Chapter 1, Scene 2
Date: January 4, 1936
Location: White House, West Sitting Room
A winter sun bled faint light across the National Mall, casting the White House into cold silhouette. Inside, President Charles Lindbergh paced barefoot across a Persian rug, sleeves rolled, tie hanging half-tied like a forgotten tether. Around him: four men, all seated, unsure if this was a meeting, a lecture, or a warning.
Secretary of Commerce Claude Benton sat upright, tapping notes on a yellow pad. Treasury Secretary Ogden Mills nursed a bitter cup of coffee. Interior Secretary Harold Ickes stared at the fireplace, where half-burned logs hissed. General James Fechet, recently retired but still Lindbergh’s closest confidant in aviation, leaned forward with the glint of quiet anticipation in his eyes.
Lindbergh spoke without notes. “Gentlemen, I’ve been flying since I was sixteen. I’ve felt every kind of wind that blows, and I’m telling you, this country’s not sick—it’s stalled.”
No one interrupted. Lindbergh poured himself a cup of tea, left it untouched, and resumed pacing.
“We’ve tried gold, tariffs, monetary magic. Hoover’s men said the market would correct itself. Roosevelt tried to build a machine from broken parts. I say the engine’s fine. We’re just not giving it gas.”
Claude Benton raised a cautious hand. “You’re suggesting—what? More jobs programs? Infrastructure?”
Lindbergh stopped pacing.
“I’m suggesting leadership.”
He pulled a folded map from his coat pocket and unfurled it on the coffee table.
“This—” he pointed to a penciled line—“is the Detroit-Pittsburgh corridor. Steel, rubber, coal, engine parts. But the roads are mud and rail is congested. A direct highway could cut transport time in half. I want that built.”
He shifted his finger. “Here: New Jersey. Between Camden and Fort Lee. I flew over it last week. Nothing but congestion and horse paths. We lay concrete, wide lanes, standardize access ramps—call it the New Jersey Turnpike. That’s ten thousand jobs in one state.”
Fechet smiled faintly. “That sounds like Roosevelt’s program.”
“It is,” Lindbergh said. “He had the right instincts. The difference is I’m not doing this to experiment. I’m doing it to win.”
Ogden Mills arched an eyebrow. “With what funds? You’ve seen the deficit.”
“There isn’t enough gold in the world to fix the economy,” Lindbergh said, voice rising. “But we have men who can work. Machines that can run. Roads that can be built. So we do it. If the titans of commerce can’t solve their own damn problems, then government must.”
Ickes, silent until now, muttered, “That’s not exactly free enterprise.”
Lindbergh turned to him. “It’s not socialism either. It’s survival. And if we do it right, it’s a renaissance.”
A pause.
Claude leaned in. “Do you intend to expand the WPA?”
“I intend to refocus it. Engineers. Architects. Machinists. Give me an army of electromechanical engineers. Men who can fix a generator in the cold or wire a switchboard in a storm. That’s the future. Not soup kitchens—circuits. Not handouts—hydraulics.”
Fechet chuckled. “You always did love machines.”
“I trust machines,” Lindbergh said. “They do what they’re designed to do.”
Ogden Mills pushed his cup aside. “And what about aviation, sir? Seversky has been asking to renew the contract on the P-35. They want an expansion.”
Lindbergh’s lips curled.
“That Russian prick?”
Fechet winced.
“I’ve flown the P-35. Sloppy lines. Poor rear visibility. Overengineered to impress Washington. Looks like a wedding cake and turns like a tugboat.”
Ickes blinked. “You want to cancel it?”
“I want to bury it. I want Curtiss to take the lead. The Hawk 75 has better speed, tighter response, easier maintenance. If we’re going to build a real air force, we need planes that can actually fight, not museum pieces.”
“But Curtiss is behind on assembly.”
“Then we fund them. Subsidies, yes—conditional on delivery and design review. We’re not buying toys. We’re buying time.”
Claude looked over his notes. “So—massive public works, industrial subsidy, selective aviation investment—”
“—and education,” Lindbergh interrupted. “Technical schools. Apprenticeships. If you can’t read blueprints, you shouldn’t be unemployed. You should be in training.”
The fireplace popped. Lindbergh’s voice softened.
“We’ve got a country full of men who can hold a wrench but never touched electricity. That’s criminal. We fix that, or we lose this century.”
The room fell into silence, broken only by the wind scratching at the windowpanes.
Ogden leaned forward. “Mr. President. May I ask… what changed your mind?”
“About Roosevelt’s programs?”
“Yes.”
Lindbergh exhaled. He walked to the window, arms crossed.
“I flew over Cleveland last week. Snow-covered factories. No smoke. No trucks. No workers. Just silence. I landed outside town, went for a walk. A man was selling boots out of a wagon—handmade, rough stitching, but strong. I asked him how long he’d been doing it. Said he lost his job at Goodyear in ’33. Said he learned leatherwork from a friend and figured it beat starving. Said no one’s buying, but he’d keep stitching ‘til he dropped.”
He turned back to them.
“That man isn’t lazy. He isn’t broken. He’s waiting for this country to remember him. If the government has to buy every damn boot he makes, we do it. And while we’re at it, we put him to work laying cable or pouring concrete.”
No one spoke.
Finally, Ickes stood. “You’re going to catch hell from the Liberty League.”
Lindbergh shrugged. “They already think I’m a dictator. Might as well earn it.”
Fechet stood too, still smiling. “What about Abyssinia?”
Lindbergh’s smile faded.
“I’ve read the cables. Italian forces shelled a Red Cross camp on Christmas Eve. Killed civilians. Violated the truce in broad daylight.”
“They claim it was a mistake,” Ickes muttered.
“No such thing as accidental artillery. Not three days after a ceasefire. That was a message.”
Mills asked, “Are we to send a protest?”
“I want a broadcast. Not from the State Department—from me. Fifteen minutes. Direct. Name the act. Name the victims. Let the world know we see what Italy’s doing. And that America does not approve.”
“And sanctions?”
“No,” Lindbergh said, voice cold. “We’re not ready to act. But we’re not going to be silent.”
Claude looked around. “And that’s enough?”
“For now,” Lindbergh said. “We’re not entering another European war. But if this world wants to burn again, I’ll make damn sure we’re the last thing left standing.”
The fire crackled. The men slowly gathered their papers, understanding that the conversation had ended even if nothing had been written down. Lindbergh returned to the window, watching the pale winter light fade across the Potomac.
Behind him, chairs scraped quietly across the floor.