There wasn't any announcement. There really should have been. You know they knew. All those telescopes and tracking stations. All those people still looking for your grandfather's ICBMs because somebody's still scared enough to pay them to do it. They knew.
Eight new stars, moving slowly across the sky, getting brighter, twinkling, pulsing white-hot, disappearing. Then the smaller shooting stars, darting though the highest clouds, flaring and rising before disappearing.
Then the lines. Long, colored lines, red, green lines that reached out in an instant to touch the horizon. We thought they were pretty until we started seeing the fires.