The telegraph key at 26 Broadway clicked out a message that would stop the heart of the US Navy.
TO: DEPT OF NAVY - HAMPTON ROADS
FROM: STANDARD OIL LOGISTICS
SUBJ: FUEL DELIVERY DELAY
DUE TO UNFORESEEN REGULATORY ACTION (DOJ FREEZING ORDER 409), STANDARD OIL IS UNABLE TO PROCESS PAYROLL FOR TRANSPORT DIVISION. ALL FUEL SHIPMENTS SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY. REGRET INCONVENIENCE.
The operator finished typing. He looked at Jason, sweating.
"Send it," Jason said.
The message flashed across the wires.
Two hundred miles away, in the harbor of Hampton Roads, Virginia, sixteen massive battleships sat low in the water. They were painted a dazzling white, their hulls gleaming in the sun. The "Great White Fleet."
Thousands of sailors stood on the decks, waiting. The coal barges and oil tankers that were supposed to arrive at 0800 hours were nowhere to be seen.
Smoke stacks that should have been belching black clouds were thin wisps of grey. The engines were cold. The pride of America was a parking lot.
By noon, the news had hit New York.
Alta Rockefeller Prentice sat in her private office, two phones pressed to her ears. She was conducting a symphony of spin.
"Yes, Mr. Pulitzer," she said into the receiver, her voice dripping with feigned concern. "It is a tragedy. We want to supply the fleet. We are patriots! But the President's freezing order has paralyzed our accounts. We physically cannot pay the train conductors to move the coal."
She paused, listening to the editor on the other end.
"Yes," she said. "It seems the President is prioritizing his vendetta against my husband over the readiness of the Navy. It's reckless, don't you think?"
She hung up. She picked up the other line.
"Editor of the Sun? This is Mrs. Prentice. I have a quote for your evening edition. 'The President has stranded our boys to score political points against a private company.' Yes. Print it."
She hung up. She looked at Jason, who was standing by the ticker tape machine.
"The evening editions will be brutal," Alta said. "Roosevelt will look like an incompetent tyrant."
"Good," Jason said. "Make him hurt."
At 4:00 PM, the elevator doors at 26 Broadway opened.
Prosecutor Clay stormed out. He looked like a man who had been screamed at for four hours straight. His face was red, his collar was soaked with sweat, and he was holding a crumpled newspaper in his fist.
The headline screamed: ROOSEVELT FREEZES NAVY SUPPLY. IS THE PRESIDENT SABOTAGING THE FLEET?
Clay marched past the secretaries. He kicked open the double doors to Jason's office.
"Turn it back on!" Clay roared.
Jason was sitting on the edge of his desk, cleaning his fingernails with a small file. Senior was in his chair, smoking a cigar, looking bored.
"Turn what back on, Mr. Clay?" Jason asked innocently.
"The fuel!" Clay slammed the newspaper onto the desk. "The Admiral is calling the White House every five minutes! We have battleships drifting in the harbor! It's a national embarrassment!"
"It is unfortunate," Jason agreed. "But as you pointed out at lunch... our accounts are frozen. We have no liquidity."
"That order was for the holding company! Not the logistics division!"
"Money is fungible, Mr. Clay," Jason said. "When you freeze the head, the body dies. Our payroll system is integrated. We can't pay the drivers."
Jason stood up. He walked over to Clay.
"You wanted to starve us," Jason whispered. "So we stopped eating. And we stopped feeding your ships."
"This is blackmail!" Clay shouted. "I will have the Army seize the depots!"
"Go ahead," Jason shrugged. "Do you have soldiers who know how to operate our specific pumping systems? Do you have the keys to the trucks? By the time you figure it out, the fleet will have missed its departure window. The world will see American power stranded by its own government."
Clay trembled. He knew Jason was right. He was outmaneuvered.
"What do you want?" Clay asked through gritted teeth.
Jason stopped smiling.
"Unfreeze the accounts," Jason said. "All of them. The Ford accounts. The Future Holdings accounts. Drop the investigation into the trust violation."
"I can't do that," Clay said. "The President—"
"The President can either have his lawsuit, or he can have his fleet," Jason cut him off. "He can't have both."
Jason checked his watch.
"The tide goes out at 6:00 PM. If the ships aren't fueled by then, they stay in port for another day. The press will have a field day."
Clay stared at Jason. He saw the utter lack of fear. He saw a man who was willing to hold a knife to the throat of the US military to save a car factory.
Clay pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He threw it on the desk.
"This is a release order," Clay said. His voice was defeated. "The DOJ is lifting the freeze 'temporarily' to allow for 'essential government services.'"
Jason picked up the paper. He read it. It was signed by the Attorney General.
"Wise choice," Jason said.
He turned to the phone. He dialed the logistics manager.
"It's Prentice," Jason said. "The glitch in the payroll system has been fixed. Send the trucks. Fill the ships."
He hung up.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Clay."
Clay looked at Jason with pure hatred.
"You think you won," Clay whispered. "You didn't win. You just made it personal."
Clay turned and walked out.
Jason and Senior stood by the window as the sun began to set over the harbor.
They poured two glasses of whiskey.
"To the Navy," Senior said, raising his glass. "May they always be thirsty."
They drank.
"We beat him," Junior said from the couch, looking relieved but terrified. "We actually beat the President."
"We embarrassed him," Jason corrected. "That's worse."
There was a knock at the door.
It wasn't a secretary. It wasn't a prosecutor.
A man in a plain grey suit entered. He carried a leather satchel. He didn't look like a bureaucrat. He looked like a soldier out of uniform.
"Mr. Prentice?" the man asked.
"I'm Prentice."
"I have a personal correspondence for you. From the President."
The man handed Jason a small envelope. It wasn't the official White House stationery. It was thick, rough paper. Hunting stock.
Jason opened it.
The handwriting was jagged, aggressive.
Ezra,
You have sharp teeth. I respect that. Most men I fight are made of straw. You seem to be made of iron.
You humiliated my prosecutor. You held my fleet hostage. You won the battle.
But the war is far from over.
I am at my lodge in the Adirondacks this weekend. Sagamore Hill is too public. Come to the lodge. Alone. No lawyers. No press. Just you and me.
Man to man. Let's see if you can look me in the eye when you aren't hiding behind a corporation.
If you don't come, I will burn the Ford factory to the ground with regulations you haven't even dreamt of yet.
- TR
Jason lowered the letter.
"What is it?" Senior asked.
"An invitation," Jason said. "To a hunting lodge. Alone."
"It's a trap," Junior said instantly. "He'll have you arrested in the woods! He'll shoot you and call it a hunting accident!"
"No," Senior said slowly. "Roosevelt isn't an assassin. He's an egoist."
Senior looked at Jason.
"He wants to size you up. He wants to see if you're a genius or just a lucky gambler. He wants to break you with his personality."
Senior walked over to Jason.
"If you go," Senior warned, "there are no laws up there. No judges. Just a bull moose and a wolf. He is the most charismatic man on earth, Ezra. He can talk a starving dog off a meat wagon. Do not let him charm you. And do not let him bully you."
Jason looked at the letter.
He felt a thrill he hadn't felt since the copper crash. This was the final boss. The man on the nickel. The rough rider.
"I'm going," Jason said.
"Why?" Junior asked.
"Because he's right," Jason said. "I have been hiding behind the corporation. It's time to show him the monster he created."
Jason walked to the mirror. He straightened his tie.
He looked at his reflection.
"Besides," Jason whispered. "I want to see the look on his face when I tell him how the 20th century really ends."
He turned back to the room.
"Pack my bags, Thomas," Jason ordered his valet. "We're going hunting."