The press release from PhRMA was a masterpiece of political jujitsu. It was also a formal declaration of a new kind of war. The President read the glowing quotes from his newest, most dangerous enemy and felt a grim sense of clarity. The straightforward battle of ideas was over. The war of whispers, of hidden clauses and legalistic traps, had begun.
"They're not going to fight the bill," he told Miles and a hastily assembled policy team in the Oval Office the next morning. "They are going to hollow it out from the inside until it serves their purpose, not ours. Our only defense is to make the bill impenetrable."
He laid down the law. "The Patriot Push Act will be ruthlessly simple. Two parts, and two parts only. Part one: a schedule of tariffs on a specific list of imported strategic goods. Part two: a simple, flat tax credit for every dollar of capital invested in building domestic manufacturing for those same goods. That's it. No exemptions, no special studies, no oversight commissions that can be captured."
His policy advisors exchanged nervous glances. A bill that simple was unheard of. It left no room for the usual horse-trading that got things passed.
"A bill that clean will never survive the committee process, sir," Miles argued. "The lobbyists will carve it up. We need a champion on the inside, someone to protect it." He suggested a senior congressman, a reliable party man who chaired a key subcommittee.
He pulled up the congressman's file on his screen, but his mind was already elsewhere. The host's memory knew the man as an ally. His own knowledge of the future knew the man would retire in two years to take a multi-million-dollar lobbying job with one of Arthur Kenwood's allies. He was part of the disease.
"No," he said, dismissing the suggestion. He scrolled through the roster of the House of Representatives, his eyes landing on a name. "Get me Congresswoman Anna Hayes from Michigan."
Miles was taken aback. "Hayes? Sir, she's a freshman. She has no seniority, no real power."
"She has something more important," he replied. "She's a former supply-chain logistics analyst for the auto industry, her district has lost more manufacturing jobs than any other in the Midwest, and she is not yet owned by anyone. Get her here. Now."
That afternoon, Congresswoman Hayes sat stiffly on a sofa in the Oval Office. She was a woman in her late thirties with sharp, intelligent eyes that held a deep-seated skepticism. She was an idealist who had come to Washington to fight for her constituents and had quickly learned that idealism was a currency with very little value.
He didn't try to charm her. He treated her not as a politician to be won over, but as a fellow expert. For twenty minutes, he laid out the stark, unvarnished data, explaining the critical supply-chain vulnerabilities and the cascade of economic failures he foresaw. He spoke her language, the language of logistics and systems, of failure points and resiliency.
"I am asking you to shepherd this bill through the House," he concluded. "Not as a favor to my administration, but as a matter of national survival. I will have your back. Personally. If you need data, you get it. If you need a cabinet secretary on the phone, it will happen in five minutes."
Anna Hayes, who had walked in expecting a political sales pitch, was stunned into silence. This wasn't just a bill. The President was entrusting her, a freshman, with the centerpiece of his entire domestic agenda. He was offering her a chance to do the very thing she came to Washington to do.
"Yes, Mr. President," she said, a fire he thought she'd lost igniting in her eyes. "I'll do it."
The first attack came two weeks later. The bill was in the House Ways and Means Committee, and as predicted, Kenwood's army of "architects" had been exceptionally helpful. Congresswoman Hayes called the White House, her voice tight with frustration.
"They've proposed an amendment," she said. "It's gaining bipartisan support. It establishes a 'Federal Commission for Secure Supply Chains' to oversee the tax credits. They're selling it as responsible oversight, a way to prevent fraud."
"Fax me the text of the amendment," he ordered.
He read the single page of dense, legalistic language, and a cold smile touched his lips. It was brilliant. A work of art. The commission's board was to be appointed from a pool of "industry experts with at least fifteen years of senior executive experience." The criteria for companies to receive the credits included "adherence to existing global distribution networks" and "proven capacity." The trap was perfectly hidden. The commission would be run by Kenwood's cronies, and the rules were written to ensure that only the existing pharmaceutical giants could ever qualify. It was a mechanism to lock out new competition and funnel billions of taxpayer dollars directly into their own pockets.
He got Hayes on the phone. "It's a poison pill, Anna. It turns our bill into a slush fund for the very companies we're trying to circumvent."
"I know," she said, her voice grim. "But they're spinning it as fiscal responsibility. If I fight it, they'll paint me as an opponent of oversight."
"Then don't fight it," he said. "You're going to support it."
There was a confused silence from her end.
"At the hearing tomorrow," he continued, a predatory calm in his voice, "you will publicly thank the lobbyists for their civic-minded contribution. You will praise their commitment to oversight. And then you will propose a small, clarifying counter-amendment of your own, as a friendly addition."
He began to dictate the language of his own poison pill, a single sentence designed not just to neutralize their trap, but to turn it back on them with devastating force. As Hayes wrote down his words, her panicked frustration transformed into a look of fierce, savage glee. The next day's hearing was no longer a defense. It was going to be an ambush.