The fluorescents hummed.
President Elias “Bid” Bidwell sat at the circular table beneath their sterile light, his hands folded like a man in prayer. The countdown clock read twenty-nine minutes. Red phones blinked. Screens showed satellite feeds of smoke rising from alpine valleys.
His cabinet—“the Trading Desk”—ringed him: four tailored voices of destruction.
“Mr. President.” Secretary of Defense Brig. Gen. Max “Margin” Call leaned forward. His uniform was a technicolor index of wars he’d half forgotten. “We’re looking at a breakout pattern here. Clean momentum.”
Bidwell’s eyes moved to the screen. Tiny Montagna burned. Two cruise missiles lay in snow, nose-cone stubs twisted like broken fingers.
“They shot down our ally’s ordnance,” said National Security Adviser Nora “Knock-In” Option. She polished pearls the size of bullets, her voice as cool as an autopsy. “That’s a hostile act with significant alpha for American interests.”
“Lot fired first,” Bidwell said quietly.
“Mistakenly.” Option’s smile could cut glass. “Intention doesn’t price markets—perception does. And the yield here is crystal clear.”
CIA Director Gil “Gamma” Grind tapped his tablet. Numbers cascaded down the screen like digital rain. “Analytics show Montagna’s been accumulating nuclear materials. Bitcoin purchases—untraceable—through seventeen shell entities.”
“Show me proof.”
Grind fed him scrolling charts: projections that proved nothing and everything.
“Mr. President,” said Treasury Secretary Harry “Haircut” Hedger, keying numbers into a Bloomberg terminal, auctioneer twang in every syllable. “Shoot-fire, proof’s for courtrooms. We trade what folks believe.”
Six back-bench advisers nodded—suits stuffed with ambition and quarterly reports.
Twenty-seven minutes.
“I want a U.N. investigation.”
Margin Call’s laugh sounded like distant artillery. “Sir, you don’t investigate a fire while the building burns. You execute your exit strategy.”
“What building?”
“Global financial architecture,” Hedger said, fingers still dancing. “Montagna’s bitcoin could crater the dollar faster than a flash crash. Their hydro plants power a fifth of the network’s hash. That’s economic warfare nobody’s priced in.”
NSA Director Sylvia “Spread” Swap adjusted her wire rims. “Intercepts show Montagna prepping coordinated wallet dumps to crash markets and hurt Americans.”
Bidwell closed his eyes. Red dirt. Peanut rows. When problems were weeds, not nuclear fire and algorithmic war.
“What do you recommend?”
Option slid a leather binder across the table, movement precise as a limit buy. “Operation CIRCUIT BREAKER. Full response authorization, maximum positive carry.”
He opened it: emergency powers, domestic surveillance, financial controls Beijing would envy.
“This looks like martial law.”
“It’s portfolio insurance,” Hedger said. “Puts on chaos itself, I tell you what.”
The red phone rang. Margin Call answered, face turning to stone. “Lot’s ambassador: act now or look like paper hands. Asian markets open in six hours.”
Bidwell stared at the binder—powers that made him king or dictator; in markets, the spread was pennies.
Option leaned in. The scent was sharp, metallic—ozone after lightning striking dry fields. “History’s forming a long lower wick. Buy the dip on American strength.”
Twenty-four minutes.
He ordered bunker-lockdown protocol Delta. Steel doors boomed shut like fate closing.
Gamma Grind switched feeds. “Montagna’s primary hydro facility—live.”
Children crouched between turbine housings, steam hissing around dripping condensate. Pale faces. A girl—maybe eight—hugged a one-eared rabbit. His granddaughter’s age.
“Propaganda,” Option said. “A sympathy play for retail hearts.”
“Kids lit by stolen kilowatts,” Margin Call added, fingers drumming like a burst-fire. “We’re over-leveraged on emotion. Time to cut losses.”
Hedger’s screen flashed crimson. “Futures down fourteen percent, dropping faster than your retirement on fire. Only seizing Montagna’s wallets stops the hemorrhage.”
A clear voice from the corner: Lt. Col. Grace “Green” Candle, junior analyst the wolves had overlooked. “Isotope sweeps show zero centrifuge signatures. Montagna’s grid is all hydro, no enrichment capacity.”
Spread Swap killed her mic. “Feed glitch,” she murmured, but Bidwell caught the bead of sweat on her temple.
Twenty minutes.
“I need a moment,” he said.
They ushered him to a steel-lined alcove. A prayer room without a god.
Candle slipped in, passed him a tablet. “Lot’s parliament approved a JV to buy Montagna’s dams—after someone else levels them,” she whispered.
Telemetry, intercepts, time-stamped orders. Proof.
“They’re using us,” he breathed.
“Yes, sir. Cheap energy for Lot’s factories. The cruise missiles were theater.”
Eighteen minutes.
He walked back into the kill-light.
“I know what Lot is doing.”
Option didn’t look up from her pearls. “Which is why neutralizing Montagna before truth becomes a market factor maximizes yield.”
“It’s factual,” he said.
“Facts are lagging indicators,” Margin Call replied. “We trade forward guidance.”
Twelve minutes.
Screens showed Lot tanks rolling, American advisers alongside—America as convenient muscle.
“Sir,” Option warned, voice heavy with falling markets. “Four senior advisers, six analysts. Are you smarter than the Trading Desk?”
Ten faces, cold as winter returns.
Bidwell remembered peanuts, restraint, the man he’d been.
“What if I refuse?”
“Markets crash,” Hedger said. “Approval rating follows ’em.”
“And if I authorize?”
“Clean bounce,” Option promised. “You look presidential.”
Ten minutes.
The rabbit girl sang, mute on the feed.
“Decision time,” Margin Call said.
Bidwell’s hand trembled over the strike order. Paper weighed a thousand pounds. He signed.
Hedger slid a speech forward. “‘Defending freedom and financial stability.’ Markets eat that like Sunday dinner.”
“Bombers airborne,” Margin Call reported. “Breakout above resistance.”
Candle, unseen, livestreamed Bidwell’s anguished face. #StopLossPresident trended; allies threatened sanctions.
Seven minutes to impact.
The red phone rang.
Option answered. Color drained. “Lot’s foreign minister: missile misfire, calling everything off.”
Bidwell’s thumb found the recall button.
“Abort and the market tanks harder than ’08,” Option said, voice gone arctic. “Maximum drawdown across every scenario.”
Five minutes.
“Don’t let perfect be the enemy of profitable,” Margin Call urged.
The girl still sang.
Three minutes.
Option crossed behind him, a hand on his shoulder. “Think of the positive carry, sir. Strong markets. Legacy secured.”
Two minutes.
Screens flickered: defense stocks arcing upward.
One minute.
Bidwell’s thumb hovered. Peanuts in red dirt. His granddaughter. The rabbit girl.
He lowered his hand.
“Execute.”
Explosions bloomed like lethal flowers. Ticker spools crowed: Lockheed +37 %. Raytheon soaring. Crude oil limit up.
The rabbit girl—gone.
Markets rejoiced—exactly thirteen minutes.
Hedger’s screen flipped scarlet. “Algos just flipped—defense dumping fifty-three percent in twenty-two seconds. They bought your war and sold your victory.”
Option clawed for a terminal. “Buy the dip! Where’s my access?”
“Algos don’t care about geopolitics,” Hedger said, auctioneer twang evaporating. “They already exited. We’re in free-fall.”
Spread Swap muted the feeds, but the girl’s image was everywhere. Her glitch couldn’t stop the flood.
Bidwell had sold his soul for a bounce that outlived the girl by thirteen minutes.
Option resumed typing. “Domestic Transparency Act survives the crash,” she muttered. “Total information awareness, constitutional veneer.”
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” she added, voice hollow. “Security bought. The bill came due early.”
Smoke billowed over Montagna’s valleys. Candle saluted the ruined screen, tears tracking her cheeks.
The Trading Desk stared at cascading red. Their gods—alpha, momentum, sentiment—had abandoned them.
Bidwell sat, numb.
President of nothing.
King of craters.
The peanut farmer, dead.
The market whisperer, exposed.
Outside, the world burned at competitive rates.
Inside, the fluorescents droned. The clock reset for the next crisis, the next trade, the next stop-loss in the liquidation of America’s soul.
Bidwell closed his eyes and saw peanuts growing in clean red dirt.
It was the only honest thing left.