Officially, the West Wing was a well-oiled machine. Every cog ran smoothly in its predestined groove; every crisis was handled with clockwork precision; new information was processed quickly and efficiently. Yet since the new administration had moved in, the press had heard that the day-to-day functions of the Oval Office were in complete disarray, verging on — and sometimes crossing into — complete chaos.
This was true.
What was also true was that it had always been this way.
The world was too messy of a place for the White House ever to follow anything like regular order. The administration had to be fluid, capable of changing at a moment’s notice, even if that meant the replacement of key staffers, and abrupt reversals on policy decisions.
Today was one of the chaos days. The more-watched media outlets were running a macabre countdown to the one-month anniversary of Marissa Meyer’s death. It was touted as a memorial, but it was hard to dismiss the celebratory feeling that exuded from the news networks’ talking heads.
“I bet they’ve got a cake ordered for the occasion,” the President grumbled from behind the Resolute Desk. “A great big sheet cake with candles and that girl’s picture printed out of frosting. The ghouls.”
“They’re just looking for some sign of leadership on this matter…sir,” the most recent Chief of Staff offered.
“What more do they want from me?” the President moaned. “Blood? No matter what I say, these news people, these very fake news people, twist it and edit it and make it into what they want people to think I said. I’m telling you, sometimes I hear myself on the news, and I want to impeach myself!”
“You have to control the narrative, sir,” his Chief replied. “Give the people something that can’t be spliced or cut.”
“You’re thinking another rally?” the President asked. “We can do another rally. People tell me all the time how much they love the rallies. They’re really popular. Huge.”
“Actually, sir, there’s an opportunity for something a little more subdued,” he replied. “Something somber, to reflect on the moment.”
The President raised his head. “What did you have in mind, Bill?”
“It’s John, sir,” the Chief said, flustered. “It’s a special memorial dinner being held by the B’nai B’rith next Monday, on the anniversary. You’ve been invited to speak, although they don’t expect you to attend. They’ve also invited the VP if you can’t make it. I think it’s a gold-plated opportunity.”
The President steepled his fingers thoughtfully at his chin and nodded. “Right. It’s a real opportunity. The Jews, they love me, you know. My daughter’s Jewish.”
“You could really make clear your stance on the neo-Nazis,” John added earnestly. “And the, uh, other extremists.”
“Antifa,” the President said. “We name the enemy in this administration. Remember that.” His words were not said sharply, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind they were pointed. “This is almost too good to be true,” he added thoughtfully. “So, who’s carrying the event?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” the Chief of Staff replied. “Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“It’s going out live on the Internet,” he said. “No editing, no cutting room floor. Pure, unexpurgated content.”
“I love the Internet,” the President replied. “I’d love to cut out press conferences altogether and just go straight to the people via the Internet all the time.”
“Yes, sir,” John replied automatically.
“We’ll do it,” the President said emphatically. “Send Mike a note to be ready. We’ll both speak.”
John stammered. “Both of you, sir?”
The President raised an eyebrow. “Where is this dinner being held?” he asked. “Kussumukstan?”
“No sir,” John laughed. “It’s in Arlington. At the Sheraton Pentagon City.”
“Practically Washington,” the President mused. “Yeah, we’ll do it. Both of us. It’ll be like the campaign trail all over again. I’ll make sure we take plenty of hats.”
“Sir, it’s not a rally. It’s the B’nai B’rith.”
“You think we could get some ‘Make Patriotism Fashionable Again’ yarmulkes?”
“As your Chief of Staff, I’d say that any political headgear might get in the way of your message, sir.”
The President nodded agreement. “Right. The press, really hate those hats.” He grinned, because he loved that it was so easy to needle the press with a simple trucker’s cap. “Well, never mind the hats. We’ll focus on the message. Get Joe in here to take some notes.”
“Joe’s gone, sir,” said the Chief of Staff. “The new speechwriter is Carol.”
“Well, get her in here, then,” the President said. “We’ve got to write a speech to end all speeches. Come Monday, there won’t be any question as to where I stand on the issues, believe me.”
Within five minutes, the Chief of Staff had instructed his secretary to reply on his behalf to the B’nai B’rith that the President and Vice President would both be thrilled to speak at their memorial dinner. Five minutes after that, he informed the Press Secretary, who in turn instructed her aids to draft memos to all the major media outlets, with bullet points designed to inform them of the President’s intent, and tease them that they would not be privy to the speech until after it was delivered.
At the B’nai B’rith, Jerome Katz received the welcome news that their memorial was going to be graced by the presence of both leaders of the free world, ensuring their social media presence was going to spike through the roof. Jerome immediately picked up the phone and called his friend Joe Segal.
“Joe, it’s Jerry!” he said. “He’s gonna come! Who do you think’s gonna come? The President, you boob! Yeah! That was a great idea you had. Me, I didn’t think he’d even reply back, but to actually have him here — and the Veep too? I just wanted to say thanks, okay? I gotta run, things are gonna get frantic around here fast. Secret Service is probably gonna want to get everyone’s background checked, right?”
Joe congratulated his friend, told him he’d tune in, and that, yes, the Secret Service would probably be very busy with him the next few days.
Hanging up, Joe took out a different phone, with an encrypted digital signal.
His call went unanswered, and Joe was disappointed. He wanted to tell his mysterious benefactor, who had offered him a tidy sum in his bank account just to suggest his friend’s memorial idea might benefit from inviting the President to speak, that the suggestion had worked.
But there was no need. Even as he disconnected the call on the phone that would never ring again, every major media outlet was updating their chyrons to let the general public know the President was going speak. Several of the pundits were already assuming what would be said, and were either praising or denouncing it ahead of the actual event.
In his remote mansion in Colorado, Hutch Pummel smiled. The trap was set and the bait was taken. All that was left to do was wait.