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If there’s one climate policy you’re likely to hear about in the debt ceiling deal, it’s the Mountain Valley Pipeline.
The 304-mile pipeline, which will link West Virginia’s booming gas fields to the East Coast and Texas, essentially received automatic approval under the bipartisan deal. The bill compels federal agencies to approve the pipeline and then shields those permits from judicial review, all but guaranteeing the project’s eventual completion.
If nothing else, the deal brings the saga over the Mountain Valley Pipeline to a close almost a year after it began: The White House initially agreed to support the project last year in exchange for Senator Joe Manchin of West Virginia’s support for Biden’s climate law. But neither Manchin nor Biden could get a bill containing the pipeline through Congress last year as part of a larger package of permitting reforms. Manchin persevered, and the pipeline wriggled into the deal over the weekend thanks to House Republicans and oil-and-gas lobbyists. Manchin, it seems, finally has his pipeline.
The project isn’t the most important climate item in the deal. That distinction has to go to the deal’s preservation of the Inflation Reduction Act, which will ensure hundreds of billions of dollars go to clean energy and infrastructure over the next decade. Nor is it the deal’s worst blow to the climate: As I wrote yesterday, Democrats’ failure to secure any power-grid reform takes that title.
Yet the Mountain Valley Pipeline, or MVP, is the item that environmental groups have focused on the most. “Allowing this deal to advance sets a dangerous precedent,” Ben Jealous, the Sierra Club’s executive director, said in a statement. “We can pay America’s bills without undermining bedrock environmental protections or fast tracking the fracked gas Mountain Valley Pipeline.”
So I was curious: How big a deal is the MVP? When completed, it will transmit 2 billion cubic feet of natural gas a day: What does that actually mean for the country’s natural gas transmission?
Well, here’s a potentially helpful chart:

This is the Energy Information Administration’s chart of new natural-gas pipeline capacity from 1995 to 2022 with my addition. I’ve added the MVP’s capacity at the right. As you can see, the MVP alone will add more pipeline capacity than the entire U.S. added last year — but that’s partially because the country added much less capacity in 2022 than it has in any year since records began in 1995.
I’ll be honest that the chart helps me think more clearly about the project, but not in a way that’s easy to describe. The Mountain Valley Pipeline is a medium-largeish pipeline — big enough to single-handedly expand the country’s ability to move natural gas, but not so big that it will change the fundamental trend that fewer new pipelines are getting built every year.
The MVP’s most important effect may not be its size, but its strategic location: By connecting the productive Utica and Marcellus shale fields in Appalachia to the Transcontinental pipeline, a massive backbone conduit that links New Jersey to the Rio Grande Valley, it will make it easier for cheap natural gas to reach the population centers — and export terminals — of the Eastern Seaboard and Gulf Coast. That will, in turn, spur a modest increase in natural-gas drilling, which could increase American emissions by roughly 6 to 16 million metric tons a year, according to an estimate from The Washington Post.
The Inflation Reduction Act, by comparison, will eliminate roughly 660 million tons a year by 2030. So preserving the IRA is worth the carbon cost of this pipeline — but it would be better, of course, not to have to make such a choice at all.
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The question is whether he still has a choice.
The United States has resumed bombing Iran, the U.S. military’s regional command announced on Wednesday. The United States also bombed more than 80 sites on Tuesday, including radar and air defense facilities, but the new set of targets is more expansive.
President Trump declared on Wednesday that the ceasefire between the two countries is dead. Yet he also suggested that an extended war isn’t on the table. “We’re not looking for long term,” he said at the NATO Summit in Turkey. “Anything that happens is going to be over very quickly … and will only make it safer, including for oil.”
Such a statement surely reflects the president’s awareness that his war isn’t very popular among Americans. But does he have any leverage anymore over how long the war lasts? When Trump okayed the interim Iran ceasefire in June, he said that Iran would not toll oil and gas tankers passing through the Strait of Hormuz. Since then, Iran and Oman have started setting up the infrastructure to do just that. That discrepancy may have been the ceasefire’s doom: The truce broke down after Iran fired missiles at oil and natural gas tankers that were allegedly not using its approved route through the strait. (Iran has said that its preferred route through the waterway is the “only safe passage.”)
American officials have said that restoring freedom of navigation through the Strait of Hormuz is one of their goals in ending — and now, resuming — the war. But the strait was open to all before the war began; Iran only shuttered it after the United States and Israel began bombing in February. Yet now that Iran has learned how easily it can close the strait and keep it closed, it has a new weapon to wield over the American and European economies.
And what of the country’s nuclear program? Back in March, it allegedly didn’t play into the calculus, partly because President Trump claimed the U.S. had destroyed the program in 2025. Instead, Secretary of State Marco Rubio said that the president had no choice but to enter the new conflict because Israel was already going to bomb Iran, and since the Islamic Republic would respond by targeting American bases in the Middle East, the United States might as well strike first. A day later, President Trump changed the story, saying that Iran was already planning to bomb U.S. military bases, which forced pre-emptive action on America and Israel’s part.
Yet by April 1, the president had justified the war to the American people by citing Iran’s nuclear program more than 20 times. “For years, everyone has said that Iran cannot have nuclear weapons. But in the end, those are just words, if you’re not willing to take action when the time comes,” he said. The new conflict had obliterated the country’s navy, defense industrial base, and ability to produce missiles, he said. Yet Iran — partly thanks to its small, cheap drones — was able to keep the strait closed for another two months.
What does all of this mean for energy and decarbonization? More expensive fossil fuels. The global crude benchmark Brent surged to $80 a barrel today, while West Texas Intermediate surpassed $74, bringing both to roughly the same level as when the June ceasefire was first announced. Researchers at Brown University estimate that Americans have paid $60 billion — or roughly $500 per household — more for gasoline and diesel than they would have had the conflict never happened.
If this stage of the war doesn’t go “long term,” as Trump hopes, then at least the world will have a little more oil than anticipated to work with, as stockpiles have risen in recent days. But a new and extended phase of the war threatens a return to the prices seen earlier in the spring — or prices that go even higher, should China decline to tap its reserves this time. One potential early pain point is diesel, which is already expensive because of Ukraine’s strikes on Russian refineries. Costlier fuel will keep encouraging more EV sales in Europe, Asia, and even the United States; high diesel prices in particular will provide a tailwind to the shockingly rapid electrification of China’s trucking sector.
Of course, the war will bring much more besides — more squandered time, more military spending, more human misery. It is the first that Trump might regret most. A conflict the White House joined without much public debate — and once forecast would last “four to six weeks” — now looks likely to eat much of his second term.
Pollution from peaker plants combined with heat and smoke can push summer air quality into the danger zone.
If you ever have to pick a day to stay inside, pick July 5. In cities across the United States, the Fourth of July’s pyrotechnic revelries make the wee hours after Independence Day consistently one of the worst of the year for air quality. Just look at Washington, D.C., which briefly held the distinction of having the world’s most polluted air this past Sunday morning following one of the largest firework displays in history.
But if you have to pick a second day to stay inside, shoot for one during the second half of July, which is the hottest period of the year in the United States. For one thing, it’s just plain miserable out. For another, the country’s 1,000 or so peaking power plants, or “peakers,” are more likely to be operating to meet the energy demands of heavy air-conditioning use, emitting disproportionately high levels of pollution for the electricity they generate.
Peakers are the backup power sources operators run only when demand is at its highest, such as during a heat wave. Peakers are also “probably the dirtiest and most expensive energy on the grid,” Abbe Ramanan, who leads the Phase Out Peakers project at the nonprofit Clean Energy Group, told me. “They tend to burn dirtier fuels, such as oil, and typically have older and less efficient emissions control systems.”
Some 63 million Americans live within a three-mile radius of a peaker, according to a 2023 Clean Energy Group report, where they face health conditions including “significant … increases in estimated rates of hospitalization for asthma, acute respiratory infection, and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease,” all conditions associated with proximity to fossil fuel-fired plants. On top of that, historic redlining practices mean two-thirds of peakers are located in communities with a higher percentage of low-income households than the national average, according to the group’s reporting. And yet peakers also provide life-saving power and AC when a blackout could mean death, such as during last week’s heat wave on the East Coast, making them simultaneously a menace and necessity to maintaining public health, at least with our current grid.
What exactly is peaker plant pollution? How does it appear in the Air Quality Index you might see on your phone? And how do local regulators consider pollution when issuing air quality forecasts? I set out to get answers.
To understand peaker plant pollution, let’s start with a refresher on how air quality alerts work.
The AQI scale runs from 0 to 500 and reflects the local concentrations of five major pollutants: particulate matter, ozone, carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide, and nitrogen dioxide. Each pollutant has an Environmental Protection Agency-regulated benchmark for what is safe (many of which are set at levels clean air advocates argue are too lax). As concentrations increase, the overall AQI rises to warn first “sensitive groups” and then the general public when to take precautions, such as limiting outdoor activity or wearing a mask. (To learn more about the AQI scale, read my colleague Emily Pontecorvo’s explainer here.)
As do all fossil fuel power plants, peakers release planet-warming carbon dioxide as a byproduct of combustion, along with nitrogen oxides, particulate matter, volatile organic compounds, and other trace toxins that aren’t captured in the AQI, such as heavy metals. Oil and coal-fired power plants also release sulfur dioxide, which creates acid rain; natural gas-fired plants, on the other hand, emit comparatively little.
While NOx is an irritant in its own right, it is, more significantly, a key ingredient in the chemical reaction that creates ozone. When NOx mixes with volatile organic compounds — found in vehicle exhaust, personal care products, and yes, also power plant emissions — on a warm, sunny day, the chemical reaction creates ground-level ozone, which is corrosive enough to scar lung tissue with repeated, prolonged exposure. An expert once helpfully likened it to me as “sunburn on your lungs.” Health researchers have determined that, globally, ozone (also known as smog) causes a million premature deaths every year.
Yes, although it’s not an easy or neat measurement.
Peaker plants are used to rapidly supply electricity to the grid when demand exceeds the baseload capacity. As a result, they run infrequently — only about 5% of the year, or 464 hours per plant, in 2022, per Clean Energy Group’s analysis of 2022 EPA data. Using a stricter definition of peakers, the Government Accountability Office found that the plants represent nearly a fifth of the nation’s potential generating capacity but produce only about a 30th of its overall electricity, mostly due to the time they spend sitting idle.
Power plants use a number of emission control systems to limit emissions of various pollutants. But the EPA has much looser requirements for low-operating peakers, which “may not have effective, if any, emissions control technology,” the GAO writes. When operational, peakers emit an estimated 60 million tons of CO2 per year, with a median NOx emission rate about 6.1 times greater per unit of electricity generated by natural gas-fueled peakers compared to non-peaker gas plants.
“One really big issue with peakers is the emissions control systems are not operating during times when the plant is starting up or shutting down, which means that emissions are just unabated during those times,” Ramanan told me. “And because those plants tend to operate in short bursts, such as during a heat wave, they will start up and shut down more frequently.” Even up to a day beforehand, when the plant is running its test cycle, it might be emitting pollutants even while not actually providing any power.
One 2017 study by University of Wisconsin–Madison researchers found that across the Eastern U.S. from 2007 to 2012, total electricity generation rose by about 4% for every 1-degree Celsius (1.8-degree Fahrenheit) increase in daily summer temperature, with NOx correspondingly up 3.6% and CO2 up 3.3%. Though these numbers aren’t peaker-specific, the plants represent a disproportionate share of the rise since they’re reserved for the hottest, heaviest-load days.
Though the slower rise in NOx suggests “slightly cleaner plants … on average,” the authors write, that is “not completely unexpected, as new natural gas plants are required to have controls installed even as some peaking plants do not.” They note, however, that their data does not fully capture grandfathered-in units, since gas- and oil-fired peakers are allowed non-direct-measurement reporting.
In fact, in Maine and Connecticut, which “use more petroleum for electricity generation than most states in the U.S., primarily as peaking plants deployed on the hottest days,” NOx jumped 33% and 23% per degree Celsius, respectively. Separately, a 2016 study found that peaking plants may have accounted for up to 87% of local particulate matter in the PJM Interconnection during a July 2006 heat wave.
Peaker plant pollution is significant enough that chronic exposure in local communities has measurable health impacts. But how does it factor into summer AQI levels?
My colleague Matthew Zeitlin spoke this week with Margaret LaFarr, the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation’s director of air resources, who told him that peaker plant pollution is “one of the factors we consider” in formulating its air quality forecasts. But because the state’s agency uses modeling to predict when and where air quality will be poor, the granularity of a single peaker just isn’t there. “If we have to have specific information on the emissions, it would not be ready in time for a timely advisory,” LaFarr said.
Ramanan, whose nonprofit has diligently recorded the negative impacts of peakers, concurred that it is “difficult to pinpoint just how much peaker plants contribute to local air pollution because those sorts of studies are just very expensive to do.” Studies that look at disproportionate health impacts, on the other hand, are a little simpler to put together.
Additionally, while the AQI might rise locally near peakers during a heat wave, because of the nature of the scale, it can’t neatly distinguish why. A high ozone reading, for example, might just as easily be due to tailpipe emissions on a hot day; in the New York metro area, vehicles are responsible for an estimated 60% of the air pollution. Meteorological conditions — whether it’s sunny, a key factor in ozone formation, or which way the wind is blowing — obscure the picture. Particulate matter readings could be from a peaker, for example, but they could just as easily be from wildfire smoke.
One way air quality activists like to think about peaker pollution is as a co-occurrence — that is, a compounding pollution on top of already degraded conditions. Hot days tend to be the worst for ozone already, because of the aforementioned tailpipe pollution; peakers, activated to help with the heat-related energy load, then release more ozone-generating emissions at the worst possible time.
While a precise breakdown of the AQI might not be there for peakers, “we know the days that are more conducive to ozone formation generally tend to be those same days where people are cranking up their ACs and there is a higher demand for energy,” LaFarr said.
There is some speculation that cleaner input fuels could help reduce the worst peaker plant emissions. Generally, this is true: The 2017 study by the University of Wisconsin–Madison researchers found that from 1997 to 2015, in Texas, petroleum use in electricity generation dropped 85% and coal dropped 12%, while natural gas increased 57%. As a result, Texas had the lowest level of SO2 sensitivity of any state.
But beyond the existing fuel mixes, fuel switching is not a clean fix for peaker plants. “Burning things like hydrogen and [methane captured from waste processing facilities] don’t actually reduce the air pollution burden in any meaningful way,” Ramanan argued. “Hydrogen in particular tends to actually have extremely high levels of NOx emissions when it’s combusted.”
In Astoria, a neighborhood of New York City, activists opposed retrofitting the local oil-powered peaker plant to run on natural gas because doing so would “lock the state into relying on fossil fuels for decades, fly in the face of the state’s climate law that requires a drastic reduction in carbon emissions by mid-century and continue to pollute in an already overburdened community where many residents are immigrants and live below the poverty line,” Inside Climate News reported. At the same time, doing so would “reduce the state’s greenhouse gas emissions by more than 5 million tons through the year 2035,” per its owner, NRG Energy.
But a third way emerged: New York eventually denied NRG’s permit because it violated the state’s climate law, and the utility subsequently sold the Astoria facility to serve as the converter station for Beacon Wind, a development off the coasts of New York and Massachusetts.
While wind, new transmission, and battery storage all face enormous headwinds in the current political climate — meaning that many peaker plants targeted by activists for retirement are likely to stick around for years yet — advocates remain adamant that a playbook exists for decarbonization. “In terms of replacing one-to-one capacity, we’ve been looking at battery storage even just at peaker plant sites that can be paired with renewables or grid connected batteries,” Ramanan said, adding that “really great work is also being done in terms of virtual power plants and demand reduction — because it’s not just about reducing peak capacity, it’s also reducing the peak overall.”
That raises a final, particularly thorny question: Is air pollution from peaker plants “worth it” if it means being able to run AC?
A 2018 follow-up study by the same team of researchers at the University of Wisconsin–Madison explored a similar question. They found that climate change alone would increase summer mortality related to the smallest airborne particulate pollution by more than 13,500 deaths, and ozone-related mortality by more than 3,500 deaths in a mid-century scenario. AC-driven power sector emissions — full-fleet numbers, albeit disproportionately including peakers — would, on top of that, account for 654 PM 2.5 deaths and 315 ozone deaths, a nearly 5% and 9% increase, respectively, over climate impacts alone.
Researchers credit access to air conditioning in the United States with a 75% decline in deaths, and modeling exercises frequently show that a blackout during a heat wave could realistically result in hundreds of thousands of people needing medical attention. But clean air advocates also point to examples like Astoria, where the denial of a permit to retrofit a peaker plant for slightly better fossil fuels resulted in the grounds being used for a renewable energy source instead.
It’s certainly not an easily replicable process given the current political and economic climate, but it also perhaps suggests a false dichotomy of peakers vs. AC. Affordable power and livable spaces are just two among a host of community needs energy and public health officials must keep in mind.
“It’s not enough to just replace the existing system with renewables and battery storage and have fewer emissions,” Ramanan said. “It also has to be equitable, because otherwise we’re just going to replicate the same issues we’re having now in different ways.”
Two former defense officials argue that Rivian may be as important to America’s national security as SpaceX.
For years, policymakers have debated electric vehicles as if they were merely another consumer product. They are not.
Electric vehicles are the largest source of demand for advanced batteries, and batteries are rapidly becoming one of the foundational technologies of the 21st century. They power cars, drones, data centers, grid storage systems, autonomous weapons, military platforms. Over time, they will power most of the wider economy. In strategic terms, batteries are beginning to look less like mere automobile components and more like semiconductors — that is, chokepoint technologies critical to the functioning of modern society.
The future of the U.S. EV industry matters far beyond transportation. Given that electric vehicles remain the primary source of demand for batteries, a healthy U.S. battery sector requires an American auto industry that produces and sells EVs at scale. Without a strategic plan that marshals both public and private sector investment in support of EV uptake by American consumers, the U.S. will leave itself with critical security vulnerabilities — not in some far-distant future that may never come to pass, but in the present.
Right now, China rules the global battery ecosystem. Chinese firms lead not only in battery manufacturing, but also in the upstream processing of critical minerals, the production of midstream cathodes and anodes, and the commercialization of next-generation battery technologies. China also controls most of the global processing capacity for graphite, the key material used in battery anodes, and dominates production of the intermediate components that determine battery cost and performance.
The implications of this imbalance extend well beyond auto production, or even mere economics. As we know well from our time serving in the Pentagon, the Department of Defense’s future force will rely increasingly on electrification. Tactical drones and other autonomous systems, portable power units, communications equipment, unmanned logistics vehicles, and resilient military installations all require advanced batteries. In case any of this remained in doubt, the conflict in Ukraine has demonstrated beyond dispute the central importance of battery-powered platforms on the modern battlefield. The same will inevitably prove true in the Indo-Pacific, where the U.S. military is investing heavily in unmanned systems designed to operate across vast distances and obviate risks from lengthy supply lines.
Unfortunately for the Pentagon, defense demand alone is far too small to sustain a globally competitive battery industry. The Department of Defense cannot create the manufacturing scale necessary to compete with China, as military procurement represents only a tiny fraction of battery demand. Only the commercial market can provide the volume needed to drive innovation, lower costs, and sustain domestic production, and the commercial market is driven overwhelmingly by electric vehicles. Here, the loss of consumer tax incentives undermined American automakers’ turn towards EVs, causing them to write off tens of billions of dollars of investments.
This is the strategic reality often missing from America's energy debate. Even a country as large and powerful as the United States cannot maintain a world-class battery industry while undercutting the largest source of battery demand.
Some policymakers appear to believe that the United States can support battery manufacturing for military systems, artificial intelligence infrastructure, and grid storage while simultaneously slowing EV adoption. That is wishful thinking.
Without a robust domestic EV market, battery manufacturers lose the scale that makes investment attractive, and production will inevitably move elsewhere. That's fine for other manufacturing sectors like t-shirts and toys, but unacceptable for technologies with critical national security applications.
The United States has seen this movie before. American firms pioneered many of the technologies behind solar panels, lithium-ion batteries, and lithium iron phosphate batteries, but China ultimately captured much of the manufacturing base for these products. Through sustained investment, patient industrial policy, and relentless focus on scale, Chinese firms drove down costs and built ecosystems that are now extraordinarily difficult to replicate. The result is that companies such as CATL and BYD occupy increasingly dominant positions in the battery sector, akin to those once held by American technology champions.
As a result, China's EV industry is now becoming a global export powerhouse. Chinese automakers are no longer producing low-cost copies of Western vehicles. As we know firsthand from a recent tour of the Xiaomi factory outside Beijing, Chinese factories are now producing technologically sophisticated products that are winning on price, performance, and quality when compared with the best that the United States or Europe have on offer. As a result, companies like BYD are rapidly gaining a larger share of the huge Chinese market and rapidly expanding their footprint internationally.
This matters because automobiles remain one of the world's largest manufacturing industries. The global auto market generates trillions of dollars in economic activity and supports millions of jobs. For more than a century, American prosperity has been tied in part to leadership in transportation manufacturing, but that leadership can no longer be taken for granted.
In China, electric vehicles and hybrids already account for more than half of new vehicle sales. Across Europe, adoption continues to rise. In many developing countries, falling battery prices are making electric transportation increasingly affordable. The direction of travel is unmistakable: The global market is shifting toward electrification.
If American automakers fail to compete in that market, they will steadily lose market share abroad. That would not simply reduce profits. It would weaken one of the country's most important industrial sectors and diminish the manufacturing base that has historically supported national defense in times of crisis.
Recent geopolitical events underscore the stakes. The disruptions to Middle East energy infrastructure because of the Iran conflict and the related threats to shipping through the Strait of Hormuz served as a reminder that oil remains vulnerable to geopolitical shocks. Electrification is not a complete solution to energy insecurity, but economies (and militaries) with greater electrification, diversified power sources, and advanced battery industries are better positioned to withstand such disruptions.
China understands this. Beijing does not view batteries, EVs, renewable energy infrastructure, and industrial competitiveness as separate issues. It views them as components of a single strategic package. As energy storage, modularity, and transmission become the key enabling technologies of the global economy, the United States must adopt this same holistic approach.
This does not mean attempting to replicate China's economic model or wantonly abandoning domestic fossil fuel production. It simply requires recognizing that batteries are a strategic industry — and that electric vehicles are the primary mechanism through which that industry achieves scale.
During the 20th century, policymakers understood that leadership in steel, automobiles, aerospace, semiconductors, and telecommunications had national security implications, and thoughtful policymakers sought to build U.S. advantages in these key sectors. The same logic applies today.
The question is no longer whether the future of transportation is electric. Most of the world has already answered that question. The issue before us now is whether the United States intends to build the batteries that will power the next era of economic growth, military capability, and industrial strength or import them from China, with all the vulnerabilities that will entail.