Cut To Shreds

Stacy stumbled out of the briefing room, still clutching her notepad like a life raft. She'd been deputy communications director for exactly eleven days, and already the hallway felt like a gauntlet of aides, interns, and political operatives.

A cluster of staffers swarmed her immediately.

“So? What did he say?”

Stacy blinked. “He said, ‘We need to do something.’”

Silence. Then overlapping whispers.

“About what?”

“Something important. Maybe?”

“Do something... like policy? Or...?”

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

“Shh,” hissed a senior advisor. “We don't say ‘person’ around here, its 'guys' and 'girls'. No pronouns, ever.”

The clerks and aides started texting their superiors. Soon, people began congregating around Stacy as if she had the hot gossp in high school

They dispersed slightly as the Head of the Joint Chiefs, a four-star general, wearing a chest covered in ribbons, strode up.

“Ma'am,” he rumbled, “the Joint Chiefs need parameters if we are going to do something.”

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

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

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

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

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

[CENTCOM Cmdr:] POTUS wants ACTION on IRAN. Kinetic?

[JCS Chair:] Unspecified but emphatic. “Something big.” Interpreting as go/no-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?

No one wanted to be the one who asked for authorization and get reassigned to counting paper clips in Guam.

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

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

“Jack, you have no idea.”

“Any tips? What’s the hot line for today?”

She hesitated. “You could ask if they're planning something, 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.

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

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

“I said this guy was 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. “Something big! Really big!”

The press gallery erupted. Phones lit up. Political pundits put two and two together. Within seventeen 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 call to 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 now very familiar voice grunt:

“Stacy, get in here.”

She rushed to the 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. “Get the number for those Boll and Branch sheets, and replace everything in here.” He gestured at the vast residence around them. “Melania will love it. It’s going to be yuge!”

Stacy processed the last 24 hours. She 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, and the money she spent on the makeover would be wasted.

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

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