This blog has a go at how an alien invasion would start.

Two junior astronomers based in the communication complex are doing the night shift. Banks of computers and monitors line the walls. Nick, longhaired, scruffy, unshaven and hung over, nods off then sleepily gazes up at his screen.
Nick grimaces at his coffee and then looks at his screen again. ‘Chris, have a look at this. Is this shit coffee making me see things or can you see an object moving towards Earth?’
Chris, even more longhaired, and even scruffier, stares at his screen.
‘You mean that object?
‘Yes, I mean that fucking object—it’s not an asteroid, it’s too solid! Call the boss,’ says Nick.
‘You mean bell end?’ asks Chris.
‘Just call him,’ orders Nick.
Chris is on the phone to his boss. ‘Yes sir, we have a very large object moving towards Earth… about 100,000 kilometres distant and closing fast. Speed? Hold on a minute. 20,000 miles per hour. No, hold on. Sorry sir, it’s changing, 19,000 miles per hour. Can’t be right. How can it be slowing down?’
In Air Force Space Command (AFSPC) sits Chip, a young, muscular, crop-haired space radar operator. He is surrounded by other operators and banks of screens. In the front of the huge room is a screen twenty feet tall and fifty feet wide showing every single satellite and other space objects, and their position in Earth orbit, shown in real time.
Chip gets excited. ‘Sir! I’ve picked something up on the space radar. It’s coming in fast, sir.’ His superior, General Grimbald, looks annoyed.
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Why’s that?’ asks the General, showing his yellow teeth.
‘Because it’s slowing down, sir!’ General Grimbald looks agitated.
‘Must be a fault in the system,’ he replies, his eyes darting this way and that.
Chip is frustrated. ‘But sir!’
‘Do a full system diagnostic. That’s an order!’ barks the general.
‘But sir that will take three hours!’ Chip is jumping with agitation.
‘Do it! That’s an order! The only reason you got this job, Lieutenant, is because that jumped-up asshole of an uncle of yours is in the White House.’
General Grimbald walks away. His greasy, black hair is in contrast to his pale, unhealthy-looking face. His dark, shifty eyes dart back and forth as if searching for something, he then checks his watch. Chip waits until the General leaves, then discreetly taps out a message on his mobile phone, then decides what he is going to do. Disobeying a direct order could mean a court-martial, but if the Earth was being invaded, he needed to do something.
He finishes the message to his uncle, General Scott, in the White House and decides to wait for an answer. Running a system diagnostic would consume a lot of computing resource. A bead of sweat drops from his forehead, as he looks at his colleagues, hoping he has made the right decision.

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