Chapter 2: Ambition in the Shadows

The U.S. still has good generals—like Foster. But the army’s a mess. Soldiers don’t know their commanders. Commanders don’t know their men. Draftees are deserting. Combat strength is a joke.

It’s chaos. Units scattered. Trust eroded. Discipline just a memory. Booker always said: you can’t win a war with ghosts and scarecrows. The backbone of any nation is its people in uniform. Right now, ours are just shadows.

“Sarah, reach out to people we can trust in the White House and Congress. Get word to our allies. My first step is to use Booker’s early draft system—reorganize the Mid-Atlantic military, starting with the draft rolls.” I lower my voice. “If we don’t control the source of soldiers, we can’t go north.”

She nods, jaw set. “I’ll get word to the right people tonight.”

Her gaze is steady. “I get it.”

I’m about to draft an executive order to start investigating the draft rolls when I hear hurried footsteps outside the hall.

A staffer rushes in, nearly stumbling, his voice sharp: “Report—Mr. President! An urgent message from the northern border—The Coalition is gathering a large army again and looks like they’re getting ready to move south!”

The kid’s face is white as paper, eyes wide. Those Northern bastards. They’re coming this soon?

I spring to my feet, anger boiling over.

My chair scrapes against the polished floor, echoing in the tense silence. No time to waste.

Looks like I need to move even faster. Hit harder.

“Get ready to take this down…” I pause, a name flashing through my mind.

This guy’s sharp and honest, but Quinn pushed him out.

Now’s the time to bring him in.

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at my lips. “Prepare my order—summon Judge Grant!” My voice echoes through the hall. No room for doubt.

Judge Grant’s been sidelined for years, stuck at home because he clashed with Quinn.

I know him.

Grant is an old-school patriot, the kind who still quotes the Constitution from memory and flies his flag at half-staff on Memorial Day. Now, in this murky administration, I need someone who can cut through all this political crap.

Before long, Grant hurries in, boots echoing on the marble.

His beard and hair are tinged with white, but his eyes are sharp as ever.

Seeing me dismiss the staff, he straightens up, waiting for my word.

He gives a stiff nod. His old Army boots scuff the marble. There’s a quiet dignity to the way he stands.

“Judge Grant, please, have a seat.” I get straight to the point. “I want to use Booker’s system—reorganize the Mid-Atlantic military forces, and investigate the draft rolls. What do you think?”

Grant trembles slightly at these words, then his eyes light up. “Mr. President, that’s the right call! The Mid-Atlantic is our gateway. The draft rolls are our backbone. If we reorganize, we get strong. Supplies get secure. The Coalition won’t stand a chance.” He’s excited. His voice shakes.

He leans forward, voice rising. “This is what we’ve needed all along. The country needs a backbone again, sir.”

“But, sir, this is a big move. There’ll be pushback. Especially from Quinn’s people.”

I sneer, “My mind is made up. If Quinn dares to stand in the way, I’ll deal with him myself.”

No more games. No more giving in. I let the words hang in the air, letting Grant see I mean every syllable.

Grant studies me for a beat, then nods. “I’m ready to lead the charge.”

His voice is low, but there’s steel in it. I see the fire coming back.

“Good! I want you to immediately draft regulations, start with a pilot in the Mid-Atlantic, and move fast!”

He nods, already reaching for his battered leather notebook. The old man moves faster than some of my aides half his age.

The next morning at the cabinet meeting, just as expected—

The air in the Roosevelt Room is thick with tension. Grant barely finishes his presentation when Wallace steps forward.