On the afternoon of Friday, February 7, as staff members were getting ready to leave the headquarters of the National Institutes of Health, just outside Washington, D.C., officials in the Office of Extramural Research received an unexpected memo. It came from the Department of Health and Human Services, which oversees the NIH, and arrived with clear instructions: Post this announcement on your website immediately.

The memo announced a new policy that, for many universities and other institutions, would hamstring scientific research. It said that the NIH planned to cap so-called indirect costs funded by grants—overhead that covers the day-to-day administrative and logistical duties of research. Some NIH-grant recipients had negotiated rates as high as 75 percent; going forward, the memo said, they would now be limited to just 15 percent. And this new cap would apply even to grants that had already been awarded.

The announcement was written as if it had come from the NIH Office of the Director. It also directed all inquiries to the Office of Extramural Research’s policy branch. And yet, no one at the NIH had seen the text until that Friday afternoon, several current and former NIH officials with knowledge of the situation told me. “None of us had anything to do with that document,” one of them said. But the memo was dressed up in a way clearly intended to make it look like a homegrown NIH initiative. (Everyone I spoke with for this story requested anonymity out of fear of reprisal from the Trump administration. HHS did not respond to requests for comment.)

Over the next several days, the memo sparked confusion and chaos at the NIH, and across American universities and hospitals, as researchers tried to reckon with the likely upshot—that many of them would have to shut down their laboratories or fire administrative staff. A federal judge has since temporarily blocked the cap on indirect costs. But the memo’s abrupt arrival at the NIH, and the way it bulldozed through the agency, underscores how aggressively the Trump administration is exercising its authority and demanding compliance. “Their approach seems to be We go in; we bully; we say, ‘Do this; you have no choice,’” and shows little regard for the people or research affected, one former official told me.

Typically, a memo communicating a major decision related to grants would take months or years to put together, sometimes with public input, and released six months to a year before being implemented, one current NIH official told me—earlier, even, “if the impact will be more substantial.” In this case, though, Stefanie Spear, the HHS principal deputy chief of staff, told officials in the Office of Extramural Research, which oversees the awarding of grants, that this new memo needed to be posted to the NIH website no later than 5 p.m. that afternoon—within about an hour of the agency receiving it. Soon, the timeline tightened: The memo had to be published within 15 minutes. “It was designed to minimize the chance that anyone within an agency could even have time to respond,” another former NIH official told me.

Substantial changes are generally vetted through HHS leadership, and NIH officials have always “very much abided by the directives of the department,” the former official said. But in the past, drafting those sorts of directives has been collaborative, a former NIH official told me. If NIH officials disagreed with a policy that HHS proposed, a respectful discussion would ensue. Indirect-cost rates are controversial: The proportion of NIH funding that has gone to them has grown over time, and proponents of trimming overhead argue that doing so would make research more efficient. A cut this deep and sudden, though, would upend research nationwide. And to grant recipients and NIH officials, it seemed less an attempt to reform or improve the current system, and more an effort to blow it up entirely. Either way, a unilateral demand to publish unfamiliar content under the NIH’s byline was unprecedented in the experience of the NIH officials I spoke with. “It was completely inappropriate,” the former official told me.

But Spear and Heather Flick Melanson, the HHS chief of staff, insisted that the memo was to go live that evening. Officials immediately began to scramble to post the notice on the agency’s grants website, but they quickly hit some technical snares. Fifteen minutes passed, then 15 more. The two HHS officials began to badger NIH staff, contacting them as often as every five minutes, demanding an explanation for why the memo was still offline. The notice went live just before 5:45 p.m., and finally, the phone calls from HHS stopped.

Almost immediately, the academic world erupted in panic and rage. At the same time, the news was blazing through the NIH; staff members felt blindsided by the memo, which appeared to have come from within the agency but which they’d known nothing about. The notice’s formatting, tone, and abruptness also led many within the agency to suspect that it had not originated there or been vetted by NIH officials. “I’ve never seen anything so sloppy,” the current NIH official, who has written several NIH notices, told me. “We also don’t publish announcements after 5 p.m. on Friday, ever … I checked multiple times to be sure it was real.”

The NIH had already been caught in the Trump administration’s first salvo of initiatives. On January 27, a memo from the Office of Management and Budget froze the agency’s ability to fund grants. (In the following week, multiple federal judges issued orders that should have unpaused the funding halt, but many grants remained in limbo.) And in 2017, during Donald Trump’s first term, his administration went after indirect costs, proposing to cap them at 10 percent. That prompted the House and Senate Appropriations Committees to introduce a new provision that blocked the administration from altering those rates; Congress has since included language in its annual spending bills that prevents changes to indirect costs without legislative approval. On February 10 of this year—the Monday after the memo restricting those rates went up—yet another federal judge issued yet another temporary restraining order that again instructed the NIH to thaw its funding freeze.

Last week, the NIH told its staff to resume awarding grants, with prior indirect-cost rates intact. But “the damage is done,” the former NIH official said. Scientists across the nation have had their funding disrupted; many have had to halt studies. And at the NIH—where roughly 1,000 staff members recently received termination notices, amid a mass layoff of federal workers that stretched across HHS—those who remain fear for their job and the future of the agency. The nation’s leaders, NIH officials told me, seem entirely unwilling to consult the NIH about its own business. If the administration remains uninterested in maintaining the agency’s basic functions, the NIH’s purpose—supporting medical research in the United States—will crumble, or at least deteriorate past the point at which it resembles anything that the people who make up the agency can still recognize.

The president of the United States is demanding that American citizens use only the words that please him, and he is punishing those who refuse to do so. This is the essence of his attacks against the Associated Press, which he has barred from the White House for referring to the Gulf of Mexico as “the Gulf of Mexico.” He is now demanding that the news agency acquiesce to his renaming of the body of water. “We’re going to keep them out until such time as they agree that it’s the Gulf of America,” Donald Trump said to reporters earlier this week.

This is not how it works in the United States of America. In our nation, free speech is a God-given right. It is not something that Trump, Elon Musk, or anyone else can grant or take away. Americans are born with the right to speak freely, and to publish freely. In America, as I have written previously, we are free to criticize the government, which is accountable to the people, not the other way around.

Americans for years have confused the power that techno-authoritarians exercise over the social-media platforms they operate with the responsibilities of government. This confusion in many ways presaged our present moment, and the question of who is in fact running the country—the richest man in the world or the man who was elected president. In the past, some of those who have railed against censorship on privately held platforms, such as Facebook and X, may have had good cultural reasons to gripe, but they didn’t really have a classical free-speech argument. (Mark Zuckerberg, who complained about the White House apparently pressuring him to edit and moderate his platform in accordance with its wishes, did have a reasonable free-speech complaint.)

Trump may wish to run the United States like a business, but there are key differences between what a government can do and what a private company can do. A private-business owner can kick people out of his establishment for saying things he doesn’t like. The government cannot. And while it may be Trump’s prerogative to grant access to the Oval Office only to people who will say the words he wishes for them to say, no American, no one who believes in principles established by the First Amendment, should tolerate Trump’s exceedingly un-American reaction to our most sacred freedom.

Call the Gulf of Mexico whatever you want. Call it the Gulf of America, or the Gulf of Steve Martin, or the Gulf of Flying Spaghetti Monsters. This isn’t about a single body of water, or even politicization of language or the naming and renaming of landmarks. It is about basic American principles. The president is floating a great big test balloon, looking to see just how much of an encroachment on freedom Americans will tolerate. Some Americans, like the leaders of the news site Axios, have preemptively acquiesced. (The explanation they offered—that it would use “the Gulf of America” because “our audience is mostly U.S.-based”—was conspicuously illogical and painfully embarrassing for its cowardice.) Many more Americans still remember what their freedoms mean, and what it means to fight for them.

Memorize these words: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Donald Trump may believe he has the authority to do whatever he wishes, the legislative and judiciary branches be damned. But he still has to answer to the people. Freedom of speech makes this country great. It keeps power in check. It brings truth to light. Trump has tried repeatedly to classify Americans who happen to work as journalists as “enemies” of the people. But they are the people. And it’s none of the government’s business what any of its people choose to say.

The Trump administration is fully engaged in a drive to eliminate virtually any government activity or mention related to climate change—with a few notable exceptions. Take, for example, a single tax credit in Joe Biden’s signature climate law that may have the best chance of survival out of any climate-coded policy.

A provision in the Inflation Reduction Act, known as 45Q, enlarged a tax credit for any company willing to capture carbon dioxide. A version of this credit has been in place since George W. Bush’s presidency, and in its current iteration, it represents billions of dollars in federal incentives. If the Trump administration moves to keep 45Q intact, that choice would be an unusual vote of confidence from the president for a large government expenditure billed as a way to fight climate change. (The White House did not respond to a request for comment.)

The politics of this tax credit are unusual in the climate world too. Both the oil industry and some climate-minded Democrats in Congress want to keep it. Among its opponents are environmental groups, as well as avid Donald Trump supporters in South Dakota and other states where carbon-capture infrastructure would be built.

Only in recent years has carbon-capture technology made a name for itself as a climate solution. But it was—and remains—primarily a way to produce more oil. The version meant to help mitigate climate change, by storing carbon in the ground virtually forever, might have made sense when instituted alongside many other climate policies. But as a stand-alone measure, carbon capture starts looking more like a handout to the oil industry.

The climate argument for carbon capture goes like this: If one ton of carbon is captured from an industrial process, such as a refinery, and then injected into underground formations, that’s theoretically one ton less carbon added to the atmosphere, where it would have warmed the planet. This process, however, is both expensive and unprofitable. The IRA tried to solve that problem with 45Q, which raised the maximum tax credit for every ton of carbon dioxide a company captured from $50 to $85, if the intent was to store it forever, or $60, if the intent was to produce more oil—which was carbon capture’s original purpose.

In the 1970s, after the OPEC crisis, the oil industry began to look for new methods to milk existing wells for all they were worth. One method was to inject carbon dioxide underground, where it would act as a solvent, liberating the more stubborn oil residues in otherwise-depleted wells. Today, some 4 percent of American oil is produced with this technique, and the majority of all carbon captured from any industry is used to produce more oil and gas.

The price difference in the tax credit was meant to boost the climate-solution version of carbon capture. But critics say the smaller credit, for enhanced oil recovery, is a generous subsidy to the oil industry, which also ends up with a valuable product to sell. And the product potential is enormous: The Department of Energy has said that, if carbon capture was used to its fullest extent to enhance oil recovery, the American petroleum industry could extract the equivalent of 38 years’ worth of the country’s current crude-oil supply.

45Q has many admirers: Oil-and-gas-industry giants such as Exxon and Shell are all in on carbon capture, and Doug Burgum, Trump’s interior secretary, is a big fan of the technology. Losing the credit—which represents billions, perhaps tens of billions, of dollars that the government is giving up in tax revenues—would be such a blow to the nascent industry that it “would effectively cut it off at the knees,” Jessie Stolark, the executive director of the Carbon Capture Coalition, told me. And if the credit does survive, it may benefit the oil industry even more: Republican senators just introduced a bill to raise the tax credit for enhanced oil recovery to the same level as the one for long-term carbon storage.

The tax credit also still has fans among Democrats who see it as a way for the country to cut down on its emissions. Ron Wyden, a Democratic senator from Oregon, was an author of the IRA energy-tax package, and “is strongly supportive of this credit and is already working to defend it from Republican attacks,” Ryan Carey, a communications director with the U.S. Senate Committee on Finance, told me. But many environmental groups think carbon capture and storage is a false solution. Although carbon capture and storage is widely said to be necessary to combat climate change in a world where burning fossil fuels continues, as of now, the technology to store carbon long enough to keep it out of the atmosphere permanently hasn’t been proved reliable at scale. Even projects held up as success stories encounter unexpected problems with keeping highly volatile carbon dioxide in place underground.

Communities in the path of carbon capture projects also worry about the safety of the pipeline expansion. To transport highly pressurized carbon dioxide from the places it would be captured—such as ethanol plants and refineries—to wells for storage, the country would need to build a lot of new pipelines. Carbon dioxide is an odorless, colorless gas, and at high enough concentrations, it’s an asphyxiant. If a pipe were to burst, no one might know for a while. The gas is also heavier than air, so it would hug the ground and roll downhill, choking off the oxygen of whoever is in its path. (This happened in 2020, in Satartia, Mississippi; 45 people were hospitalized.)

Karla Lems, a Republican representative from South Dakota, voted for Trump and considers herself a conservative. She is among the most vocal opponents of a pipeline that the company Summit Carbon Solutions plans to build across her state and four others, to bring carbon dioxide from ethanol plants to a storage site in North Dakota. The company is attempting to use eminent domain to clear its way, which incensed Lems. “George Washington said freedom and property rights are inseparable,” she told me. She sponsored a bill now making its way through the state legislature to bar eminent domain for carbon projects. (For a while, Summit planned to put it directly through her family’s farmland, but the company eventually decided to site it on her neighbor’s land instead, she told me. Summit declined to comment for this story.)

To Lems, the 45Q tax credit is exactly the type of handout and government bloat that Trump promised to eliminate. “In my mind, this is a company that stands to make a lot of money from this project, which I believe is just a grift on the taxpayers," she told me. “It’s all a big boondoggle and a scam. We’ll see if the Trump administration can see it for what it is.” Chase Jensen, an organizer at Dakota Rural Action, which is also working to block the Summit pipeline, says many of his group’s dues-paying members voted for Trump and would see it as a betrayal if he decided to keep the tax credit. Many assumed Trump would be against it, given its presentation as a Biden-branded climate solution, he told me. But more than that, he said, “these folks hold property rights as one of the most core rights.” That those rights would be traded so that, as they see it, a corporation could make money would violate their deepest conservative values.

Already, the Summit-pipeline fight has “completely restructured” leadership in South Dakota, Jensen said; 11 Republican representatives who had voted for pro-pipeline legislation lost primary elections for state House and Senate seats. Jensen expects that the Trump administration’s stance on 45Q will be disillusioning for supporters who might have expected the president to side with people over corporations. “People are going to have to reconcile what’s happening,” he said. (Summit has said that the project would need “reassessment” if the tax credit were repealed.)

So far, the U.S. has relatively few carbon-dioxide pipelines—just 5,300 miles’ worth, compared with roughly 3 million miles of natural-gas pipelines. But the Department of Energy predicts that could grow substantially. Without the tax credit, much of that growth would likely be out of the question. With it, the administration could be setting itself up for a new fight that unites climate activists with aggrieved landowners.

In some ways, the politics of this fight look familiar: After the Obama administration failed to pass climate legislation in 2010, the climate movement started making common cause with conservative landowners in Nebraska and other states that the oil pipeline Keystone XL was set to cross. (Some of the same players are fighting the Summit pipeline now.) That fight continued through the entire first Trump administration, and ended only when Biden blocked the project. Now the Trump administration is reportedly looking at resuscitating that pipeline project too. In its first weeks, the second Trump administration has rerun the attacks on climate policy from its first go-round—leaving the Paris Agreement, stripping climate information from public view—but has also taken them further, culling any federal employees and programs that have a whiff of promoting environmental justice.

45Q presents a challenge: Conspicuously preserve a program billed as a Biden-era climate solution, or axe something with bipartisan support that the oil industry—which contains some of Trump’s most important business allies—wants to keep? Already, the administration has appeared to selectively protect at least one big Biden-era climate project in Montana—the expansion of a plant making sustainable jet fuel—after a Republican senator pressed the White House to release the funds. This administration might be skeptical of both big government and climate science, but that ideology can be bent for the right backers.

A year ago this week, Senator John Thune and 21 of his Republican colleagues defied Donald Trump and voted to send $60 billion in U.S. aid to Ukraine as it tried to ward off Russia’s invasion. “America cannot retreat from the world stage,” the South Dakota senator later said, explaining his vote. “American leadership is desperately needed now more than I think any time in recent history, and we need to make sure that Ukraine has the weaponry and the resources that it needs to defeat the Russians.”

The vote was gutsy: It drew a rebuke from Trump, who was then heavily favored to capture the GOP presidential nomination. And it was taken even though the bipartisan bill faced uncertain odds in the House, until Speaker Mike Johnson backed it two months later. The measure passed, and assistance continued to flow to Kyiv.

Twelve months later, Ukraine’s future is even more imperiled. Over the past week, the Trump administration has made clear that the United States will no longer be Kyiv’s largest and most crucial supporter, and that it might sideline Ukrainians from negotiations meant to bring an end to the war. But the response from Republicans has been noticeably different. Thune, now Senate majority leader, has remained silent, as have many of his GOP colleagues. He did not respond to interview requests this week.

[Read: The accidental speaker]

Republican capitulation to Trump is a familiar story line, but the moment is nonetheless worth marking. With a few, mostly timid exceptions, the party that once prided itself on standing up to Moscow—the party of Cold Warriors Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush—has bowed to a president who himself is bowing to an adversary. And as Trump officials yesterday embarked on negotiations with their Russian counterparts that could reward Vladimir Putin’s gamble on seizing territory from a sovereign neighbor, Republicans faced a new, extraordinarily high-profile test: whether to prioritize their long-held national-security beliefs or their loyalty to the president.

“The founders intended Congress to be first among equals of the three branches of government, [but] you’d be hard pressed to know it though looking at today’s Republican-controlled Congress,” Richard Haas, the former president of the Council on Foreign Relations, told me. Haass, who worked in three previous Republican administrations, said that Republicans have been “not just subservient but invisible,” while “not holding hearings or otherwise challenging the Trump administration’s unconditional embrace of Putin’s Russia, the dismissal of Europe’s interests and Ukraine’s demands.”

No representatives from Ukraine or other European nations were present at a hurriedly arranged meeting between U.S. and Russian officials yesterday in Saudi Arabia. Secretary of State Marco Rubio told reporters afterward that Russia and the United States had agreed to work on a Ukraine peace deal and to explore “the incredible opportunities that exist to partner with the Russians” both geopolitically and economically. The message amounted to a dizzying change from President Joe Biden’s isolation of Moscow after the Ukraine invasion, which many Senate Republicans broadly supported.

Last week, Trump’s White House signaled a fundamental shift in relations with both Europe and Russia by stridently dismissing longtime democratic allies while looking to re-establish ties with the nuclear-armed autocracy to the east. The president prioritized a call with Putin over one with Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky and invited the Russian leader, and not the Ukrainian one, for multiple summit meetings. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth ruled out Ukraine joining NATO or receiving substantial future American security guarantees as part of the negotiations to end the war. Vice President J. D. Vance upbraided European leaders for freezing the far right out of government in their nations. And then yesterday, at a Mar-a-Lago news conference, Trump chided Ukraine for the conflict, snapping, “You should never have been there,” and ignoring that it was Russia that invaded.

[Read: The day the Ukraine war ended]

Some Republicans in the Senate offered outright support for Trump’s Putin-friendly view of American security. “I don’t think anybody really believes Ukraine should be in NATO now,” Senator Eric Schmitt told reporters last week. “Unless you want World War III.”

Others took a more measured approach, expressing the wish that the U.S. would still support Ukraine—or at least not yield to Putin—while still avoiding outright criticism of Trump. Senator John Cornyn, who voted for the aid package last year, told reporters after Trump’s call with Putin, “Ukraine ought to be the one to negotiate its own peace deal. I don’t think it should be imposed upon it by any other country, including ours. I’m hopeful.” But he added: “I can’t imagine President Trump giving up leverage. I don’t know what his strategy is for negotiating, but he’s pretty good at it. I think it surprises people, including me, sometimes what he’s able to pull off.”

Few represent the Republican Party’s evolution more than Senator Lindsey Graham, who spent years as the late Senator John McCain’s wingman, earning a reputation as a globe-trotting national security hawk. But he has since become one of Trump’s most obsequious supporters, often offering over-the-top praise of the president in a way that McCain would not have recognized. Over the weekend, Graham highlighted Trump’s plan to seize half of Ukraine’s rare earth minerals as payment for the United States’ support of Kyiv in the war, praising the scheme as “a game-changer.”

Zelensky immediately declined the proposal. But only a few Republican senators—including Mitch McConnell and Susan Collins—publicly opposed Trump’s concessions to Russia. “This was an unprovoked, unjustified invasion,” Collins told reporters. “I appreciate that the president is trying to achieve peace, but we have to make sure that Ukraine does not get the short end of a deal.” Senator Roger Wicker criticized Hegseth’s declaration last week that Ukraine would not recover its territory, deeming the statement a “rookie mistake” on the world stage. But the White House believes those voices of GOP dissent will stay in the minority, a senior administration official told me under the condition of anonymity to discuss internal strategy.

[Read: Trump is remaking the world in his image]

Trump has been eager to strengthen ties with Putin and asked aides to schedule a summit with the Russian leader in the weeks ahead, the official said. The president has told aides he believes that resetting relations with Russia reduces the chances of a nuclear war and will allow the U.S. new economic opportunities. American officials who spoke to reporters after the Riyadh meeting suggested that Biden-era sanctions on Russia could be lifted, and they did not spend much time in their briefing with reporters discussing Moscow’s violation of international law in invading Ukraine or the war crimes allegations against Putin for the attacks.

Instead, Rubio, whose own views have seemingly evolved since his time in the Senate as a Russia hawk who supported NATO, made a point to repeatedly praise Trump’s approach to Russia. “For three years,” Rubio said, “no one else has been able to bring something together like what we saw today, because Donald Trump is the only leader in the world that can.”

Thom Tillis, another Republican senator who strongly supported the funding bill a year ago, has continued to support Kyiv even though he cast the deciding vote to confirm Hegseth. Tillis, in fact, made a trip to Kyiv on Monday with two other senators, pledging support for the war effort even as the Trump team was landing in Riyadh to begin negotiations without Ukraine.

“I believe, first, we should understand that this is just the beginning of a dialogue. There is no specific framework that’s been mapped out yet,” Tillis said. “We expect that that will come to pass very quickly, we hope, and that Ukraine has to be front and center as a part of the negotiations to make sure that it’s something sustainable.”

Tillis then turned to his colleagues for validation. Both assented. But both were Democrats.