The hum of the observation centre was a low, menacing throb. Machines whispered. Screens flickered.
The NASA personnel were all engrossed with their workstations. Faces illuminated by the iridescent glow emitting from their individual consoles.
Dr. Thomas Grayson, on his part, sat stiffly. Jaw clenched, fingers drumming on the cold steel table. He didn't look at the other men. Didn't need to.
The brewing tension was evident in the mannerisms exhibited by each individual in the room.
Some bit their nails.
Others were sweating their asses out, observing the logs.
A few paced about.
Some remained impassive - just like him.
"We should've never sent them that far out," muttered the bespectacled Evans, head of mission control. His voice was brittle. Like he'd aged a decade in the last hour.
Grayson didn't bother replying. The SS Bizmarck was a mistake from the start. A vanity project. A coffin dressed up as a shuttle.
On the main screen, Earth hung like a bruised eye in the dark. And the shuttle - just a speck - tumbled toward it.
"Telemetry's shot," someone barked from the console pit.
"No shit," said Grayson, voice flat.
A holographic interface sprang up before him.
The shuttle's schematics floated mid-air, sections blinking red, yellow, then black. Like watching a man bleed out.
"Crew status?" Grayson inquired, though he already knew.
"Alive... for now." The tech's voice cracked.
For now. The foreboding phrase echoed through Gravison's skull.
Evans leaned over the console. "They're off trajectory. If we can fire the retro-thrusters..."
"Thrusters are dead," Grayson cut in. "They're passengers now."
A long silence. The kind that made the air taste bitter.
Grayson stared at the screen.
The shuttle spun, albeit slowly, but precariously like a coin flicked by a child in a toss.
Outside the centre's window, dawn tried to creep over the horizon.
It didn't help.
"Where's it gonna hit?" Grayson asked. His voice, shaky.
A junior controller coughed. "Africa. Somewhere in the Sahara, maybe... no—adjusted trajectory... Egypt."
"Hell of a welcome mat," Evans muttered.
A pyramid rose on the map overlay. Ancient. Unmoving. As if it had been waiting a millennia for this exact screw-up.
The speaker crackled. A voice from the shuttle - thin, ragged, soaked in static.
"This is Captain Meyer... we've lost... controls... trying... manual override..."
Grayson could hear the terror beneath the calm. The kind of terror that gets men killed.
"Tell them to brace," Grayson said. His voice, firm.
"Shouldn't we..."
"Brace. That's all they've got left."
A tech sent the signal. Not that it mattered.
The centre held its breath. The shuttle ripped through the atmosphere, trailing fire like the wrath of some ancient god.
Evans whispered, "Jesus."
"No one's listening," Grayson mentioned coldly.
The image on the main screen zoomed in.
The shuttle, scorched by the seething flames, tore toward the pyramid. A trail of grey smoke billowed from its undercarriage.
For a moment, it looked like it might clear it. A heartbeat's worth of hope.
Then - impact.
The room rocked as if the shockwave crossed oceans in an instant. The pyramid split like an old bone.
Static Dust clouded the screen.
"Confirm the location," Grayson said. His voice didn't change.
"Coordinates locked. Northern Egypt. Giza. Direct hit on the structure."
"Casualties on the ground?"
"Unknown. We're pulling satellite imagery."
A sick, sarcastic laugh escaped Evans. "Hell of a landing pad."
Grayson rubbed his throbbing temples. The migraine started hours ago. Now it felt permanent.
"I want boots on the ground," he intoned. "Navy, Air Force, black ops—I don't care. No press. No leaks. I want that wreck under wraps before some idiot with a smartphone turns it into a circus."
"Yes, sir."
On the screen, the dust began to clear. The shuttle lay half-buried, bleeding smoke, pieces of ancient stone strewn around it like corpses.
Grayson stared at the ruin. His mind, racing. "History just got rewritten. Again."
Evans nodded slowly. "We're good at that."
Another voice sounded through the console. One Grayson didn't recognize. Young. Shaky.
"Sir, we're picking up something... strange."
"What?" Grayson barked.
The tech swallowed. "Energy reading from the wreck. Not from the shuttle. From... under it."
Gravison's eyes narrowed. The pyramid's guts laid bare - and something beneath it stirred.
Evans leaned closer to the screen. "What the hell did we just crack open?"
Grayson didn't answer. Didn't want to.
The room fell into a hush again. The kind of hush before all hell breaks loose.
"Keep scanning," Grayson ordered. "And scramble that recovery team. I want to know what's under that tomb before the world does."
He stood, bones aching. Turned away from the screens, from the wreck, from the ancient thing beneath it all.
"Christ help us," someone whispered.
Grayson didn't bother turning.
"He's not listening," he said, and walked out.