BANG.
The gavel smashed down like a gunshot.
"The resolution is adopted!" the Speaker of the House roared. "A state of war exists between the United States and the German Empire!"
The gallery of Congress exploded.
Men threw their hats in the air. Senators hugged each other. The shouting was deafening—a mix of patriotism, relief, and bloodlust. Flags unfurled from the balconies. "The Star-Spangled Banner" started playing from nowhere.
Jason Underwood stood in the VIP box. He didn't cheer. He didn't clap.
He checked his pocket watch.
1:18 PM. April 6, 1917.
"It's about time," Jason whispered.
Junior stood next to him, waving a small American flag like a child at a parade.
"We're in, Ezra!" Junior yelled over the noise. "We're going to Berlin! The President did it!"
"The President just signed a piece of paper," Jason said coldly. "Now comes the hard part."
He looked down at the floor of the House. He saw chaos. He saw politicians who had never held a rifle voting to send a million boys into the meat grinder.
They had no idea what they had just done. The US Army had fewer than 100,000 men. They had no tanks. They had almost no machine guns. Their logistical system was a joke.
"Let's go," Jason said, turning away from the celebration.
"Go? The speeches haven't started!"
"The speeches are free," Jason said. "I have a train to catch. By tomorrow morning, this country is going to realize it's naked."
The Port of New York was a disaster area.
It looked like a giant had kicked over a toy box.
Thousands of wooden crates were piled haphazardly on the docks. Mountains of grain sacks were rotting in the rain. Trucks were gridlocked bumper-to-bumper for ten blocks.
Steam whistles shrieked. Men shouted. It was total, paralyzed chaos.
Jason walked down the pier, stepping over a puddle of oil. Junior trailed behind him, covering his nose with a handkerchief.
"It's worse than I thought," Jason muttered.
He stopped at Pier 54.
A transport ship, the USS Cyclops, sat empty at the dock. The cranes were silent.
On the pier, two men were screaming at each other.
One was a Standard Oil logistics manager, red-faced and sweating. The other was a General in a pristine uniform—General John J. Pershing.
"I don't care about your paperwork!" Pershing roared. "I need those trucks loaded now! My men are drilling with broomsticks in Georgia!"
"I can't load them, General!" the manager shouted back. "The Navy requisitioned the cranes! They say coal is priority one!"
"The Navy can row to France for all I care! I need wheels!"
Pershing reached for his holster, his hand hovering over his sidearm. The frustration was palpable.
"General Pershing," Jason said, stepping between them.
Pershing spun around. He had eyes like flint. "Who the hell are you? Get off my dock."
"I own the dock," Jason said calmly. "Ezra Prentice. Standard Oil."
Pershing's eyes narrowed. "Prentice. The profiteer."
"The supplier," Jason corrected. "And you're shouting at the wrong man, General. My manager can't move the cranes because the Quartermaster Corps issued conflicting orders."
Jason pointed to a stack of papers on a crate.
"Order 66 says coal first. Order 67 says ammo first. Order 68 says trucks."
He picked up the papers and let them flutter to the ground.
"You don't have a supply chain, General. You have a logjam."
Pershing glared at him. "If you don't clear this dock in twenty-four hours, Prentice, I will have the Army seize it. I will arrest your men and drive the cranes myself."
"Nationalization," a new voice said.
Jason turned.
Newton Baker, the Secretary of War, stepped out of a black government car. He looked small, bookish, and completely overwhelmed.
"The President is considering it," Baker said, adjusting his glasses. "If the private sector cannot support the war effort, the government will take over the railroads. The factories. The mines."
Junior gasped. "You can't do that! It's unconstitutional! It's socialism!"
"It's war," Baker snapped. "We cannot let profit get in the way of victory."
Jason looked at Baker. Then he looked at Pershing.
They were serious. They were desperate. If they seized the companies, Jason would lose everything. The government would run his empire into the ground with bureaucracy, and the "Future Holdings" secret would be exposed.
He had to pivot. Fast.
"You're right, Mr. Secretary," Jason said.
Junior looked at him in horror. "Ezra?!"
"The system is broken," Jason continued. "Competition is inefficient in wartime. You need coordination. You need a central brain."
Jason walked over to Baker.
"But if you nationalize, you kill the incentive. You get lazy workers and corrupt bureaucrats. You don't need to own the trains, Mr. Secretary."
Jason tapped his temple.
"You need a conductor."
Baker frowned. "What are you proposing?"
"A partnership," Jason said. "A War Industries Board. A centralized committee with federal power to set prices, allocate raw materials, and prioritize shipments."
"And who runs this board?" Baker asked suspiciously.
"I do," Jason said.
"You?" Pershing scoffed. "A civilian?"
"A civilian who already supplies the British, the French, and the Navy," Jason said. "I have the ships. I have the trucks. I know where every ton of steel in this country is."
Jason leaned in close to Baker.
"I will work for free," Jason said. "One dollar a year. I will fix your supply chain. I will get the General his trucks. And I will do it faster than any government agency."
Baker looked at the chaos on the docks. He looked at the idle ship. He looked at Jason's cold, confident eyes.
He realized he had no choice.
"One dollar a year?" Baker asked.
"One dollar," Jason nodded. "And total authority. If I say a factory makes bullets, it makes bullets. If I say a train carries wheat, it carries wheat."
Baker hesitated. It was giving a private citizen dictatorial power over the economy.
But the war was waiting.
Baker extended his hand.
"Done," Baker said. "You serve the President now, Prentice."
Jason shook his hand.
"Of course," Jason lied.
He turned to his manager.
"Get the Navy off the cranes," Jason barked. "Load the General's trucks. Prioritize the Ford tanks. Move the coal to Pier 56."
"Yes, sir!" The manager ran.
Jason looked at Pershing.
"Your trucks will be in France in two weeks, General. Try not to lose them."
Pershing grunted, but he saluted—barely.
Jason walked back to his car.
Junior scrambled after him.
"One dollar?!" Junior hissed. "Ezra, are you insane? We're running a charity now?"
Jason opened the car door. He smiled. It was the smile of a wolf in a henhouse.
"Think, Junior," Jason whispered. "I just got the legal authority to tell every one of our competitors what to make and how much to sell it for."
He climbed in.
"I'm going to cripple US Steel. I'm going to bankrupt the coal rivals. I'm going to consolidate the entire American economy under Standard Oil."
Jason looked out the window at the gridlocked port.
"The dollar is a symbol, Junior. The power is the paycheck."
He tapped the glass.
"Drive."
Washington D.C. was a swamp of rumors and spies.
Jason's new office was in the Munitions Building. It was stark, utilitarian. No leather chairs. No cigars. Just maps.
Jason stood before a massive map of the United States. Pins of different colors marked every major factory, mine, and rail hub.
He picked up a red pin.
He stuck it into Pittsburgh. Carnegie Steel.
He picked up the phone.
"Get me the CEO of Carnegie Steel," Jason ordered the operator.
A moment later, a gruff voice answered.
"This is Schwab."
"Schwab, this is Prentice. Chairman of the War Industries Board."
"I heard," Schwab said, his voice dripping with disdain. "What do you want, oil man?"
"I'm looking at your production schedule," Jason said. "You're making structural girders for skyscrapers in Chicago."
"It's a lucrative contract."
"Cancel it," Jason said. "As of this morning, your mills are re-tasked. You are making armor plate for the Navy. Two-inch thickness. High-carbon alloy."
"You can't tell me what to make!" Schwab shouted. "I have contracts! I have penalties!"
"I don't care," Jason said calmly. "If you don't switch the lines by noon... I will divert all coal shipments to Philadelphia. Your furnaces will go cold by Tuesday."
Silence on the line.
Jason waited. He knew Schwab was doing the math.
"Armor plate pays less," Schwab grumbled.
"It pays in patriotism, Mr. Schwab," Jason said. "And it keeps you in business."
"Fine," Schwab spat. "We switch at noon."
"Good. And Schwab?"
"What?"
"Standard Oil will handle the shipping. Exclusive contract. Don't use the Pennsylvania Railroad. Use ours."
Jason hung up.
He moved the red pin to the "Active" column.
He felt a rush of power that made the money seem boring. He wasn't just playing the market anymore. He was the market.
He looked at the map.
He was the conductor of a massive orchestra of steel and fire. And for the first time, everyone was playing his tune.
The door opened.
A young captain walked in. He looked nervous.
"Sir? A dispatch from the White House."
"Read it."
"The President wants to know about the tanks. The Generals say they aren't ready. They say they get stuck in the mud."
Jason laughed.
"The Generals are fighting the last war, Captain. They want horses."
Jason walked to his coat rack. He grabbed his hat.
"Tell the President I'm holding a demonstration tomorrow. In Maryland."
"A demonstration, sir?"
"Yes," Jason said. "I'm going to show them what the future looks like. And I'm going to drive it myself."
He walked out.
The war was a tragedy. But the logistics?
The logistics were a masterpiece.