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Operation “Stray Dog”. Epilogue
17:20 EST. One hour after the missile crash. Miami, Florida. Trump International Golf Club
The Florida sun was as merciless as the IRS, but here, on the immaculately manicured lawn of the eighteenth hole, it seemed gentle and respectful. The palm trees didn’t rustle, so as not to distract the players. The ocean murmured in a hush.
The President of the United States (whose name was replaced in the protocol by “POTUS”, but everyone knew it was him by the characteristic hairstyle and the way he wore his red baseball cap) stood over the ball. This was the decisive stroke. At stake was not the fate of the world, but something far more important: a case of vintage Dom Pérignon, a golden putter, and the title of champion among former and current presidents.
Respectful silence reigned all around. The Secret Service froze in the bushes, blending with the landscape. The former President, who had lost three holes ago, pretended to check messages on Twitter (sorry, X), but was actually praying for his opponent to miss.
The President took aim. Swung. Impact. The quiet, dry sound of metal meeting plastic.
The ball flew in a perfect arc, described a parabola worthy of a physics textbook, landed on the green, rolled three meters, and… …with a soft plop fell into the hole.
“Yes!” the President shouted, throwing his hands up to the sky. “Did you see that?! Did you see that?! Three under par! That’s a club record! That’s an American record!”
The crowd of advisors and donors erupted in applause. Someone popped champagne. Someone was already posting a video of the shot on Truth Social.
A young aide with a folder marked “Top Secret” ran up to the President, who was shining like a polished dollar coin. She was pale, her eye was twitching, and her stilettos were sinking into the grass.
“Mr. President!” she whispered breathlessly. “Urgent report from the Joint Chiefs of Staff!”
The President took a glass of champagne from her, not looking at the folder.
“What is it, honey? Budget deficit again? Or did China sanction iPhones?”
“No, sir! Nuclear threat! North Korean missile! Intercontinental! Nuclear-powered!”
The President froze with the glass at his lips.
“Missile?” he asked again. “Is Kim playing around again? I told him my button is bigger!”
“Sir, it was flying at us! Across the Pacific! And then across Russia! And then across Iran! It was a crisis on the level of the Cuban Missile Crisis, sir! We were one step away from Armageddon!”
The President frowned. He didn’t like the word “Armageddon.” It was bad for the stock market.
“And where is it now?”
“Neutralized, sir! Crashed in Africa. In the Sahara. No casualties. Radiation levels normal. The world is saved!”
The President looked at the aide. Then at his new putter, which the club director had just handed him. Then at the scoreboard, where the numbers of his victory glowed.
“What missile?” he asked again, waving it off. “What are you talking about? I just made a birdie on the eighteenth! Did you see that swing? It was legendary!”
“But sir… Nuclear war…”
“Listen,” he patted her on the shoulder paternally. “Wars come and go. But three under par at my age—that is eternity. Forget about the missile. Where’s the champagne? I’m on fire today!”
He turned to the cameras, raised his glass, and smiled broadly.
“Make Golf Great Again!” he shouted.
Meanwhile, somewhere far away, in the African desert, a nuclear warhead buried in the sand was cooling down. In Tehran, Amirkhan Mousavi was hiding a falafel shop business card in his wife’s purse. In Pyongyang, General Kim was finishing his third cheeseburger.
And the world continued to turn, saved not by heroism, but by pure, unclouded chance and the fact that sometimes even the Apocalypse takes a day off so as not to interrupt a good game of golf.
And only Alavi, sitting in the deep armchair of a private business jet flying across the Pacific toward Boston, was not sleeping. He swirled a glass of stolen 1985 French cognac in his fingers and looked into the black window, which reflected his own face—old and tired. He wasn’t thinking about the missile. Or the saved world. He was thinking about whether he would recognize Zeynab tomorrow or not. After all, they say that children who outplay their parents in the art of survival have their eye color change.
They become the color of ash.
THE END