.
Bryan sat on a bench just outside the door. His head was low, but every so often, he glanced sideways at Natalie, who was crouched on the floor beside him, whispering to her teddy bear.
Outside, you could still hear the distant noise of helicopters, trucks, and shouted orders—but here, in this part of the base, things felt slower.
Natalie leaned against his leg. "Is Mommy gonna be okay?"
Bryan placed a hand gently on her head, fingers brushing her hair. "Of course," he said. "Mommy's just getting treated. They'll make her feel better, okay sweetpea?"
Natalie nodded, then looked back down at her teddy bear.
Bryan exhaled through his nose and leaned back against the backrest.
Then—finally—the door opened.
A doctor stepped out, pulling off a pair of gloves as she walked. "Mr. Voss?"
Bryan stood instantly. "Yeah. That's me. How is she?"
"She's alright," the doctor said with a light nod. "She's resting, the foot's bruised and sprained, luckily not fractured. The skin tear has been cleaned, no signs of deep infection. We're keeping her on mild pain meds, but overall—she'll be fine."
Bryan felt his shoulders ease just slightly. "How long before she's back on her feet?"
"A couple weeks, maybe less," the doctor replied. "Swelling's pretty bad, so we've wrapped it and elevated the leg. She won't be able to walk on it for a while. But she'll recover."
Bryan let out a breath and nodded. "Can we see her?"
"Of course. She's asking for both of you."
Natalie stood up and walked towards them, her bear clutched to her chest. "Me too?"
The doctor smiled softly. "Especially you."
Bryan held Natalie's hand. Together they followed the doctor through the door.
The room was small but clean. The window let in a narrow beam of sunlight.
Jane was sitting up, propped by the raised back of the bed, a thin blanket pulled up to her waist. Her leg was wrapped and resting on a small cushion. She looked pale, her eyes a little sunken, but when the door opened and Natalie burst in, her face lit up.
"Mommy!"
Natalie rushed across the room, climbing carefully onto the bed and throwing her arms around Jane. She pulled Natalie close, pressing her lips to her daughter's hair and holding her tight.
Bryan stepped in quietly, the corners of his mouth lifting. He grabbed a chair and placed it beside the bed, sinking into it with a low exhale.
Jane looked at him with tired eyes and a faint smile. "Hey."
He leaned forward. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," she said softly, brushing Natalie's hair back. "The pain's dulled a bit. Can't feel much of my foot right now."
Bryan nodded, but his eyes dropped to the edge of the bed for a moment. "Good. I'm… I'm glad."
Silence filled the room for a few seconds.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. His voice was low, rough.
Jane looked at him, confused for a moment. "Bryan—"
"I shouldn't have left you—both of you. I shouldn't have—" he stopped himself, swallowing hard while looking at the ground.
Jane stared at him for a few seconds, her hand still resting on Natalie's back.
"Because of you, I felt better—safer," Jane reassured him.
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"Listen to me." Her voice trembled, but her eyes didn't waver. "You didn't leave us. I don't care how messed up that night was… you came back. You held me when I couldn't breathe, you held Nat when she couldn't stop crying." She blinked, her voice cracking slightly. "You were there. That's what saved us."
Bryan sat still, his hands resting between his knees, his shoulders tense. His eyes dropped, and he shook his head once, slowly. "I left you in that house… I didn't know if I'd make it back. I didn't know if you'd be safe."
Jane reached for his hand. Her fingers were cold.
"You think I cared about being safe?" she said. "All I wanted was to see you walk back through that door. And you did."
"I was scared," she admitted. "I was so scared. But the second I saw you, when you kneeled down beside me and said everything was gonna be okay—I believed you."
Her voice softened.
"You think I remember the pain? The swelling? The blood?" She shook her head gently. "No. I remember your hands on my face. I remember you wrapping my foot. I remember Natalie clinging to you because she still believed her dad could fix anything."
Bryan swallowed hard. His throat was tight. He couldn't look at her now.
"You holding us together—that's all I saw," she said, "not the man at the door. Not the knife. Not the fear." Her eyes welled, but she didn't look away. "All I'll remember is you—coming back."
Bryan finally looked up, his eyes red. And all he could manage was a whisper. "I'm still scared."
Jane gave him a small smile, tears sliding down her cheeks.
"So am I," she whispered. "But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."
The room stayed silent—Jane's eyes on Bryan, Natalie still curled against her side, breathing slowly.
Then came a gentle knock—just the back of knuckles tapping wood, but enough to break the silence.
Lieutenant Colonel Walker stood just outside the doorway, his uniform crisp, his posture respectful. He didn't step in.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said.
Bryan turned to him, nodding once. "It's alright."
Walker offered a soft glance toward Jane and Natalie before returning his focus to Bryan. "I need a word."
Bryan looked back at Jane. She gave him a small nod, her eyes still glassy but calm. He leaned forward, reached for her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"I'll be right back," he whispered.
Then he pressed his lips to her forehead. She closed her eyes.
Natalie stirred but didn't speak, her fingers still holding the edge of Jane's blanket.
Bryan followed Walker into the hallway and closed the door behind them. They walked a few steps away from the room before Walker finally turned to face him.
"I just got off the line with command," Walker began, his tone steady. "Your status has changed."
Bryan lifted his chin. "How so?"
"You and your family are being transferred," Walker said. "Direct orders from the President."
"Where to?" He asked.
"Whiteman Air Force Base," Walker replied. "Missouri. It's secure, operational, and within range of your in-laws. We've confirmed—Mrs. Voss's parents are safe. They're willing to take you all in while she recovers."
Bryan gave a single, short nod—processing.
"They're expecting you," Walker added. "The C-130's prepped—a flight medic and Keller as your escort. It's a clean corridor."
Walker continued. "You're flagged for temporary VIP relocation. The objective is stability—for her recovery and your daughter's safety."
Another nod from Bryan, slow and thoughtful. "Timeline?"
"You're wheels up in an hour," Walker said.
Bryan pushed off the wall with a quiet breath. That quiet readiness that came with experience. His voice came low, level. "Understood."
Then Walker turned and walked off, his boots falling in a steady rhythm down the corridor.
Bryan lingered for a moment, shoulders drawn back, jaw set—already refocusing. Then he turned and headed down the hall, toward the room where his family waited. Toward the next step.
An hour later. The low hum of the C-130's engines filled the air.
Bryan wheeled Jane toward the aircraft, his hands firm on the handles, a duffel slung across his back. She sat quietly, a blanket tucked around her legs, eyes fixed ahead. Natalie walked close beside them, one hand gripping her father's shirt, her small face drawn with tiredness. Behind them, the Medic walked with practiced ease, a small pack slung over one shoulder. Keller followed, eyes scanning the surroundings. Walker brought up the rear, posture straight, hands behind his back.
They moved quickly across the flight line.
At the base of the ramp, Keller stepped ahead, guiding the wheelchair carefully into the cargo hold. The Medic followed, already checking straps and securing the interior. Inside, a flight crew member assisted—Bryan gently helped Jane out of the chair and into a padded seat bolted to the side of the fuselage. Her injured foot was elevated and stabilized on a foldable platform.
Natalie climbed in next and slid into the seat. Bryan helped her buckle in, then sat between them, one arm resting behind Natalie, the other hand clasped gently with Jane's. Across from them, Keller and the Medic settled in.
Jane looked back once, toward the open airfield. Her eyes found Walker. He nodded at her, then at Bryan.
Walker remained still as the ramp began to lift. Light spilled in one last time, long lines across the floor. He didn't move until the doors sealed shut.
Inside, the final checks were underway. The crew secured the last of the gear. The engines spooled higher.
They were airborne within minutes.
Bryan let himself exhale, eyes closing for just a second.
Hours passed.
Inside the dimmed cargo bay, Bryan sat slouched in his seat, arms gently wrapped around Jane and Natalie. Jane leaned into his side, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Natalie lay nestled against him, her hand clinging to his shirt as her small body rested on his abdomen, her breathing soft and even.
For the first time in what felt like days, Bryan had finally found sleep.
"Hey," Keller said quietly.
Bryan stirred, blinking himself awake. His arms tightened slightly before he slowly shifted, careful not to wake the two of them.
"We're almost there." Keller's voice stayed low, respectful of the moment.
He rubbed the tiredness out of his face and turned toward the window. Outside, the land rolled beneath them—fields, roads, and scattered lights.
"Jefferson City," Keller added.
Bryan watched the city drift by, and the quiet curve of the Missouri River.
He exhaled slowly, looking down at Natalie, then Jane. Their faces were still, peaceful in a way he hadn't seen in hours.
Bryan leaned in, pressing a kiss to Natalie's hair, then Jane's temple.
The hum of the aircraft deepened as it descended, and Bryan sat still, holding on to the two people who mattered most.
The C-130 touched down. The aircraft rolled to a steady halt, engines winding down.
As the cargo ramp lowered, daylight poured in—a Missouri afternoon, warm and still. Several black SUVs waited at the bottom. Around them, suited security personnel stood ready, earpieces in, sunglasses on.
Bryan pushed Jane forward in her wheelchair.
They reached the center SUV. A door swung open. Bryan helped Jane inside with the Medic, then lifted Natalie in beside her. He climbed in last, shutting the door. Keller and the Medic took the SUV behind them.
The convoy rolled out—one black SUV in front, one behind. They left the base in silence, the tires humming steadily beneath them.
Eventually, they turned onto a quieter road lined with trees. The sign at the corner read: WALNUT HILLS.
The vehicles slowed, pulling up to a beige two-story house with white shutters.
They stopped.
Bryan stepped out, stretching slightly. He moved around to Jane's side as the Medic helped lift her back into the wheelchair. Natalie hopped down beside them, bright-eyed and eager.
Then the front door burst open.
"Jane!" Her mother, Ellie Grant, rushed down the steps, eyes already glassy. Adam Grant was right behind her, his pace quick, his face pale and tense.
The Medic was pushing Jane's wheelchair up the walkway, moving with care. The moment Ellie reached them, he stepped aside without a word, giving her space.
Jane barely had time to speak before Ellie was kneeling at her side, arms wrapping around her tightly. Adam knelt beside them, his hand on Jane's face, the other gripping her shoulder.
Ellie dropped to her knees beside the chair, arms wrapping around Jane with trembling urgency. Jane gasped softly, overwhelmed, her arms coming up to return the embrace.
Adam knelt beside them, one hand cupping his daughter's cheek, the other on her shoulder.
"Grandma! Grandpa!" Natalie shouted in joy.
Adam turned just in time to catch her mid-jump. "There's little sweetpea!" he said, laughing through a breathless smile as he spun her once before pulling her in close. Ellie joined them, holding the two of them as if she'd never let go.
Then they turned—and saw Bryan.
He stood quietly in the distance, a tired but genuine smile breaking through.
Adam gently let go of Natalie and then walked over.
Then Adam pulled Bryan into a strong hug—tight, wordless, heavy with emotion.
"Thank you," he said, his voice shaking. "You brought her home. You kept them safe. You… you brought my daughter back."
They stood there embracing for a second, silent in that shared weight.
Bryan gave a quiet, sheepish laugh. "Well, I didn't exactly do it for the five-star lodging."
Adam let out a half-laugh, wiping at his face. "Damn right, you didn't."
Ellie glanced over her shoulder. "You boys done being dramatic, or should I go grab a box of tissues?"
Bryan shrugged. "Might wanna keep some handy. I cry when people cook."
Everyone laughed. It wasn't loud, or long—but it was real.
Ellie brushed a tear from her cheek and stepped back, smiling through the mist in her eyes. "Come on, let's get inside. You all must be hungry."
Adam didn't wait—he scooped Natalie up into his arms with ease. "Alright, sweetpea," he said, grinning, "I think Grandma's got cookies with your name on them."
Natalie laughed, throwing her arms around his neck as he carried her up the steps.
Ellie moved behind Jane's wheelchair, her hands steady on the handles.
Jane leaned her head back slightly to look up at her. "Thanks, Mom."
Bryan stood still for a moment, watching them go—his daughter giggling in her grandfather's arms, his wife being wheeled up the porch by the mother she hadn't seen in so long. There were no sirens, no shouting, no tension in the air. Just soft laughter and the scent of safety and happiness.
He smiled, no longer with weight behind it.
A small, polite cough broke through the moment.
"Sorry to ruin the reunion," Keller said quietly from behind him, hands tucked behind his back, "but we've got to get moving."
Ellie stopped halfway up the porch and turned slightly. "At least stay for a drink. Something small. I've got sweet tea, coffee, or some cookies from the freezer I can heat up."
Keller shook his head, his tone gentle. "We'd love to, ma'am, but we're on a clock."
Ellie gave a smile and a reluctant nod then turned back to help Jane inside.
Bryan watched them disappear into the house, then turned to Keller, his expression steady but full of quiet gratitude.
"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything."
Keller didn't smile, but his tone softened. "Just following orders. But… it's good to see you made it. Not everyone gets this kind of ending."
Bryan gave a small nod, then reached out. They shook hands firmly.
Keller hesitated, then let go. "The President wishes to speak to you… in person."
That landed heavier than expected, and then he nodded once. "Understood."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the vehicle. The black SUVs hummed to life and rolled off down the road until they vanished from sight.
Bryan stood there for a moment longer in the quiet.
Then he turned, stepped up the porch, and walked through the open doorway—into warmth, into family, into home.
Vandenberg Space Force Base, California
August 17, 2030 | 5:58 AM PST
The air inside the Mission Control Center was heavy, thick with breath that no one seemed willing to take. Row after row of engineers, analysts, and operators sat hunched at their stations, eyes glued to the streams of data pouring down their screens like rain on glass. Some tapped nervously at keyboards. Others didn't move at all, as if one twitch could jinx it.
On the massive center screen, the Falcon 9 stood upright on the launchpad—its body gleaming with frost, steam cascading from its fuel tanks like smoke from a sleeping beast.
Inside the room, Dr. Evelyn Porter, Director of NASA, stood with her arms crossed tightly. Her eyes were locked on the countdown, even as her thoughts danced between fear and hope. Beside her stood General Cole, representing both the military command and the desperation of a nation trying to regain its footing after being ripped from everything familiar.
"We're clear," a technician called from the back. "All stations report green."
Porter nodded but said nothing.
The voice over the PA began: "T-minus 10… 9… 8…"
Her knuckles turned white against her folded arms.
"7… 6…"
The camera feed shifted. A long-range shot from the tracking station showed the Falcon 9 in full. The sun was rising, its rays catching the metallic skin of the rocket and making it glow like a blade against the sky. At its nose: Aquila-1—America's state-of-the-art reconnaissance satellite designed for deep-space imaging and global surveillance.
"5… 4…"
Someone in the room crossed themselves. Another gripped the edge of their console like a lifeline.
"3… 2… 1… Ignition."
There was a pause—just half a breath—then the room trembled.
The launchpad lit up as the nine Merlin engines beneath Falcon 9 surged to life, spewing fire. Onscreen, the rocket began to rise, climbing through the unfamiliar atmosphere with a streak of white heat below it.
Gasps broke the silence. Cheers burst out around the room.
"Liftoff confirmed," a voice called out. "Trajectory is nominal!"
Cole's shoulders eased just a fraction. Porter still hadn't moved. She watched, frozen with purpose.
"Passing Max-Q," another technician announced. "All systems stable."
The rocket climbed higher, carving a path through skies no one had ever charted. Up there, where clouds met the curve of a planet, they didn't choose—Falcon 9 carried more than payload.
It carried the first step back.
"Stage separation in 10 seconds."
Onscreen, the first stage disengaged, its thrusters firing in a graceful arc as it began its descent back to the pad. The second stage ignited, pushing Aquila-1 upward, toward the heavens.
Porter stepped closer to the screen, eyes narrow.
"We have second-stage ignition," the technician reported. "Burn is clean. Velocity optimal."
The minutes ticked by like hours.
No one spoke. Only the voices of data and trajectory updates filled the space. Every number, every sensor reading felt like a heartbeat.
Then—
"Payload separation confirmed."
Applause.
Everyone in the room clapped, cheering—some leaping to their feet, others slapping palms on consoles in raw relief. The tight knot of tension that had gripped the room for hours, even days, finally broke. Engineers who hadn't smiled in weeks were grinning ear to ear. A few had tears in their eyes, blinking rapidly as they stared at the live feed—Aquila-1 now drifting in orbit and gleaming against the stars.
Porter closed her eyes for just a moment, then let out a slow breath that had been held for too long. She looked at Cole.
Cole gave a single, approving nod as the chatter erupted around them. Voices rose in celebration—telemetry confirmations, signal checks, orbit stabilizations—but under it all was the unspoken truth:
They had done it. They were back in space.
"We're back," she whispered.
Cole's voice was steady. "Now let's see what's out there."
Onscreen, the satellite unfurled its panels and oriented itself toward the void. Soon, the first signals would return. The first images. The first proof that America—displaced, disoriented, but unbroken—still had eyes in the sky.
And with those eyes, they'd look out—not just for threats, but for a future.