The heavy door of the Oval Office clicked shut, the sound echoing in the sudden, profound silence. For a moment, he did not move, listening to the muffled, tense voices of his advisors receding down the hallway. He could imagine their conversation without hearing it. Morrison would be fuming, his authority challenged. Thorne would be scrambling, intrigued but confused.
And Miles Vance… Miles would be thinking.
The adrenaline that had flooded his system, the cold, sharp clarity that had allowed him to perform, began to ebb away. In its place, a tremor started deep in his gut. He pushed himself up from the leather chair, his legs feeling unsteady. The body, this powerful, seventy-one-year-old vessel, was his, but the mind inside was screaming.
He was a ghost. A phantom who had just seized control of the world's most powerful puppet.
He walked slowly across the iconic sunburst rug, his hand trailing along the back of a beige sofa. His new memories supplied the context: this was the same rug chosen by Reagan. The painting over the mantelpiece was of Washington, a reminder of the office's legacy. He had studied this room in books, seen it in countless news broadcasts from his own time. To be standing here was a surreal violation of history.
His eyes fell on the Resolute Desk. It was cluttered but organized. A stack of briefing folders, a secure phone, a pen set. And a silver-framed photograph.
He picked it up and saw the photo of the First Lady. Instantly, a phantom limb of emotion twitched inside him—a mix of fondness and formal distance that belonged to the man he'd replaced. He remembered the smell of her perfume, a detail from that morning he had no right to know. He had died a solitary man in a different world. Now, the memories of a wife and son were being forced into the empty spaces of his mind. The mismatch was so profound it made his stomach clench. He felt like a thief, and the stolen goods were a man's most private feelings.
A soft knock came at the door before it opened. Miles Vance stepped back inside, holding a tablet. His face was perfectly composed, but his eyes were sharp, analytical. He was probing.
"Sir," Miles began, his tone even. "Your afternoon is cleared. Treasury is already pulling the data you requested. They're… surprised, but working on it."
"Good," he replied, placing the photograph back on the desk with a steady hand he did not feel. "They should be."
Miles took a step closer. "It was a bold move in there, Mr. President. Turning away from a show of force, pivoting to sovereign debt. May I ask what prompted the new direction?"
This was the next test. Miles wasn't just an aide; he was the keeper of the President's moods, his habits, his very thought processes. He had to be managed, converted.
He turned to face his Chief of Staff fully. "Miles, for two years we've been playing checkers with them. They make a move, we make a move. It's loud, it's predictable, and it gets us nowhere. It's time we started playing chess."
He gestured for Miles to come closer to the desk, where a secure terminal was built into the console. "They want us to look at their warships. I'm looking at their money. Because this isn't about a military skirmish."
A new message pinged on the terminal. It was a preliminary data file from Thorne's team at Treasury. He tapped the screen, his fingers moving with a borrowed familiarity. A series of charts and numbers appeared.
"Here," he said, his voice low and intense. "Look. The China Investment Corporation has been quietly increasing its holdings of long-term German industrial bonds. That's a defensive position. A hedge against volatility in the US dollar. Why would they do that if they weren't planning on creating that volatility themselves?"
He swiped to another screen showing the port data he had requested. "And this. Shanghai. Their export of finished electronics is down five percent over the last quarter. But their import of raw silicon and refined ores is up twelve percent. They aren't selling as much, but they are stockpiling the ingredients. They are building a war chest, Miles. Not of ships and missiles, but of microchips and raw materials."
He looked up from the screen, letting the implications sink in. "The incident in the Strait is a distraction. It's a magician's trick to make us look at his left hand while his right hand is preparing to punch our economy in the gut. They are getting ready to weaponize their supply chains, and they wanted to see if we were the same predictable, reactive administration they've been studying. Today, we showed them something different."
Miles Vance was utterly still. He stared at the screen, then back at the President. The skepticism in his eyes had been replaced by a dawning, awestruck comprehension. He wasn't looking at a man who had followed a gut instinct. He was looking at a man who had connected three impossibly disparate data points in real time and divined a new, terrifying strategic threat.
"My God," Miles breathed. "A trade war. They're planning to start it."
"No," he corrected him, a cold sense of purpose settling over him. "They were planning to start it. Now, we're going to be ready. I want you to schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning. Top economic and national security principals only. Title it 'Strategic Supply Chain Initiative.' We are about to change the entire game."
"Yes, Mr. President." Miles's reply was immediate, energized. He was converted. For now.
As his Chief of Staff turned to leave, a new, more terrifying thought entered his mind. He had to maintain this life, this entire persona, outside of this office.
"Miles," he called out.
Vance stopped at the door. "Sir?"
He took a breath, the question feeling like a foreign object in his mouth. "Is the First Lady in the Residence this evening?"