Miles Vance stared at the single sentence on the paper as if it were a live grenade. The elegant, simple font did nothing to soften the explosive impact of the words. He read them again, unable to process the sheer audacity.
"A one-hundred-percent tariff on all imported antibiotic precursors," he read aloud, his voice barely a whisper. "Effective in twelve months. Sir… this isn't a policy. This is a declaration of war on the entire pharmaceutical lobby. On the Chamber of Commerce. On our trade allies."
"It's the first step toward reclaiming our sovereignty, Miles," the President said, his tone devoid of any of the alarm that was causing his Chief of Staff's heart to hammer against his ribs. "A nation that cannot produce its own medicine during a plague is not a nation. It is a colony, waiting for a shipment from its master. We are ending that dependency. Now."
The word 'plague' hung in the air, a strange, almost biblical choice of word that Miles dismissed as presidential hyperbole.
The internal fight began less than an hour later. In an emergency meeting of his economic council, Treasury Secretary Garrett Thorne and Commerce Secretary Rossiter reacted with predictable, free-market horror.
"Mr. President, you can't be serious!" Thorne argued, his face flushed. "This violates every trade agreement we have. It will invite immediate retaliatory tariffs. It will be challenged at the WTO. It will cause massive inflation in healthcare costs just as we're heading into an election year!"
"He's right, sir," Secretary Rossiter added, gesturing emphatically. "The market will view this as an unprecedented government intervention. The shareholder value of companies like Pfizer, Merck, Eli Lilly… it would be decimated. These are American companies, our partners."
He let them talk. The arguments were predictable, the same ones he'd studied in history books about this era: fears of inflation, warnings of trade disputes, the primacy of the free market. It was the doctrine of a system that couldn't see the iceberg ahead. When they had talked themselves out, a nervous silence fell. He looked from one man to the other, his expression unchanged.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice quiet but absolute. "Imagine for a moment that our nation's entire supply of rifle ammunition was manufactured in a single factory in a rival country. Would you tell me that a tariff to bring that production home was a violation of the 'free market'? Would you worry about their shareholder value?"
He leaned forward. "Basic medicine—antibiotics, antivirals, anesthetics—is a strategic munition. It is more vital to our national defense than a fighter jet. We have outsourced the production of our most critical ammunition, and we are going to correct that vulnerability, whatever the short-term cost."
He stood up, signaling the end of the discussion. "This is not a debate. It is the new policy of this administration. Your departments will draft the necessary frameworks to support it. That is all."
He walked out, leaving his economic council in stunned silence. This was not the act of a politician seeking consensus. It was the decree of a commander securing his fortress.
News, especially news this explosive, does not stay contained in Washington. By late afternoon, the shockwaves were hitting K Street, the hub of the city's lobbying industry. In a corner office overlooking the White House, a man named Arthur Kenwood, the head of the powerful pharmaceutical lobbying group PhRMA, ended a frantic call with the CEO of a major drug manufacturer.
"He's not bluffing," Kenwood said to his empty office, his voice a low growl. "He's declared war." His entire business model, and the multi-billion-dollar profits of the companies he represented, was built on the globalized supply chains the President was now threatening to dismantle. He had killed bills for less. He had ended political careers over regulatory trifles. This was an existential threat.
He picked up his phone and dialed a private number that went directly to the desk of the White House Chief of Staff.
Miles took the call in his office, his stomach twisting into a knot.
The lobbyist's voice was smooth, polished, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Miles, Arthur Kenwood. I trust you're having a productive day," the voice purred. "I'm calling because I'm hearing some… deeply concerning rumors. Chatter about a truly radical proposal concerning pharmaceutical precursors. I'm hoping you can assure me and my partners that the President isn't considering something that could cause such irreparable damage to the economy and our nation's healthcare system."
Every word was a perfectly chosen threat, wrapped in the language of concern. We are your partners. We are the economy. Stop this now.
"The President is considering all options to secure the nation's health," Miles replied, sticking to the bland script.
"I see," Kenwood said, the pleasantness in his voice turning to ice. "Please convey to the President my sincere hope that he reconsiders this path. We have always valued our cooperative relationship with this administration. We would hate for a misunderstanding to disrupt that partnership." The line went dead.
Miles walked immediately to the Oval Office, his face pale. "That was Kenwood from PhRMA," he said, relaying the message word for word. "It wasn't a request, sir. It was a threat. He's telling us that he and his allies will burn us to the ground on the Hill if we move forward."
He listened to the report of the threat, his expression unchanged. The forces of the old world were mobilizing, the powerful moneyed interests that politicians were supposed to fear. He felt a flicker not of fear, but of satisfaction. It was a confirmation of his worldview. Politicians were beholden to men like Kenwood. A true sovereign was not.
He looked at his shaken Chief of Staff.
"Good," he said. "Now they know we're serious."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out towards the distant Capitol building.
"Get Speaker Connolly's office on the phone for me, Miles," he commanded. "Tell him I've had a change of heart. I want to move the committee hearing up. To tomorrow, if possible."
Miles stared, bewildered. "Sir? After that threat, you want to accelerate?"
He turned from the window, a hard, determined light in his eyes. "They have declared war on us, Miles. One does not delay when war is declared. You press the attack."