“2025”: Chapter 3

Project 2025: Schedule F meets the War on Science

PROJECT 2025 should disturb all of America—but almost no voters are going to read it.

I’m writing a book to make Project 2025 and Trump’s promises as real as possible—fiction as to how it would play out with real lives, but backed up by the actual facts and citations and proposed policies.

Please read and share:

Introduction And Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part 2

On Friday, my editor at the Capitol Monthly pulled me into his office. He said that some readers and advertisers were complaining about Rose Cunningham’s gripping series about how the new administration was impacting real people.

I pushed back.

“It’s amazing journalism,” I said. “I’ve admired her work.”

“I have as well,” he said. “She will keep doing her stories. But we need to add some balance to our coverage.” He held up his fingers in quotation marks as he said the word “balance.”

So he said I’d be moving from my beat covering Capitol Hill to take on a special assignment.

“You’re gonna spend some time in the field,” he said.

I’d spend the rest of the year depicting how the lives of everyday Americans were impacted by the new regime.

Not through surface-level stories quoting politicians, but deep reporting. Up close and on the ground. A bird’s eye view of American lives.

“Talk to Rose. She has a good nose for stories. Try to tell stories similar to her’s, but from the ‘other’ side.”

I flinched.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, what’s the other side of her last story? Or the first one? People celebrating the end of IVF? Or an INS agent celebrating protestor deportations?”

He shrugged. “Just come up with something.  Her story will be the main story. But your’s will be the balance. Be creative. Give the other side’s view. And of course, tell the truth.”

I shrugged. Sounded absurd.

But I also knew the pressure he was under.  Crowds were chanting “fake news” all over America because of stories like Rose’s. The President himself was livid. Businesses were being pressured to pull advertising from those who weren’t treating the president favorably. A few cameramen had been beaten up at his recent speeches. Rose had received death threats.

And because of her stories, the Capitol Monthly was clearly on the President’s list of “fake news.”

“Ok,”  I said. “I’ll do my best.”

I gave Rose a call.

Calvin Stegman

February 28, 2024

Chapter 3

Capitol Monthly

“Yvette Hardman”

Washington D.C.

By Rose Cunningham

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” the boyish, bleach-blond Chip Manson barked over the large rectangular table where a dozen people were sitting. “Shut down the entire facility? No way in hell are we going to do that. You want to turn the whole country upside down?”

It was just the first of 10 recommendations Yvette Hardman planned to make at the meeting, and now a comms kid from the White House—who had no business running this meeting—was already throwing it back in her face.

Yvette stole a quick glance to her right—toward the stately Dr. James Turekian, her only ally at the table, and the only other person qualified to be at the table—before responding. Two scientists, two civil servants, facing down whoever all these newcomers were.

“Sir,” she said calmly, patting several thick binders next to her, including the pandemic playbook. “That step comes directly from the protocol that multiple White Houses have agreed to for years. Going back to President Bush. At the first sign of multiple victims with severe resp—”

“—Excuse me?” Manson yelled back, speckles of saliva hitting the table as his long, thin face turned beet red. “Are you referring to that fucking playbook again?”

The gray-haired and bearded Dr. Turekian, her long-time mentor, looked down. They’d gamed out their approach this morning—on a conference call with some of the premier national experts on avian flu.

They thought of themselves as the shadow pandemic team—the experts who should still be at this table, but no longer were. One by one, over the prior eight weeks, they’d been ushered out of the nation’s most important federal posts, across various agencies whose mission was to prevent another pandemic. They had been meeting formally all fall, through January, alarmed at growing signs that avian flu in livestock in the south and midwest was on the verge of spreading to humans. Only one bad mutation and sloppy response from a true crisis.

The drama of the election and the victory of a science-denying candidate had kept the risk out of the national spotlight. Plus, when faceless undocumented immigrants in the shadows of rural America are the ones who got sick, that didn’t make the news either. America was largely clueless about the potential for its next great crisis.

But no more clueless, Yvette thought, than the faces that were now around the table, the ones who’d replaced all those experts and scientists since January. Together, the new crew turned to look Yvette’s way following Chip’s absurd tirade.

Eight white men. One white woman. Most had shown up for the first time at the February meeting, held deep in the dingy bowels of the gargantuan Old Executive Office Building. They’d moved the meeting site from the West Wing as part of the elimination of the Office for Pandemic Preparedness—the second time in eight years the same president had eliminated the office. Even though the first time had left the country unprepared for COVID-19 in 2020, no one who’d learned that from the first administration was back now. This new administration wanted to again bury the thing through this less formal task force, hide it in the bowels of the bureaucracy, and stick a partisan political hack at its helm.  Meaning politics would motivate the work, not science. Not real prevention.

Three more new faces joined them for this meeting.  As they introduced themselves, two of the three struggled to get their titles out right. And as in the prior meeting, all three walked in clinging to a glossy manual with a large photo of the president on its cover. No one had given Yvette a copy, but the content looked more political than official.

Only Yvette and Dr. Turekian appreciated the dramatic trade down American had made in such a short time.

Among them, the public health experts whom these people replaced had more than two centuries of the world’s richest experience researching and tracking and preventing the disease they were now confronting. Scientists and researches and security experts.  Doctors and veterinarians.  All at the top of their fields. And critically, they’d worked together long enough that they comprised a lithe, interconnected web of pandemic fighters.

The new president and his allies loved villainizing them all. Right-wing media and Congress piled on. The truth was, they were public safety superheroes.

Back when they met as the formal preparedness team, they’d conducted table-top exercises, simulations, and on-the-ground operations. Gaming out every aspect of an avian flu outbreak—from the initial wave of death and panic, to the disruption of the food chain, to the impact on the broader economic and supply chain, to the likelihood of civil unrest. They’d played it all out, challenged every assumption, refined every contingency plan, and all that work had led to the playbook Yvette had in front of her. No group was better prepared on the planet for what they faced.

And all that preparation—following the playbook to a tee—had come to the rescue when initial signs of avian flu popped up in milk and meat facilities last fall. Working with a network of state health and medical directors, industry representatives, National Academy of Sciences experts, ag and livestock biologists, and others, they’d been holding the risk at bay through active testing, monitoring and containment measures. Putting out fire after fire. But with all their talent and planning, they still worried sick it would not be enough.

Now, Yvette looked out at the ruins of it all.

Chip and the new president had disbanded the team in January. Then, one at a time, they’d ousted the experts from government entirely. To cap it off, Chip had just dismissed the end result of all that work—the playbook itself—with an f-bomb.

The new people staring at her remained silent for the second straight meeting. From what she had gathered from LinkedIn and press announcements, they were there largely due to recent political activity, fierce anti-science ideology or industry ties, or some combination of the three.  Several had been local politicians—a city councilman, a county commissioner and a state rep. The experience that got them in the door was having set the budget for a local health department, or sewer system, or chairing a health subcommittee. No direct experience. A little more digging showed that two had even been fake electors from the attempt to overturn the 2020 election, rewarded for their loyalty.

On paper, the brightest at the table were transplants from right-wing think tanks—smart, but wrong, driven by ideology. From those high-paying and corporate-backed ivory towers, they’d written tomes recommending the exact opposite of the playbook’s guidance. One had expounded on herd immunity as the best solution, citing pseudo-studies from small countries. Let it spread fast, he advocated. Which, Yvette and the shadow cabinet knew, would kill millions.

Despite the caliber of her audience, she persisted. As they’d all agreed on the morning’s shadow team call, she’d start by referencing George W. Bush so as not to appear partisan. But even that had bombed.

Her heart beat faster as she reentered the fray.

“Sir, we have war-gamed the scenario for years. Once multiple workers at a facility like this show symptoms this serious, it means a new mutation may have occurred. We have to shut the plant down and begin detection and containment measures. The risk of spread is high, even if we do all that well.”

Like tennis spectators, those around the table swiveled their heads back Chip’s way. Science vs. politics. Science vs. politics.

But unlike a good tennis match, all knew who would win, including Yvette. Because November had settled that contest.

Chip Manson made up for in anger what he lacked in age and stature. Couldn’t have been older than mid-30s. Skinny. His blonde hair thinning fast up both sides of his forehead. Eyes always seemed wide and red. A slick-talking political aide hired away from a Freedom Caucus House member, now running point on arguably the greatest current risk to American lives. As young as he was, and as much as his title didn’t impress, Chip had the one thing that counted these days in Washington: he was one of the President’s closest confidantes. That meant power.  Raw if intangible power. All of DC, including the new people at that table, adhered to that power now.

Which meant no one talked back to Chip Manson, in public or in meetings like this.

He slammed his open hand hard against the table.

“The minute you shut that place down, it’s out. You not only piss off industry, but the press will run with this, panic starts and prices go up. That screws the whole economy right when we’re getting started.”

One of the newcomers—an oversized man in a crumpled suit with thick, round glasses and bad, brown toupee—leaned forward and cleared his throat. One of the think tank transplants.

“I talked to the plant’s CEO this morning. He says they’ve got it handled. They’ll isolate the sick workers—they’re all illegals anyway, so their families are down in Mexico or somewhere else. Sub in some others, and keep going. Heck, the plant’s in the middle of nowhere anyway.”

The facility was actually near New Philadelphia, Ohio. It was a sizable operation, about an hour from Cleveland, where Yvette grew up anchored in Olivet Baptist Church and obsessed with becoming a veterinarian. From her challenging childhood, she never thought she’d be in a room like this, representing the Zoonotic Infectious Disease section of the Center for Disease Control, defending the health of millions against an invisible virus—and men like these.

Heads on the man’s left and right nodded, as if the confident “got it handled” assurance solved the problem.

“Thank you, Dan. Very helpful to know. Thanks for showing some initiative.”

Chip turned back to Yvette. “You OK with that?” he asked, in a tone suggesting there was only one right answer.

As they’d agreed before the meeting, Dr. Turekian now spoke up. Letting the only person of color stand alone on the firing line wasn’t going to work with this crew.

“Sir, I’m afraid that won’t work. There are already more workers sick than we know. This strain can incubate for up to two weeks without symptoms. And as you say, these are immigrants. They bunk in over-crowded dormitories, and are driven to the plant packed eight to ten per vehicle. Plus, out of fear, many will hesitate to come forward even after showing symptoms.”

Chip’s mouth widened, taken aback by the objections, and the humanizing of those workers.

But Turekian continued, looking around the room earnestly, trying his best to persuade. If only these people knew they were listening to one of the world’s experts on exactly the predicament they were in. But the true goal was more rudimentary than persuasion—it was to get the words out.  Their bare minimum goal of a meeting stacked against them.

“But the problem isn’t the workers, as much risk as they face. The problem is the meat itself. Those workers getting sick means that plant is unsafe. And wherever that plant ships its meat now poses a risk of wider spread. It’s a large-scale operation, which Dr. Hardman documents in her written presentation. As dramatic as it may feel, her recommendation is the correct one. And, only the first of many.”

No one but Chip and Dan from the think tank even looked at Turekian. Not the new Ag representative, whose job it was to know every detail on the impacted plant but knew nothing. Not the Homeland Security guy, now in his second meeting. Not the NIH guy, whose predecessor knew even more than Turekian himself. Not the woman who’d tried to introduce herself as the new director of HHS's Administration for Strategic Preparedness and Response, but had jumbled the words as she spoke.

Nope, they all looked down as Turekian spoke. Several grumbled.

Yvette had sensed it from the February meetings, and again as they entered today. The sidebar conversations. The chatter. The skeptical looks at her, and then at one another.

These people were still high on the election win. Arrogant. Geared up for political fights—and an extension of the campaign. The new president had run on clear promises, and they were going to effectuate them no matter what the experts and scientists told them. Heck, the whole point of the campaign was to defy and stand up to the “Deep State” of scientists and experts in the government. They had won promising to do just that—which meant science and that Deep State had lost.

Those seated around her were in these important posts to accomplish that goal. They saw their roles, as did Chip and the White House, as the vehicles of the president’s approach, not the old and defeated scientists’. So they weren’t being shy when refusing to make eye contact with one of the most respected scientists in America.  It was worse; they didn’t deign to listen to scientists. Heck, that’s why all the scientists but two were already out the door. And it’s why these new appointees were occupying their old seats.

And, Yvette knew, they certainly weren’t there to listen to recommendations from an African-American woman with long, braided corn-rows. The initial looks from the February meetings had made that clear. Even if the silver cross she wore everyday earned a quick, curious glance, they’d always return their gaze to her hair.

A major goal of the president was to eliminate “DEI” from all federal agencies. One of the think tank transplants now at the table had spelled that goal out in writing. So Yvette knew that when these people looked her way, all they saw was “DEI”—when she and Dr. Turekian were the only people with the actual qualifications to be at that table. But these people didn’t know enough to know that.

Chip cleared his throat. Turekian had thrown enough in that it simply couldn’t be dismissed. Part of the shadow group’s strategy from the morning call.

“Dan, please call the CEO and ask him about Dr. Turekian’s concerns. Hopefully he can deal with them without having to shut down.”

Yvette could feel her own temper boiling up—her body tensing. There was no way to “deal” with Dr. Turekian’s concerns without a shutdown. Six workers with severe symptoms from avian flu meant it was too late for that. Hell, given the 50% mortality rate—higher than even the peak of COVID-19 in early 2020, when hospitals couldn’t keep up with processing all the dead bodies—three of those workers would likely die in less than a week. If only these people knew the horror of how they would suffocate, alone, drowning in their own ravaged lungs.

But Chip even acknowledging Turekian’s words was a small step in the right direction. A tiny victory.

Turekian knew it as well.

“I’m happy to join the call with you,” he said to Dan. “I’ve worked with industry often on issues like this.”

Dan chortled, amused at the offer. Most of their other faces smiled too.

“No need, Doc. You may not have gotten the memo yet, but industry’s got a different attitude now that we’re in charge.  I’ll make the call and report back.”

Chip took charge again.

“Ok, Dr. Hardman. That takes care of your first recommendation. Do you have any others?”

Any others? Yvette thought.

Narrowing it just to ten had been work. They involved testing and mass screening protocols; ramping up their proactive monitoring network, and making it mandatory for hesitant farmers and food processing sites; building up mask and vaccine infrastructure in case a surge in both was needed (and knowing that China would horde it all if they could); reopening labs the president had ordered closed on his first day and reconnecting with drug makers to scale up production capacity and avoid price gouging; coordination with hospitals and health clinics across the nation; cooperating with state leaders and foreign allies; and so on. And all of this required a massive scale-up in manpower—from nurses to the national guard to an army of inspection and monitoring specialists fanning across rural America. All steps from the bipartisan pandemic playbook that the man in front of her had just cursed about.

Over the next 25 minutes, she managed to talk through four more steps. It didn’t go well.

The communications strategy was key, she explained. Striking the perfect balance of making the crisis real enough to spur Americans to protect themselves and reduce spread, but not so dire or hopeless to induce panic. Gently, and without blaming the president, she explained that had been one of the costly mistakes from 2020. What she didn’t say is that they’d felt like storm-chasers warning of an imminent tornado as millions walked right past available shelters. And that the president’s unscripted and cavalier words throughout had spurred the disastrous disconnect, leading to hundreds of thousands of needless deaths.

“Next,” Chip said impatiently when she completed that page.

For her third recommendation, just as they’d gamed it out, she praised the president’s 2020 “surge” of the COVID-19 vaccine.

“That was his biggest success in the pandemic. He listened to experts, showed great leadership, gave credibility to the vaccines, and saved countless lives. He should be prepared to—”

Chip smirked and waved his hand. “—Vaccines? Oh, he won’t be doing that again this time.” All but two around the table laughed out loud. In just four years, the same president had entirely reversed his stance on vaccines, and this new crew reflected that.

The next two steps were rejected just as quickly. Then Chip circled back to nix her communications recommendation.

As with the vaccine surge, all were rejected for hollow, political considerations. Nothing about science. Nothing about health. Nothing about consequences beyond the next week’s news cycle. If the nation were watching this meeting, they’d be horrified.

So facing the most dire risk of a major pandemic since COVID-19—a risk far more lethal than COVID, threatening to ravage much younger portions of the population and trigger a downward spiral of other societal consequences—the meeting ended with a single agreed-to step.

A resolution so asinine it left Yvette’s stomach churning: A guy who recently worked at a think tank funded by industry, calling up the CEO of the infected meat processing plant to ask that CEO if they could quietly handle this massive risk to the American public themselves.

The answer, of course, was no.

But as she stood up from the hour from hell, Yvette knew full well the CEO would say yes. As Dan himself had suggested, the election result empowered that CEO to say yes, no follow-up questions needed.

* * *

They didn’t want to be seen leaving the meeting together. So she and Dr. Turekian took separate Ubers back to their respective offices—he to the Department of Health and Human Services, she to the CDC— while debriefing over private cell phones. The entire shadow team had bought burner phones just after the inauguration.

“You held firm in there,” Dr. Turekian said in his gravelly voice. “And the presentation you circulated with them at least leaves a paper trail. And you emailed it as well?"

“Sure did. In a group email to all of them. So glad you got your words in. Might’ve been the only time you’ve broken through with some of those people, and your clarity gives us a leg to stand on.”

“Yes, but Chip and that Dr. Fowler shut it down fast. That was pre-planned. That company is a major donor to the president—Fowler and Manson were reading off their corporate talking points.”

“I’m sure,” Yvette said, always awed by Turekian’s inside knowledge.

“I’ll fill the team in. You get back to your office.”

They both hung up.

Yvette eyed her flip-phone uncomfortably as she closed it, her hands shaking.  They knew all their emails were being read. Government cellphones and texts no doubt listened to. Hopefully they hadn’t yet caught onto their new burners.

* * *

She walked briskly to her office after exiting the elevator. Two long hallways, usually clean and tidy, now strewn with boxes and papers as a revolving door of new and old staff rotated in and out of the various offices along the way.

As with the meeting at OEOB, she recognized only a few faces looking up from empty desks and through open doorways. Those strangers, the boxes crammed everywhere, and cleaning crews working over time all provided a reminder of the daily chaos that consumed her once orderly workplace.

The White House called it “the Project 2025 transition,” and it was turning Washington upside down. She pictured it as a long, meandering line of dominoes falling all around her, knowing full well one would topple her soon. Maybe even today.

The first fell above her, at the highest levels of the CDC—the overall structure split in half, two mega-sections uselessly cut off from one another, and the entire leadership team replaced over the course of two days in late January. Some highly respected people were out—experts she’d learned from for years. Mentors on science and pandemic prevention. Mentors in life and values.

Within days, the next dominoes tumbled far closer to her—she’d been “layered” by new appointees and hires within six weeks of the inauguration.  An extra level inserted between her work leading the Zoonotic Infectious Diseases section, and the top leadership at CDC. A layer of bureaucracy and meddling and watching that made no sense unless driven by politics and paybacks and control.

Then within her own section, even though she was technically the director, colleagues began dropping like flies around her. They’d come by her office, explain that a strange name and young face from CDC HR had dropped by, and were out by day’s end. Their access to technology cut off immediately; personal items cleared out by the end of the day; key fobs and security passes shut down as soon as they walked out for the last time.

A day or two later, new faces would appear—most far too young to have the right experience— occupying those newly vacated and scrubbed offices but visibly clueless about what they were supposed to be doing. Mainly waiting around, it seemed. No doubt for her and remaining leaders to go.

No one was briefing her on any of it, so Yvette had to call HR to learn who these people were, and what their job titles and descriptions were.

But whatever the job titles, the buzz of the place was now all politics, and almost no science. Once she saw their resumes and did research on her home computer, she understood why.

It was basically a swarm of political activists converging from around the country, some from the official party, others from more obscure far-right groups. Even, she learned online, a few pardoned January 6 participants.  While some had government experience at the local level, rarely was that experience relevant to the posts they were assuming now.

The only ones with any real experience or knowledge came from Congressional offices and the same think tanks who’d designed “Project 2025” in the first place. Like the two at the pandemic table, smart in one way. Ideological. But completely clueless about how public health really works, let alone how to prevent and battle infectious diseases. They simply repeated talking points from the White House—“herd immunity,” anti-vax propaganda, and the like.

These more ideological hires were the ones she worried the most about. They were true believers—and everything she stood for was everything they had arrived to fight against.

Which meant that they also were watching her. She was convinced that everything she said would be passed up the chain, to the new layer above her. And every day that passed, there were more of them than her. More eyes watching, more ears listening. And ever more chatter that would’ve been foreign only weeks ago.

The entire tone and culture of the workplace flipped in the cold weeks of February, when so much of the turnover took place. A serious-minded focus on science and health on the first of the month transitioned to a workplace where broader politics infected everything by month’s end.

And in a way that surprised even her, the focus wasn’t just about the politics of health and disease and how to respond. Rather, they were consumed with the broader political maelstrom that was tearing the nation and the Capitol apart.

In only weeks, what started as occasional and muted political whispers became far louder and nastier as more of them arrived. It grew even worse once TVs popped up in offices and break rooms throughout the CDC, all turned to the same right-wing channels. And once those TVs aired the large protests and crackdowns that exploded after weekly announcements of new presidential  orders and prohibitions, the toxicity of it all became suffocating.

In her office, watching on her computer, Yvette had cried at the sight of helmeted and oddly dressed soldiers beating, arresting and dragging away hundreds of women from their march on the Mall protesting the abortion and IVF ban orders.

But with smirks and gossipy chatter, the new hires clearly enjoyed the turbulence and violence that was making her stomach churn.  Like they were taking in a sporting event.

Yvette had already discovered that some of them had served time and were recently pardoned for storming the Capitol on January 6th. For them, she gathered, these crackdowns were their payback.  The revenge the new president had promised them. That’s definitely how they were acting.

The new crop of staff was different in one other way.  As at the table from earlier, diversity was gone. She’d always assumed that the right-wing talk of eliminating “DEI” was code for simply eliminating diversity—and people of color like herself. The initial wave of hires proved that instinct right.

Worst of all, what was playing out in the corridors of the Zoonotic Infectious Diseases section of the CDC was not isolated. She knew from the shadow pandemic team that it was happening on every floor within the CDC. It had happened rapidly over at HHS, from NIH to the FDA, driven largely by anti-abortion and anti-vaccination fervor.

And it spanned way beyond health agencies.

In the OEOB meeting, the new Agriculture representative was perhaps the most clueless. Just an unqualified partisan who’d started three weeks before. Which is why someone from a think tank was going to call the CEO of a tainted meat-processing plant rather than the Department of Agriculture approaching the problem by the book.

That empty Ag suit reflected a department that had disbanded its science agencies in mere weeks.  Because avian flu and other infectious diseases originated in America’s agriculture infrastructure—the milk and meat supply spanning across rural America—that decimation of top-flight ag science talent would cripple any national efforts to prevent or contain the most dangerous pandemics.

This bleak new reality whirled through Yvette’s head as she turned one corner, then completed her walk down the second long hallway and entered her office.

She was breathing quickly as she closed the door.  Rushing without even meaning to. Butterflies fluttering in her gut.

She knew the clock was ticking. The few civil servants who remained all knew it.

Like all the other dominoes in line before her, she’d be toppled soon enough. Turekian too.

But given the news from Ohio, there was so much to do.

* * *

“Dr. Hardman, how’d it go?”

A bright-eyed Michelle Simpkins greeted her as she entered her office. Miraculously, the 29-year old aide, who’d graduated with a master’s in public health from GW the prior year, had not received her HR visit yet. She’d been at Yvette’s Woodley Park condo until late last night, helping plan for today’s meeting.

“Awful, but about as expected. They could care less about what we have to say, or the risk. But they won’t be able to deny that we laid it all out—either orally, or in writing.”

“Well, that was our goal, so good.”

Thank goodness Michelle was still there. Her upbeat manner kept Yvette energized even through the darkest moments.

“How’d it go for you?” Yvette asked.

“All good,” she said, pointing to the laptop on the small roundtable where Yvette held one-on-one meetings. “Sent it to all the places we had talked about.”

As with Yvette’s burner phone, she, Michelle and all the others on the shadow pandemic team communicated via personal email accounts, private laptops, connected to personal cell phone wifi networks.  And in this case, Michelle had sent the written plan they’d laid out at this morning’s meeting to the entire shadow team, one email at a time.  A group email was too dangerous—if even one got out, it would expose them all at once.

“And you talked to our friends in Wisconsin, Minnesota and Michigan?”

“I did.”

Within the network, some of the most useful allies were health directors and their respective governors in blue states. They maintained large state-level health and agriculture systems and experts. Even though the federal government had become propaganda central, leaders in these states were still grounded in truth and willing to speak out. And, they maintained good relations with in-state papers that were less intimidated by the new administration.

Which was why Yvette was asking about them.

“And?”

“They will leak this information to their largest newspapers by close of business today. They expect it to hit the websites by 8 p.m., and to be on the front page of both newspapers by tomorrow morning.”

“Perfect.”

Even as she said the words, Yvette’s stomach quivered. Leaking information like this was the opposite of the care and confidentiality with which she’d treated pandemic-related challenges over the years. It defied her instincts of trying to address crises without causing public panic, a real risk here. Plus, it defied a lifetime of steering clear of any political machinations in how she did her work.  Everyone in public health had that drilled into their head from the first Master’s degree class on. It’s why she’d never contributed to a political campaign outside a Sunday school classmate back home who’d once run for City Council. And that one still made her nervous, since that friend later rose to the Ohio Statehouse.

At the same time, what Chip Manson most wanted right now was that silence. America and its press corps being in the dark allowed the president to steer the federal government into a wildly reckless direction versus the one she and Dr. Turekian had recommended. If nobody on the outside knew to question it, or knew the other options, the most dangerous path would be followed for all the worst reasons.

So after long and painful conversations in recent days, the shadow team had decided to put it out there. A summary of the risk—although its seriousness muted to avoid panic. But more importantly, a release of the 10-point plan presented to the new administration by people as respected as Dr. Turekian and Dr. Yvette Hardman. Once that hit the papers, if the White House didn’t pursue their recommended course, the press would have a lot of obvious and tough questions to ask. Needed pressure to do the responsible thing.

Going rogue like this went against all of their training. But no one on the shadow team could think of a better way to force the new Administration’s hand. And they were willing to take the risk now that meat processing workers were showing severe symptoms in rural Ohio.

Beyond sending just today’s presentation, Michelle had also spent the past month offloading every datapoint and study and test and model she could to the shadow team. Yvette’s colleagues in other agencies had done the same until their exits. They all knew that once they were gone, so much of the nation’s knowledge on all pandemic matters would disappear. The enormous vaults of information—all the studies, lessons learned, and contingency plans for any conceivable crisis—they had accumulated over the years would be wiped clean. Or, just as bad, censored and edited to serve the science-denying mantras of all the new people moving into these offices.

Offloading this treasure trove to their new network was a failsafe to preserve truth itself, on matters that could save the lives of millions of Americans. And it preserved the ability of their informal network to tackle any outbreak, even if the federal government failed to.

As Yvette looked at Michelle, she smiled to cover up the heartbreak she was feeling inside.

Her aide was as young and eager as she’d been when she’d taken on her first role at the Ohio Department of Health—after broadening her veterinary science studies to include public health—decades ago. Excited to change the world in a positive way, when the world seemed to want that as well.  Her generation was leaving a younger generation of Michelles a dark and dangerous world that they’d spend most of their lives cleaning up.

Yes, she’d grown up in poverty in Cleveland. Raised by a single mom who drove a school bus for a living. She’d struggled to overcome all that, all while breaking numerous glass ceilings in her field. But she feared that Michelle would have to overcome far more than that in her lifetime.  Her frenzied work over recent weeks would be just the beginning.

“Michelle, you should head out now. Take that laptop with you and don’t bring it back in. Maybe best to get rid of it entirely—I’ll get you another one”

Michelle frowned.

“You’re that worried.”

“I am. We spoke up today. The culture they’re creating doesn’t allow for that. And when this leaks, it will get far worse. There were a lot of people in that room—many so new that any of them could be gabbing about what we shared. Probably already are. But they’ll suspect us first. And either way, they’ll want to blame us.”

Yvette, Dr. Turekian and others had been careful that not a single word on their official computers or email accounts mentioned any of what they were doing. No outgoing emails would be incriminating. But still, she’d had trouble sleeping over the past week once they’d finalized the plan.

“I don’t want you anywhere near this place when it comes out.”

Michelle walked over to the small table, closed the laptop, and placed it in a small, black computer bag that was resting against the table leg.

“Ok. I’ll head out now.”

They shared a quick hug and she left.

Yvette sat down in the swivel chair at her desk and logged onto her desktop computer. She scrolled through emails that had come in since the morning. Largely grandiose pronouncements and new protocols from the new CDC leaders.

All politics, no science. Every day now. The latest push was that they were no longer to issue direct guidance as to how Americans should prepare for or react to various health risks. Instead, they were to pass any information up to the White House, and only the politicians at the top should speak to the people.

She fired off emails for the next twenty minutes. Official sounding communications to new staff, play-acting the role of a welcoming new boss onboarding new personnel.

Right before she pushed send on an email, the screen of her monitor went black, then reset to the log-on page.

Yvette re-typed in her name and password: TheLand1979. How she and other proud Clevelander’s referred to their hometown, wherever they ended up going. And the year she was born there.

Error. Unknown user name and password.

She typed it in again. Another error.

Then came a knock on her door.

Odd.  She had no meeting scheduled.

She opened it.

A young woman, perhaps in her mid-30s versus Yvette’s 48, smiled awkwardly.  She sported a brown pony tail and a shiny new badge on her chest: “Human Relations.” And she held a thick envelope in her hand, “Yvette Hardman, Director, Z.I.D.” printed across the topic.

“May I help you?” Yvette asked politely, knowing exactly why she was there.

The woman’s lips turned down into a grim frown.

“Miss Hardman, I’m afraid this is the day that someone will be replacing you.”

She handed her the envelope.

“The first page walks through the departure protocol. But I can summarize: we have now terminated your access to your government phone and computer. You will need to have your personal items out of here by 3:30 p.m. at the latest.”

Yvette looked at her watch.  It was already 1:15 p.m. This office had been her home for almost four years.

“Others got until 6, is my understanding.”

The young woman grinned politely.

“That’s been our usual process, but we have a dilemma today.”

Yvette shook her head, biting her lip.

Dilemma?

There was an avian flu outbreak not far from Cleveland. In a large meat processing plant. Several workers were within days of awful deaths, alone. A dangerous mutation was likely on the move. And here in DC, they’re ushering out the door all the people who actually know what to do about it, including her—replacing them with people who will do the opposite of what’s needed.

“And what’s that?” Yvette asked, knowing this young woman was just doing her job.

“Your successor is raring to go,” the woman said, glancing over Yvette’s shoulder, clearly taking in the shape of the office. “He wants to stop in at 5 p.m. and start moving in.”

Yvette looked down, squelching any temptation to lament her situation. She took a deep breath. Closed her eyes for a few moments, then opened them again.

No, she told herself. There’d be no mourning the end of many years of good, loyal service to the nation and its health. She’d done enough mourning in recent weeks, knowing that end was imminent.

This visit meant that all the work she’d done in recent weeks had been even more important. God’s work, she now knew.

Thank goodness they’d rushed. Thank goodness they’d pushed so much to the outside, giving themselves a chance to tackle the crisis through informal networks and state governments and any responsible corporations they could rope in.

They’d seen the crisis coming—not just the health crisis, but the government crisis—and had planned accordingly. All her training had paid off. They had done everything in their power. They’d taken risks. They’d been creative and proactive, empowering people to step up for their country.

In mere weeks, they’d built a Noah’s Ark for pandemic prevention for the foreseeable future—as well any group of people could have. The work would be far more difficult than if they were still in their government roles, but it was a miracle they’d built their Ark at all. And a whole lot of good, public-minded people were on-board, at the helm, working together, guiding it through the deluge around them.

Yvette stood taller, rolled her shoulders back, and cast a big smile back at the HR person.

“3:30 it will be.”

_______

Capitol Monthly

“JJ Newsom”

Washington D.C.

by Calvin Stegman

Weather permitting, JJ Newsom took in every airplane landing he could.

And no landing was more striking than the north-south approach into Washington D.C.’s Ronald Reagan Airport.

So as the Delta regional jet descended under 6,000 feet, JJ tucked the papers he’d been reviewing into a small bag and stared out the window.

From high above the suburbs of Maryland, early traces of the Potomac became visible below. Soon, the stately towers of the National Cathedral emerged high atop the long hill that descended down the District’s Northwest corner to the river. As the plane crossed into Virginia, directly over the sleek skyscrapers of Rosslyn, his window offered the perfect view of the narrow spires of Georgetown. Even in the cold, four long rowing shells skimmed along the water.

The plane banked hard left back over the Potomac, hugging the DC shore. A final look up to Maryland.

But the next bank—a tight turn back to the right—changed the scenery fast. The flight path zig-zagged the river’s path for both national security and aviation reasons. But those who didn’t know better might assume it was a tourism gimmick to show off the nation’s capital.

The two quick turns—hard left, then hard right—set up a direct view of the majestic Lincoln Memorial, lined up with the Mall, the Washington Monument and the Capitol behind it. JJ took a few photos, then spotted the top of the White House off to the left of the monument.

Passengers on the right-side of the plane peered out their windows as well. Looking down at Arlington Memorial and the Pentagon.

But the view from seat 12A of JJ’s second flight of the day—from Springfield Missouri via Cincinnati—was not only the show-stopper, but also the most fitting for his years-long journey that was ending today. And the new one that was about to begin.

As his wife Stella had promised for years, even that perfect view was part of his reward. A reward he’d surely earned. He took a long breath as the plane touched down.

* * *

It was funny, JJ thought after landing, right after sending the photos to Stella.

While the landing always offered the same views, they only really inspired him when the nation was in the right hands. Which was why the view had never looked better than just now.  Had never made him feel better. More patriotic. Rejuvenated.

When he landed during the Obama years—visiting for conferences and rallies and such—he remembered glowering at those same buildings. It was still the best landing in America. But his blood had boiled knowing that hostile forces occupied those ornate and historic buildings—built by real Americans, and meant to be led by real Americans. So he could hardly stomach the view when it was in those corrupt hands. People who used the power of the government to make decisions and advance dark values that offended every principle he believed in.

But today, for the first time in four years, America was America again.

“Welcome to Washington DC,” the flight attendant said as they taxied off the main runway.

A chill of excitement ran down JJ’s spine. Pride. His heart beat fast. Outside of a fierce temper that could erupt his worst moments, he had never been an emotional man. But a tear ran down his cheek as they pulled up to a gate.

The past four years had nearly broken him. But this flight, and the rest of the day, would bring that difficult path to an ending he could not have imagined even months before. Movies didn’t end as well as his life story was turning out.

That flight attendant’s welcome was the clearest reminder yet of how everything had turned around, so fast.

* * *

“Honey, I’m in the Uber. Heading in….”

His wife Stella remained back in Missouri. Rural Clay County was most famous for being the home of Jesse James, the namesake JJ had admired since he was a kid—more because he was a confederate than because he was a bankrobber.

“…I miss you already.”

Stella and their three kids would move to D.C. once school was done, and JJ had found a home.

“I’m so proud of you, honey. We all are. You have earned all of this.”

He did a double-take as the tinted car window reflected his new look back at him. A close-cropped cut of his sandy blonde hair replaced the more shaggy look he’d had for years. He stroked his new goatee, which Stella said made him look more intelligent. More in command.

“I wouldn’t be here without you,” JJ said. “You were strong throughout it all. Far stronger than I’ve ever been.”

His emotions suddenly got the best of him again—even more than on the plane. Tears flowed down his face as he spoke, which he wiped with the left sleeve of the new sportcoat Stella had bought last week and left out for him this morning.

From the moment of his arrest, Stella had understood, even though it had caught her completely off guard.

He’d told her he was going to a conference in Washington, which was true. He’d just left out that the political conference on January 5 was to culminate in a rally with the former president  (who was now the president again) the next day, to be followed by a march to the Capitol in an effort to stop the vote count.

Some of those caught up in the day’s activities didn’t know that was the plan. But JJ sure did. He was included in emails and text chains describing all of it. Knew every detail. He believed in the plan, and the cause.

There was no way the voters of America would’ve chosen to vote out the president who had taken America back for real Americans. America would never choose to have those hallowed buildings occupied by hostile forces dedicated to turning the nation into the hellhole it had become. Plus, the Deep State had conspired to topple the president—hyping the COVID pandemic to crush the economy and make the president look incompetent. His own mother-in-law was so freaked out by it all even she took the vaccine over JJ’s objections. That and the stolen election were the two final straws that convinced him he he had to do something.

So if it took a little hell-raising to convince the Vice President to do the right thing, who better than a patriot from Jesse James’ hometown to make that happen. So JJ “stood back and stood by” just like the president had asked. And when the president urged them all to march up to the Capitol—both in the days leading up to January 6 and again during that fiery speech—JJ had charged up that hill with more gusto than he had any Iraq battlefield years before.

The rest of the day had been a blur. Maybe he tried to erase the worst of his actions from his own memory—he often couldn’t remember the things he did when he was most pissed off.  Like the blackouts when he used to drink too much. But one too many cell phones and security cameras had caught him on tape beating a Capitol Hill police officer with his own baton.

Stella and he thought it was clear from the tape that he wasn’t trying to kill the young cop. Just knocking him down—keeping him from obstructing the rest of the crowd from entering the building. But the videos looked bad—the rage on his face, flaming eyes, snarl across his lips. And capturing the fact that he’d swung at the cop 23 times, and that some of the blows had strayed above his legs.

Yes, it looked bad.

He knew it. Stella knew it.

And once it went viral, the images were clear enough that it didn’t take the feds long to track him back down in Missouri.

As guilty as the tapes made him look, he refused to plead guilty or apologize.  After all, he’d been standing up for his country against those destroying it. But that recalcitrance got him sentenced to 10 years in jail after a short trial—among the longest sentences of anyone who breached the Capitol that day. While awful for him and his family, websites and listservs and chatrooms made clear that the lengthy sentence made him a hero among his fellow patriots. Admiring tweets, texts and emails flooded in, encouraging him to stand strong.

On the phone with Stella now, driving north along the Potomac on the Virginia side, he cried so hard that the Uber driver looked at him through the rear view mirror.

“Honey, you and the kids saved me. I would never have made it this far….”

He fell silent, remembering.

She’d driven or flown to the federal prison—usually alone, leaving the kids with her parents—so many times. She never once questioned his refusal to show remorse or plead guilty.

“You did the right thing, honey,” she’d said on every visit. “You fought for the country, and you stood up like the president asked you too. Someday, somehow, you will be rewarded for this.”

At those lowest moments, where her encouragement was all he had in his life, he’d just stare back at her over the wooden table in the visitors’ room, fearful that she’d leave him, and that the kids would forget him. But she never did, and she assured him she wouldn’t let them.

“The kids are so proud of you. They tell their friends you’re just like Jesse James. Willing to fight for the right cause.”

No words could’ve lifted him more than those. They kept him going through the hell of that prison, separated from his family.

Until the first of two phone calls that changed his life.

* * *

As the Uber crossed Memorial Bridge, with the white marble of the Lincoln Memorial directly in front of him, JJ remembered that first phone call, late last year. Every word spoken would remain with him for the rest of his life.

It was from his brother Jasper. He too had stormed the Capitol, but was smart enough not to have attacked a cop with cameras rolling. While he’d pled out and served one year for his actions, he’d been advocating for his brother ever since. They joked that he was Frank James to JJ’s Jesse.

“We just got the call,” he’d said over the prison phone, the joy in his voice contrasting with JJ’s somber mood—it was the third anniversary of the guilty verdict.

“Call from?” Jesse asked. He’d had hopes for this day, but didn’t want to acknowledge them until the moment happened.

“The transition team, of course,” Jasper said. “It’s a long list. Almost everyone made it, you included.”

Jesse knew what list it was, but wanted to confirm it before celebrating.

“Amnesty?  For all of us?”

“You got it, brother! You will be out by the end of the day. Stella’s on her way to get you.”

And that was the first time JJ had cried since he was a kid.  Stella was there by 5 p.m, and he was back in Clay County the next day. He celebrated Christmas with his family two weeks later.

While he had an inkling what Jasper was talking about on that first call, it was the call just after the New Year that caught him truly off guard.

It was from Blake Fallows, the leader of the group that had organized the conference that led to their storming the Capitol. Blake too had been sentenced and pardoned, and had kept close ties to the president’s people.

Blake and JJ had laughed about it when they’d first talked after JJ’s release. For four years, they’d been labeled a hate group. Treated like terrorists simply for advocating that America was meant for real Americans.

But now, because of one election, they found themselves in the inner circle of American power.

“JJ, they want you, dude,” Blake said. "They want you.”

“Who wants me?”

“The president does. And his people. They love that you were willing to take one for the team. No apologies. No remorse. That’s fucking loyalty—willing to give up 10 years for the president.  For the country. You’re a fucking patriot, and they know it!”

“So what do they want me to do?”

“They’ve got thousands of jobs to fill in the new administration. They want you to take one. They want to make a point to the country. Taking people like you—the most patriotic of the loyalists—and putting you into the most important jobs out there. Visible ones. It will send a message.”

“Fuck yeah,” JJ said, not having worked since returning home, watching the bills add up with no way to keep up on Stella’s teacher salary. “What kind of jobs are you talking about?”

“I’ve got a list I can send you.  Some really cool jobs, though. I’ll send some basic training about what they expect. You’ll make more than you ever have. They said to pick the one you want, and they’ll make it happen.  Only thing is, you need to move fast, because they’re offering the same to a few others too. Also, they say you and I can pick other people to join you wherever you go—to be your footsoldiers.”

Partly because of his temper, JJ had never been great at steady work. After being discharged from the Army, he’d worked his uncle’s farm. He’d then signed up for police training, spent time as a village cop, then transferred over to the Clay County Sheriff’s department. Too many complaints prompted a move to work as a probation officer. But he hated that, so he eventually got a job as staffer in the county’s health department, dealing with a wide variety of issues.

He never was very good at it, as any look at his file would attest. Checking in on various complaints and issues around the county—mostly from nagging neighbors and whiny community groups. But it paid the bills, got him out of the office most days, and didn’t take a ton of work. So he did it for a number of years. Moved his way up to managing three other staffers.

When Stella typed up all he’d done on a resume, they were pleased with how good they could make it all look. Veteran. Police officer. Deputy sheriff. County health official.

“I’d hire you!” Blake had joked, even if under the surface, JJ hadn’t done much good since his days in Iraq. And truth be told, he even had a criminal record before January 6th, something he confessed to Blake. That damn temper getting the best of him every so often.

“They don’t give a shit, JJ. They want you. I’m tellin’ ya, you’re gonna land something real top notch. You proved yourself, more than almost anyone.”

And Blake, as usual, had been right. A job with more power than JJ ever could’ve imagined.

Once word came down of his posting, he’d done his best to study up on all the new things the job required. Some big-name DC organizations sent him a ton of background materials, including training videos. Stella had always been the better student, so she hunted down articles on-line so they could learn even more. His 16-year old son also pitched in.

He read it all.

A lot he agreed with. How much freedom had been taken away during COVID. How dangerous vaccines were, and how they were mainly about making a few globalist companies billions. How useless masks were—the damage they did. How other countries had proven that letting things just go sometimes was better than shutting everything down—shutting down the economy and freedom. That led people to die too. From isolation. Turning to drugs like they were doing all over. Causing deaths like the vaccines did.

But he had to admit—as he did to Stella a few weeks back: a lot of what they sent him went over his head.  The stuff that dealt more with science. He’d never liked science much, nor was he good at it. The health department job had been more about dealing with complaints like long grass than either health or science.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she’d told him. “They wouldn’t put you there if you weren’t up to it. Plus, there will be experts there to help you.  And the people above you will show you what to do. You’re more like the face of the operation—the loyal representative of the president. You’ve already proven it—no one will better represent the president in this job than you will. That’s what all those videos explained, remember? And that’s why you’re there.”

Then she’d flashed that cat-like, troublemaking smile he loved so much.

“Plus, on that science stuff, just remember what my favorite motivational speaker says….”

JJ had chuckled then, as they’d sat at their small dining room table with papers and folders spread across it. And he smiled again now, recalling the conversation.

She had about 10 favorite speakers—and was always quoting them to cheer him up.

“Which one’s that?” he’d asked.

“Fake it til you make it!”

He laughed outloud. That’d always been one of his favorites too.

* * *

Once in the heart of D.C., just like the landing, JJ soaked it all in.

They drove above around the Lincoln Memorial, up the Mall, past the World War Two Memorial, then turned left with the Washington Monument looming up a hill to the right.

They passed the Ellipse—the place where they’d launched their charge to the Capitol, which had led to prison. It looked so bland now, compared to when the president had fired them all up with that patriotic speech.

A rush of adrenaline pulsed through him even now. As Stella assured him over all those years, his actions that day would someday be rewarded. Today was that day.

He nodded, satisfied, like a veteran observing a battlefield where he’d earned glory years before.

Minutes later, the Uber stopped.

“Here you go, sir. You here to take one of the new jobs?”

“Sure am,” JJ said proudly.

“I’ve met so many of you lately.”

“We’re gonna save our country.”

The driver eyed JJ through the rear view mirror. The two made eye contact for a split second, but the driver said nothing.

No surprise, JJ thought. The guy had some kind of accent you’d never hear back in Clay County.

JJ stepped out of the car and walked into the impressive, modern building before him.

He stared up at the sign at the entrance, took out his camera, and took a selfie.

From Clay County to Washington D.C., he texted Stella. We did it!

We sure did, she texted back right away. YOU did it!

He walked in, gave his name and showed his driver’s license at security, then took the elevator to the 8th floor. He looked at his watch as the elevator slowed.

It was 4:59 p.m. He’d never been punctual in past jobs, often cutting corners on both ends of the work day. But now that he’d be in charge, he wanted to send a message from the first day he showed up. The boss has to set the tone.

As the elevator door slid open, he stood straight, lifting his shoulders up and puffing his chest out. He’d worked out all through prison and since returning home. Staying fit was another important trait he planned to emphasize. He would again lead by example.

A young pretty blonde with a badge that said “Human Relations” on it greeted him. In her hand was an envelope. The words “JJ Newsom, Director, Z.I.D.” appeared across the top.

ZID?  He did a double-take.

Then he figured it was the acronym for his new department. He hadn’t seen it presented that way before.

She greeted him with a big smile, handing him the thick envelope as she spoke.

“Welcome, Director Newsom. Right on time.”

“I trust that’s the norm around here,” he said seriously.

Fake it til you make it, as Stella said.

“I’m sure it will be now,” she smiled back. “Already an improvement.”

They walked down two long corridors, a number of staff members watching him stroll past through open doors.

“We are so excited to have you starting today. Some are so excited they waited to say hello.”

Not only did these folks look happy to see him, some looked familiar to him. Clearly from the list Blake had sent to the White House—and from the group that had gathered on January 5, which they’d now disbanded. Who needed an outside group when you’re on the inside?

They were better dressed than the last time he saw them. Clean-shaven too. Several reached out to shake his hand as he walked by.

“Excited to have you here, sir,” one heavy-set man said in a deep voice. “Damn proud to work for a patriot like you.”

“Thank you,” JJ said. “We’ll get this place turned around fast.”

No one ever talked to him that way back in Clay County, even when he’d managed three health workers. Now, JJ felt like a general inspecting his troops.

Two offices down, a lanky, taller man reached out to shake JJ’s hand.  Maybe in his late 20s. JJ remembered him well.  His baby face had stuck out four years before, at the conference they’d both attended on the 5th. Now here he was, taking on an important role.

“Glad to have a young patriot like you on board,” JJ said, the words coming out so easily. “We’ve got important work to do.”

Fake it til you make it.

Stella was right. It was working. JJ lengthened his stride, feeling more confident already.

Plus, like the videos had said, it was all about loyalty. These guys met the bill. They’d picked a good team.

At the end of the hallway, they reached a wooden door with a nameplate on the side: “Jesse J. Newsom, Director.”

Director.

The young woman waved a card past a keypad just under the nameplate. After a click and the quick flash of a green light, she pushed the door open.

“Here you go,” she said as they walked in, then turned the lights on.

His eyes opened wide as he scanned around. He bit down on the smile that was forming.

It was a bigger, fancier office than any he’d seen in all of Clay County. Bigger than the commissioners’. A corner one too, with large windows on one side. He’d never had windows before. Or a view.

The young woman winced at him, almost apologetically. “She left at 3:30, but we worked hard to clean it up for you.”

He nodded his approval.

“It’ll do just fine.”

He paced in a small circle around the office, looked out the window to the street far below, then sat down behind the gleaming desk. He leaned back, swiveled the chair around, and lifted his legs onto the desk.

He angled his phone just right, taking a selfie that captured both the wide grin on his face and the new leather boots resting on the desktop. Boots Stella had bought him to celebrate the new job. Their new life.

He laughed at the photo, then sent it to Stella with a short text.

Made it!

Author’s Note:

Both Trump and Project 2025 are crystal clear that the first move of their right-wing takeover of American government would be the displacement of tens of thousands of non-partisan civil servants with political and personal loyalists. And they’re equally clear that displacing science and scientists is a central theme of that agenda.

Recruiting and Training Partisan Activists

Project 2025’s opening pages explain that its overall success requires a “trained and committed cadre of personnel to implement” the overall plan. (Page xiii) “Our goal is to assemble an army of aligned, vetted, trained, and prepared conservatives to go to work on Day One to deconstruct the Administrative State.” (Page xiv)

And the first Chapter of Project 2025 — “Taking the Reins of Government” — focuses on how “the new Administration must fill its ranks with political appointees…. Empowering political appointees across the Administration is crucial to a President’s success.” (Page 20).

“Political appointees who are answerable to the President and have decision-making authority in the executive branch are key to this essential task. The next Administration must not cede such authority to non-partisan “experts,” who pursue their own ends while engaging in groupthink, insulated from American voters.”

The plan continues: “Any new Administration would be wise to learn that it will need a full cadre of sound political appointees from the beginning if it expects to direct this enormous federal bureaucracy.” (Page 82)

But the plan’s authors don’t just propose all this. They’re already working on it.

A big part of Project 2025 is its ongoing effort to recruit and train political loyalists to enter the new government through the “Presidential Administration Academy, an online educational system taught by experts from our coalition. For the newcomer, this will explain how the government functions and how to function in government.”

The goal is to recruit at least “20,000 new foot soldiers.”

They’re already airing a recruiting video, instructing their recruits: “It’s your job to ensure that that power is executed…in line with the President’s will.”

Replacing Civil Servants and Experts with Loyalists

With this new army of political foot solders in place. Project 2025 and its backers don’t mince words about their goal: “Bend or break the bureaucracy to the presidential will.”

How? As JD Vance says— “fire ‘every civil servant in the administrative state.’” 

In everyday speak, that means get rid of experts and scientists who are in the government because of their expertise—and not politics or loyalty. Trust in these employees is the problem, according to Project 2025—“the progressive ideology that unelected experts can and should be trusted to promote the general welfare in just about every area of social life.” (Page 83).

So Project 2025 aims to end this approach: “A conservative President must move swiftly to do away with these vast abuses of presidential power and remove the career and political bureaucrats who fuel it.” (Page 8) He must “bring the Administrative State to heel, and in the process defang and defund the woke culture warriors who have infiltrated every last institution in America.” (Page 9). Project 2025 “…lays out how to use many of these tools including: how to fire supposedly “un-fireable” federal bureaucrats.” (Page 9)

How? It’s Called Schedule F

The vehicle to get this done is called Schedule F — where the administration is “to prepare lists of such confidential, policy-determining, policymaking, or policy-advocating positions and prepare procedures to create exceptions from civil service rules when careerists hold such positions.” (Page 80)

Trump tried this toward the end of his presidency, but Biden rescinded the order before it took effect.

Currently, there are around 4,000 political appointees in the federal government. Project 2025 aims to bring that number to at least 50,000—but this “is probably a floor rather than a ceiling, which will ultimately be determined by a highly politicized leadership that might want to clean house.”

“They are stating unequivocally that federal employees must give their loyalty to the president, and that he or she should be able to remove anyone insufficiently devoted to the cause.”

For a broader primer on Schedule F, go HERE.

A Top Target: Scientists, CDC, Pandemic Prevention

Amid this overall politicization of the federal workforce, both Project 2025 and Trump himself have made clear that they are targeting scientists, health experts and, yes, pandemic prevention.

The CDC, Project 2025 explains, is “perhaps the most incompetent and arrogant agency in the federal government,” and “should be split into two separate entities.” (Page 452).

The plan mandates that the CDC should go beyond health risk assessments in its recommendations, into some type of quasi-religious balancing: “For example, how much risk mitigation is worth the price of shutting down churches on the holiest day of the Christian calendar and far beyond as happened in 2020? What is the proper balance of lives saved versus souls saved?” (Page 453)

And the CDC should not make recommendations on how Americans can keep themselves health and safe. “By statute or regulation, CDC guidance must be prohibited from taking on a prescriptive character. For example, never again should CDC officials be allowed to say in their official capacity that school children “should be” masked or vaccinated (through a schedule or otherwise) or prohibited from learning in a school building. Such decisions should be left to parents and medical providers. We have learned that when CDC says what people “should” do, it readily becomes a “must” backed by severe punishments, including criminal penalties. CDC should report on the risks and effectiveness of all infectious disease-mitigation measures dispassionately and leave the “should” and “must” policy calls to politically accountable parties.” (Page 454)

How’s that sound in the midst of a pandemic?

Project 2025 also shows open hostility to science and prevention when it comes to Health and Human Services, including no longer enforcing the COVID-19 vaccination mandate on Medicaid and Medicare hospitals. (Page 475).

Another example?

The chapter above emphasizes the importance of agricultural scientists in pandemic prevention. In his first term, Trump decimated those very aspects of the Department of Agriculture—proposing to slash them, then shipping them far from Washington. As one expert explained, the impact was devastating: “"The agencies have been decimated. Their ability to perform the functions they were created to perform – it doesn't exist anymore.”

This was part of a broader trend: ”There was also hostility in the Trump administration towards science, and so, if you were a federal employee and a science agency, that was the double whammy.”

“Food and farming research took a major hit over the Trump years, and unwinding that damage means restoring decimated agencies and mistreated employees.”

Finally, Trump has already announced that he will “disband the Office of Pandemic Preparedness and Response Policy (OPPR).”

What has that office been dealing with most recently?

You guessed it: “The office most recently responded to an outbreak of bird flu in dairy farms, coordinating with the Food and Drug Administration to ensure milk remains safe to drink, and working with farmers to contain the virus.”