Column: Crisis in the Situation Room, or just another Sunday drive

By Dan Kontos

This is how I envisioned it happening.

Somewhere deep inside the Pentagon, in the Situation Room, a dozen or so members of the military spent last Sunday staring at computer screens and softly typing on keyboards. Their job: keep the nation safe.

It was a weekend, so normally there probably wouldn’t be anything happening that day. At least, that’s what the duty officer thought. Colonel Thomas, a combat-hardened Army officer dressed in his crisp Class B uniform, paced across the floor of the windowless room. I hate Sundays, he thought to himself. Nothing ever happens.

Suddenly, the sound of a mechanical buzzer sounded in the background. Col. Thomas knew that sound. It wasn’t good. It was the hotline.

His head snapped around like a heat-seeking missile guidance unit. His eyes locked on the featureless red phone sitting on the counter. No buttons, no dials.  Simply a red LED light flashing in unison with the buzzer.  Eahhh, eahhh, eahhh, eahhh.

Thomas briskly strode over to the phone, staring intently at the light as it flashed in front of his eyes. He knew a dozen pairs of eyeballs were boring into the back of his head, staring at him as he approached. His hand hovered over the device as he momentarily hesitated to collect himself.

Col. Thomas reached down and snatched the handset from the cradle. He brought it up to his face and growled, “Situation Room, Col. Thomas.”  He realized he was doing his best Clint Eastwood “Dirty Harry” impression, as his jaw was tightly clenched, and he spoke through closed teeth.

“Yeah,” he retorted. “When? Where? Where’s that? Well, how many? All right. Uh-huh. Got it. No, this qualifies. I’ll take it from here. Send me the details over the BSM. Out here”

Col. Thomas held the receiver over the cradle for a moment, then dropped the receiver onto the phone, disconnecting the call.

“Damn it”, he thought to himself. Did I actually say that out loud? It doesn’t matter. Time to get to work. Col. Thomas spun around. A few feet away, a young Marine First Lieutenant stared at him, her face expressionless. She was ready for action.

“Sir?” she asked. “Lieutenant Rae,” Thomas barked. “Get me the White House.”

Chief of Staff Susie Wiles sat at her desk. It was a typical Sunday, which meant it was a typical workday. Everybody worked weekends at the White House now. It wasn’t like the four-day weekends when Biden was President. Nope, every day is a workday.

She stared at the briefing book on her desk, reading over the notes. It was going to be a busy Monday, she thought to herself. Lots to do: tax breaks, housing costs, interest rates. Yeah, and those pesky tariffs.

Her phone rang. She looked up. It was the direct military line, the light flashing to alert her of an incoming call. She answered the phone.

“Hello, Susie here.” She knew that wasn’t proper phone etiquette, but she liked the personal touch. “Yes Colonel, go ahead. Right. Okay. Wow, really? Shoot, okay. Yep, I ought to know about this. Forward the cable as soon as you can. No, that’s fine. I’ll handle it from here. Gotcha.”

She hung up the phone, one hand pulling the glasses off her face, the other rubbing her eyes. Here we go, Susie, she thought. Just another Sunday, huh? Yeah, right.

She pushed back her chair, stood up, and walked quickly out of her office. She was happy she hadn’t worn heels today, deciding this was a good time to power-walk to the President’s office. She bolted past her secretary. “I’ll be in the Oval if you need me,” she said, heading out into the hallway.

She flung the door open to the outer Oval Office. Three sets of eyes looked at her: the President’s secretary and two Secret Service agents. “I have to see the Old Man,” the Chief of Staff said.

The secretary looked confused. “Ms. Wiles, he’s in with the Crown Prince of Abu Dhabi right now. You know that.” Susie lifted a hand to stop her from saying any more. “I know that. But this is urgent.”

She glanced over at the Secret Service agent whose hand was on the doorknob of the Oval Office. He wasn’t quite sure if he should open the door for her or prevent her from reaching it. His eyes darted back and forth between the secretary and the Chief of Staff. He knew that look.

The agent opened the door. Susie stepped inside.

There, sitting around the coffee table, was President Donald Trump, Secretary of State Marco Rubio, and the Crown Prince, H.H. Sheikh Khaled bin Mohamed bin Zayed Al Nahyan. They were all chuckling, obviously in response to something that had just been said.

The President looked up and saw his trusted Chief of Staff. “Yes, Susie? What is it?” Susie cleared her throat. “Mr. President, I have to talk to you.”

“You can see right now I’m in the middle of a very important conversation. Very important indeed, with my good friend, the Crown Prince. Can’t this wait?” “No, sir. It can’t wait,” Susie said, trying not to cut off the end of his sentence in her rush.

“Well, what is it?” the President asked. “Sir, I think we should talk in private,” Susie said. “Anything you need to say, you can say in front of my good friend, the Crown Prince, and Secretary Rubio.”

Susie cleared her throat. She knew that tone; it wasn’t going to do any good arguing with him. “Yes, sir. We have a situation.” “A situation?” the President asked. Susie shifted on her feet a little. “Well, it’s more than a situation. It’s kind of a…” “A what?” the President asked.

“It’s kind of a big thing,” she said. “Go ahead,” the President said, his left eyebrow raising slightly. “You see,” Susie stammered. “There are some people.” “What people?” The President said as he narrowed his eyes. 

“Well, they’re on an overpass. A highway overpass.”

Rubio shifted in his seat. He knew he wore a couple of hats. Not only was he the Secretary of State, but he was also the National Security Advisor. This was starting to sound right up his alley. “Go ahead,” the President said.

Wilde continued, “Well, they’re standing there with signs.” “What kind of signs?” “Well… they are anti-ICE signs.”

Rubio’s hand reflexively went up to his forehead, and he started to rub. The President straightened in his chair. “Anti-ICE, you say? How many are there?”

“A dozen or so,” Susie said.

The Crown Prince leaned back in his chair. He knew there would be no deal to become the latest member of the Board of Peace today. He’d probably have to fly back next week. That was okay; he could use a good vacation at Mar-a-Lago anyway.

The President stood up. “Khaled, we’re going to have to pick this up later. You understand.” The Crown Prince stood up and let himself out of the office.

“Well,” the President said, turning back to Susie. “Give me the details.”  The Chief of Staff laid out the details for him.

“Susie,” the President said gruffly. “It looks like we have no choice. Call Kristi Noem and pull all ICE agents out of Stevens Point.” The Chief of Staff cleared her throat. “Sir… Sir, I don’t think we have any ICE in Stevens Point,” she said, half as a statement and half as a question.

“Well then, pull ICE out of Central Wisconsin completely,” he said. “Sir,” Susie swallowed hard. “I really don’t think we have any ICE anywhere in Central Wisconsin,” she said, a little more confidently than a moment before.

“Fine,” the President sounded defeated. “Tell Kristi to pull all ICE out of Minneapolis, then. That should pacify the protesters. We really can’t afford to rile them up right now. We’ve got midterm elections coming up.” “Yes, sir,” the Chief of Staff answered right away.

At least, that’s how I pictured it after traveling north on the interstate last Sunday when I saw about a dozen people standing on an overpass. A blue Honda Civic in front of me jammed on its brakes, not because there was traffic in front of it, but because I think the driver was slowing down to read the tiny signs.

I couldn’t quite see what they said, but it looked like a protest of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Are you serious? I thought to myself. You guys almost just caused a wreck, and why? So you can protest ICE? Nice.

I wasn’t quite sure why they were doing this as I zipped by at 70 miles per hour, trying to dodge the Honda that had slowed down to about 40 so they could read the signs. I changed lanes as I went under the overpass at Wilshire Drive.

Thinking about it, I was able to deduce a couple of facts as I went by. One: They must be well-meaning because somebody was flying an American flag. That’s always a good sign.

Two: They were obviously anti-law enforcement, at least from the signs I could read as I traveled underneath at highway speed. That struck me as odd that they would protest the very officers executing the laws of the country whose flag they were flying so proudly. That seemed a bit of a dichotomy. Taking the side of murderers, rapists, and other criminals over the safety of our own citizens? Not a good look.

Next, I’m sure they thought they were getting everybody’s attention and convincing them that their protest had validity. Well, they were certainly getting the attention of everyone, except the horrible driver who had jammed on his brakes in front of me.

Yes, I’m sure this protest was reported straight to the Pentagon Situation Room, and from there directly to the White House. Just like they planned.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge believer in the First Amendment. If you want to stand on an overpass above the interstate and hold signs denouncing law enforcement, I guess that’s your right. Knock yourself out, as long as you don’t cause an accident on the interstate.

As I went beneath the overpass, I wasn’t sure whether to honk my horn (which they might mistake for endorsing their position, which I obviously don’t) or roll my window down and give them a one-finger salute. But I was just coming back from church, that wouldn’t be very nice of me.

I opted out of both. Rather, I kept both hands on the wheel, used my turn signal, changed lanes, and simply went around the Honda, causing a hazard on the roadway. I was just grateful for the news that ICE had rescued 3,300 missing kids in the Minneapolis area alone.

I didn’t know if the protesters had anything better to do that day. I don’t know if people could really read their signs, or if they even cared as they motored underneath them. All I know is that the only “ice” I would see that day would be at the bottom of my glass of bourbon as I prepared to watch the Super Bowl that afternoon.

So that’s fine, sweethearts. If you want to stand on the overpass and flash your tiny little signs about something you really know nothing about, and you want to protest the cops, knock yourself out. I’m just here to break the bad news to you: Nobody cares.

I hope you’re back this Sunday. The weather should be a little nicer, I think. Thanks for the laughs.

So, with that, let’s meet in the opinion section to talk about all of it, boldly, honestly, with an appreciation for all our law enforcement, and with a healthy respect for each other, and your right to act the fool. Until then, remember that God loves you, and so do I, no matter how you spend your weekend.