The morning briefing card said DRONES OVER POLAND in block letters big enough to flag a parade. The President skimmed it, tapped the word with a finger, and looked up.
“Why are we talking about Portland?” he asked. “You know I love Maine. Terrific state. Lobsters respect me.”
Aide #1 blinked. “Sir, that’s Poland — the country. Central Europe. NATO ally.”
He squinted, as if the page might apologize. “Country, city. People say Po-land, other people say Port-land. Tomato, tomahto. Either way, not on my watch. Get the Marines on the line.”
Down the corridor, someone mouthed country? to someone else who mouthed back Maine? The word hopscotched into the Situation Room, burrowed under a stack of maps, and left on top a cheerful watercolor of Casco Bay — smiling lighthouse, kayak-rental icon, cheerful gull.
Within the hour, a title was chosen — Operation Chowder Shield — and a PowerPoint was assembled with aggressive clip art: eagles, stars, and, for reasons no one could explain, a moose saluting.
“Sir,” said Aide #2, trying the soft approach. “Intelligence says Russian drones violated Polish airspace last night. Polish as in Warsaw, Kraków, the Vistula—”
“Don’t try to polish this, you’re not a carwash,” the President said. “Portland is under threat. Which one is the lobster one — East or West?”
“Maine, sir.”
“Perfect. Send the Marines to the East one. And just in case, send Space Force. If they try anything from the sky — we’ll space them.”
No one knew how to space anyone. The order went out anyway. Orders often do, even when no one is sure where they’re going.