The sun had not yet risen over the White House, but the Situation Room was already bathed in the stark, shadowless light of recessed lighting. The air was thick with the smell of fresh coffee and tension. Around the polished table sat his core team: Miles Vance, looking energized; a wary Secretary of Defense Morrison; a deeply intrigued Treasury Secretary Thorne; and the stoic General Madsen. They were joined by the Secretaries of Commerce and Homeland Security. None of them knew what to expect.
He entered the room and took his seat at the head of the table, forgoing any pleasantries. He nodded to Miles. "Begin."
"Good morning," Miles said, his voice projecting a newfound confidence. "The President has called this meeting to outline a new executive priority: The Strategic Supply Chain Initiative."
He let Miles set the stage, then he took command. He didn't raise his voice. He spoke with a quiet, deliberate intensity that forced everyone in the room to lean in.
"Gentlemen, General," he started, his eyes sweeping across the table. "For the last two decades, this country has pursued economic efficiency above all else. We outsourced our manufacturing, our pharmaceuticals, our technology. We were told it was progress. It was not. It was a strategic blunder of historic proportions."
He pointed to the large monitor on the wall. The charts he and Thorne had discussed were displayed. "Secretary Thorne's data from yesterday shows us a rival nation preparing to weaponize that blunder. They believe our supply chains are a vulnerability they can exploit. They are correct."
He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle. "This ends today. This initiative will identify critical sectors where we are dependent on foreign powers, and we will use the full authority of the federal government to bring those capabilities back to American soil."
The Secretary of Commerce, a former CEO, shifted in his seat. "Mr. President, with all due respect, the cost of that kind of reshoring would be monumental. We're talking about trillions in private investment. The markets would panic."
"They will adapt," he replied coolly. "Because we are going to help them."
Now was the moment. He had to defuse the time bomb he'd found on the laptop.
"I know some people in this town have been floating ideas for another stimulus," he said, his gaze casually sweeping over a junior aide he knew from the host's memory was a link to the think tank that wrote the proposal. "A 'Patriot Push,' I think they're calling it."
He saw the flicker of recognition. He had them.
"That idea is thinking too small," he declared, his voice filled with dismissive authority. "A temporary check in a voter's pocket is a sugar high. It feels good for a month, and then it's gone, leaving the debt higher than it was before. A real patriot push isn't about giving money away. It's about rebuilding our industrial sovereignty so that Americans have secure, high-paying jobs for the next fifty years."
He leaned forward. "We are hijacking that name. From this moment, the 'Patriot Push' is the public name for the Strategic Supply Chain Initiative. We will use targeted tax incentives, federally backed loans, and regulatory relief—not for consumers, but for the companies that build our most critical infrastructure here, in the United States. We will sell it to the American people not as a handout, but as a generational investment in our own security."
He had done it. He had taken their politically popular, fiscally suicidal idea, gutted it, and skinned it over his own vital, long-term project. He had stolen their branding and aimed it at a problem they didn't even know existed. The room was silent, the occupants stunned by the sheer audacity of the political maneuver.
As if on cue, an aide entered and handed a slip of paper to General Madsen. She read it, her eyes widening slightly.
"Mr. President," she interrupted, a new note of respect in her voice. "I apologize for the interruption, but this is immediate. Our intelligence confirms Chinese state media is publicly mocking what they're calling our 'timid response' in the Strait."
Morrison straightened, a look of 'I told you so' forming on his face.
"However," Madsen continued, cutting Morrison off. "Our internal sources report their leadership is, quote, 'in a state of strategic confusion.' They fully expected an armed escort and are now scrambling to interpret our inaction. Furthermore, Treasury can confirm their central bank made an unscheduled intervention overnight to stabilize the yuan. They were more exposed than we realized."
Every eye in the room turned to him. His gamble, his inexplicable, counterintuitive order from the day before, had been a resounding success. He gave a simple, almost imperceptible nod. "Good. That's what I expected. Now they know we aren't playing the same old game."
Later that morning, back in the Oval Office, Miles was practically vibrating with energy. "Sir, that was masterful. You've changed the entire conversation."
"We've only started it, Miles," he said, looking out at the South Lawn. "A president can sign executive orders all day, but a project of this scale needs money. Real money. And that has to be appropriated by Congress."
He turned back to his desk. "Get me Speaker Connolly on the phone."
A few minutes later, the secure line connected. He could hear the weary, gravelly voice of the powerful, opposition-party Speaker of the House.
"Mr. President," the Speaker said, the title sounding more like an accusation than a salutation.
"Mr. Speaker," he replied evenly. "Thank you for taking my call. I'm not going to waste your time. I am launching a major national economic security initiative. It will require a new way of thinking about the budget, and it will need bipartisan support to succeed. I would like to come to the Hill to brief you and the Senate Majority Leader personally."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, filled with the static of deep political skepticism.
"The Hill?" Connolly finally grunted. "You haven't been here in six months. Fine. You can have an hour tomorrow. But let me be clear, Mr. President. My caucus has no appetite for more political theater, and we sure as hell won't sign a blank check for another one of your unfunded wish lists."
"This isn't a wish list, Mr. Speaker," he said calmly. "This is a matter of survival."
He hung up the phone. The gauntlet had been thrown. The next battle would not be fought with secret intelligence and economic data. It would be fought with handshakes and backroom deals on the hostile territory of Capitol Hill.