Cut To Shreds

Stacy stumbled out of the briefing room, clutching her notepad like a life raft. Having held the position of Deputy Communications Director for eleven days, she already knew she would need to face the hallway gauntlet of aides, interns, and political operatives waiting outside.

“So? What did he say? Any sense of direction?” The eager staffers swarmed around her immediately.

Stacy blinked. “When I left he did say, 'we are going to do something big'.”

Silence. Then overlapping whispers. “Something big...on what? Like policy? Or...?”

Stacy shrugged helplessly. “If I ask for details, there's a solid chance I'd lose my job. Remember the last deputy? And the one before? And the... person before that? I’ve just spent so much money on my makeover--”

“Shh,” hissed a senior advisor. “We don't say person around here. No pronouns, ever." The clerks and aides nodded in agreement, then started texting their bosses.

Soon, all sorts of people she had never met began to congregate around Stacy as if she had gossip in high school. They backed off slightly as the Head of the Joint Chiefs, a four-star general, chest covered in ribbons, strode up.

“Ma'am,” he rumbled, “the Pentagon needs parameters if we are going to do something.”

“I don’t think it was much of anything, really...” Stacy stammered.

“So, what exactly were you talking about when he mentioned the need for decisive action?”

“He was watching Fox News, and they were running something about Iran, and then they cut to one of those Boll & Branch ads for those really soft sheets." Stacy swallowed. "If that helps…?”

The general's jaw tightened so hard a filling might have cracked. “Iran, finally. Right. I'll brief the chiefs.”

Within forty minutes, the Pentagon's secure line was exploding.

[CENTCOM Cmdr] POTUS wants ACTION on IRAN.

[JCS Chair] Kinetic and 'something big'. Interpreting as go on preemptive.

[Air Force Ops] B-2s on alert. Targets: Natanz, Fordow, Kharg Island?

[Navy 5th Fleet] Carrier group repositioning. Tomahawks spun up. Confirm rules of engagement?

[CENTCOM Cmdr] pending

No one, from the Head of the Joint Chiefs down, wanted to be the one who asked for authorization and got reassigned to counting paper clips in Guam, or worse, employed as a retired CNN consultant.

Meanwhile, back in the press briefing room Stacy ran into Jack—an old colleague from her Boston Herald days—now a clean-cut press corps regular wearing a truly unfortunate lavender jacket.

“Stacy! Long time!” Jack looked like a poodle greeting its owner. She now had a job on the inside. Maybe she’d enjoy this for a while. "Busy?"

“Jack, you have no idea!”

“Any tips? What’s the topic for today?”

She hesitated. “You could ask... if he is planning something big.”

"Something big." Jack grinned. “Thanks! I owe you one at the Truman.”

Later that afternoon, during the daily briefing, Jack vigorously held up his hand and, again, waved it like a poodle looking for attention. He was so earnest and innocent, she decided she would take him up on that drink later.

“You! The dumb-looking guy in the purple jacket.”

“Me?” Jack looked around as if someone else might be wearing purple. He was the only one. It was the first time he had ever been called on and his mind spun. “Actually, it’s lavender—”

“I said, this guy is dumb." He rolled his eyes at the crowd for laughs before turning his attention back to Jack. "Ask your question!”

Jack cleared his throat. “Are we planning to do something….big?”

The room froze. The most famous man in America leaned into his microphone.

“Of course we're going to do something,” he barked. “Really big!”

The press gallery erupted. Phones lit up. Political pundits put two and two together. Within seven minutes, oil futures spiked and market tickers flashed red. Cable news headlines screamed: SOURCES SAY U.S. PREPARING MAJOR ACTION AGAINST IRAN.

At the Pentagon, the ops floor swung into action. Better to act decisively than look incompetent. No one dared ask for details. By 0300 Zulu, F-35s were airborne from carriers in the Gulf. Drones took flight. Cruise missiles hissed out of launch tubes.

Meanwhile, Stacy sat in her office watching the cable feeds, a half-eaten strawberry yogurt on her desk. From down the hall, she heard a familiar voice grunt:

“Stacy, get in here.”

She rushed to his office and stood at attention, clipboard in hand.

A long pause.

“I want to do something. Something big. But I’m not going to call them myself.”

“Yes, sir. The Pentagon–”

“Forgot those losers,” he said. “Find the number for those Boll and Branch sheets and replace everything in the residence.” He gestured at the vast house around them. “Melania will love it. It’s going to be yuge!”

Stacy thought about whether to call the Pentagon, but if she did, this whole misunderstanding would be blamed on her, and she’d lose her job.

The money she spent on her makeover would be wasted.

“I’ll get right on it, sir. White or cream fabric?”

“Ivory. My sheets have got to be ivory, the best ivory.”