Stanislas grabbed the microphone on the console. “Attention everyone, this is the comrade lieutenant-colonel Petrov. The day shift is over and the night shift starts now, at twenty-two fifteen. Comrade lieutenant colonel Petrov, over.” He put back the microphone and sat on his chair, listening to the quiet music of soldiers taking and leaving their post in a strict order. They were good soldiers, he had made sure of that. Even if watching airspace wasn’t the most thrilling activity, it required to stay focus despite the long hours of multiple checking, and to be able to react with self-control to anything that could come up on any screen. “Your tea, sir,” said his orderly, putting a stack of papers on his desk. “[i]Spaseeba[/i], Oleg. Any news from the Kremlin?” “No, sir. We’ve received the orders and we maintain the watch on high level.” “Alright, dismiss.” Stanislas rummaged through the report, but there was nothing new. Since they had taken down a supposedly airliner — more likely a spy plane — which had invaded their airspace, the relations between Moscow and Washington were… strained at best. A retaliation was expected, and thus, every watching post was on a high alert level. Somehow, Stanislas was glad of this. It meant they had more things to do, more datas to analyse, and more numbers to check. [i]At least, it will help to keep the team, and I, awake[/i], he told himself as he rubbed his face. Whatever the American retaliation could be, chances were low that — A siren screamed inside the quiet office. “We have a missile launch,” shouted a sergeant on his right. “A missile launch from the West Coast!” Stanislas’ fingers danced on the console while his brain was trying to acknowledge the informations. The Americans were attacking them! But with one missile? “Alright, soldiers, you know the procedure,” he said. “I want everything checked twice. Dimitri, bring me your estimations on where this missile will land. Mikhail, I wanna know if our computers could have made a mistake. Roman, get the satellites’ photos and see from where the missile was launched.” An ordered chaos ran through the room, everyone trying to stay focus on their own task, not willing to process the terrible fact: a nuclear missile was heading towards Russia. Unfortunately for him, Stanislas was the senior officer and had nothing to do. From his high position, he could only stare at the small white dot on the big screen, slowly and inexorably coming to his country, carrying death and oblivion. An apocalyptic snowflake, foreshadowing the nuclear winter that would follow if his men confirmed the datas. “Sir, the computer center is one hundred percent sure, it’s a Minuteman!” shouted a voice on his right. Stanislas nodded. “Roman, do you have a visual on the missile launch?” he asked, his eyes still on the white dot. “Negative, sir. The Sun is setting on the West Coast, the visibility is bad. I can’t confirm nor disconfirm.” “All our infrared instruments are pointed to the missile,” said Dimitri. “But we can’t tell precisely where it will land. We estimate the impact in an eighty kilometers square area with Moscow at the center.” “Did our ground forces have a visual on the launch?” asked Stanislas. “Negative, sir.” “It doesn’t mean —” “I know exactly what it means,” snapped Stanislas. The room went quiet, except for the ringing alarm warning of the incoming doom. Every eye was locked on him, waiting for his orders. It was easier to obey than to decide, and his men were relieved to be only underlings. A phone rang. “Comrade lieutenant-colonel Petrov speaking,” he managed to say without quivering. “Lieutenant-colonel, what’s the situation?” said the general. Stanislas Petrov looked at his crew. He thought about his wife, about Russian children and American children, about the thousands of lives tied to the white dot on the screen, and about the millions of lives tied to his answer. Despite the cool air, his mouth was dry and his throat was burning. “Lieutenant?” A second of eternity went by before he replied. “General, this a false alarm, I repeat, this a false alarm. There isn’t any projectile.” “Are you sure, lieutenant?” Stanislas gulped. “Yes, sir, I’m sure. Our instruments have mistaken a solar flare for a nuclear launch.” “Alright, keep the watch.” Years later, even though he was [i]the man who saved the world[/i], Stanislas could only consider the world to have been lucky.