Chapter 1, Scene 1
Snow drifted gently past the tall windows of the East Room. Outside, the capital huddled under winter’s hush. Inside, the chandeliers flickered above dignitaries, military brass, and cabinet officials sipping cocktails. Charles Lindbergh stood apart, one hand resting on the mantle, the other curled around a glass of scotch he hadn’t touched.
Behind him, the laughter of Eleanor Morgenthau mingled with the crisp diction of Secretary Ickes. A jazz band from Harlem struck up “Auld Lang Syne,” half a beat too slow. Lindbergh’s eyes, pale and unblinking, stayed fixed on the snow-covered lawn.
Ten seconds until midnight.
Lindbergh had once marked New Year’s by altitude, not clocks. He remembered flying over the Atlantic with the second hand of his watch frozen from the cold, breath crystallizing on the inside of the Spirit of St. Louis. Now, he watched a grandfather clock tick off the final seconds of a year that had torn the country’s heart out.
Five seconds.
Franklin’s voice echoed in his memory—resolute, amused, slightly amused even when cornered in debate. Then came the echo of the blast in San Antonio. The Alamo shook. Then the flames. Then silence.
Midnight.
“Mr. President,” came a voice beside him, smooth as the scotch in his glass. Henry Stimson, Secretary of War, offered a nod. “Happy New Year.”
Lindbergh returned the nod. “Happy,” he said, though it didn’t quite land.
He forced a smile and turned away from the fireplace. The room was watching—quietly, respectfully. Most had been Hoover men once. The rest were Roosevelt’s former allies, now stranded in a party that didn’t know what it stood for.
“They say the Germans are planning to march into the Rhineland,” Stimson said, low. “French are wringing their hands.”
Lindbergh’s jaw stiffened. “France hasn’t had a spine since Verdun.”
Stimson chuckled, but Lindbergh’s face didn’t change.
“I read your notes from Berlin,” the President continued. “Göring invited you for partridge, didn’t he?”
Stimson hesitated, then nodded. “They’re building more than just walls. I think they want to impress us.”
“They want to survive. Germany was gutted by Versailles. Now they’re proving they can stand again.”
Stimson raised an eyebrow. “You admire that.”
Lindbergh sipped. “I understand it.”
Across the room, Anne appeared in a column of pale blue silk. Her eyes met his, steady and unreadable. She offered him the same nod she gave foreign ministers and press barons. They hadn’t spoken much since Christmas. The season had become too crowded with ghosts.
“Do you ever regret it?” Stimson asked.
Lindbergh’s gaze didn’t shift. “What’s there to regret?”
“The trial. The Convention. Roosevelt asking for you after Garner walked out. You could have stayed a national hero—neutral, untouchable. Instead, you took this office and made yourself…”
Lindbergh’s voice was quiet. “If I hadn’t been home that night, my son would be dead.”
Stimson looked away, embarrassed. “Of course.”
“They wanted a martyr. The press was sharpening its knives before I’d even called the police. But the jury understood. I was protecting my home. Protecting my boy.”
“And now the whole country?”
Lindbergh didn’t answer.
Anne approached them, her movements precise. “Mr. Stimson,” she said. “You’ll excuse me. I’d like a word with my husband.”
Stimson bowed slightly and disappeared into the sea of tuxedos.
Anne’s voice dropped. “Charles, there are rumors again. About the speech.”
“What rumors?”
“They say you’ll declare neutrality as policy—codify it.”
“It’s more than policy. It’s destiny. This country has no business wading into Europe’s bloodbath again.”
“They’ll call you an isolationist.”
“They’ve already called me worse.”
Her hand touched his wrist. “Some of them want a war. The munitions men. The British lobbyists. The Soviets. You don’t.”
“I want strength. But not sacrifice.”
Anne’s eyes flickered. “They’ll paint you as weak. As sympathetic to Germany.”
“And what am I supposed to be?” he said sharply. “Sympathetic to Stalin?”
She withdrew slightly. He saw it and softened. “I’ll deliver the speech,” he said. “And the country will listen.”
“You still trust them?”
“I trust that they want peace. Just like me.”
The music paused. A butler signaled discreetly. “Phone from New York, sir,” he said. “Your mother.”
Lindbergh excused himself and moved down the corridor into the Oval Office, shutting the door behind him.
The lights were low. The phone rested on the Resolute Desk, humming faintly.
He lifted the receiver. “Yes.”
“Happy New Year, Charles,” came the calm voice of Evangeline Lindbergh.
“Happy New Year, Mother.”
“You sounded tired.”
“I am.”
A pause.
“Your father would be proud,” she said.
“I don’t know that he would.”
“He believed in destiny. And discipline.”
“I remember.”
“And he believed in standing alone, if necessary.”
Lindbergh nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him.
“I was thinking about the ocean crossing,” he said. “How quiet it was. Just the wind and the engine. And the sky. I miss the sky.”
“You chose this world, Charles.”
He exhaled. “Did I?”
“You did when you ran. You did when you fired the gun. You did when you took Roosevelt’s hand and swore an oath over his casket.”
“I just did what had to be done.”
“So do all men in history,” she said. “But not all of them live long enough to see the weight of it.”
They said goodnight.
He lingered in the quiet office for a while. The portraits watched from the walls—Jefferson, Lincoln, Wilson. Men of ideals and compromise. Men with war in their wake.
He pulled open the drawer and withdrew a manila folder. Inside: maps, intercepted cables, intelligence reports. Japanese troop movements near Manchuria. German rearmament. British naval deployments.
The world was moving. And he stood at its center, unwilling to be swept up—and yet unable to stand still.
He opened a second folder. A draft speech. Title underlined: The American Future.
He read the opening lines:
“We are not Europe’s ward. We are not Asia’s enforcer. We are the vanguard of a new civilization—founded on liberty, preserved by distance, destined for peace.”
He stopped reading. The words were what the people wanted. But would they hold?
A soft knock.
The door opened. A young man in uniform stepped in—Captain Thompson, his aide.
“Sir, the radio’s ready for your address. You’ll be speaking just after the bells in Chicago.”
Lindbergh nodded and rose. He passed through the corridor toward the recording room, shaking hands as he went. Members of the press stood like wolves dressed in silk. The red light blinked overhead. The microphone gleamed.
He adjusted his cuffs.
The technician gave the countdown. “Three. Two…”
Then the world fell silent again.