Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

The camouflage guys and the black-clad snipers were busy organizing the displays on two of the long tables at the far side of the room. They’d peeled away the white coverings to reveal an odd assortment of gadgets. No doubt Gav here was supposed to be the warm-up act, and I the unfortunate audience volunteer.

I wanted to be back in my kitchen. Now.

When I bit my lip in impatience, I noticed Peter Everett Sargeant III grinning viciously up at me from the front row. Sargeant, the head of cultural and faith-based etiquette affairs, and I had never been able to see eye-to-eye about anything. I smiled back at him, as evenly as I could manage.

Finally, Gavin asked, “What do you see?”

I had an answer ready. “My colleagues.”

“No.” He shook his head somberly, as though I’d given a bad answer to a very easy question.

“No?”

“You see safety.”

I could feel this little demonstration stretching out ahead of us. If he’d chosen someone else-anyone else-I might have been able to sneak out of this meeting after signing the attendance sheet. Here, out in front of everyone, I had no choice but to go along.

“You operate in a state of bliss,” he continued. “You have no worries, no cares.”

I wanted to ask him how often he’d plated a dinner for more than a hundred guests. From the looks of his downturned mouth and icy-sharp gaze, I’d wager he didn’t have enough friends to entertain often. Still, I didn’t argue.

“One of these people here”-he pointed outward again-“could be a killer.” He twisted to face me. “ You could be a killer.”

Was he joking? “I’m… not.”

“We don’t know that. None of us know that. Today you’re a cook…”

A cook ? I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from reacting.

“Tomorrow, who knows? You could… snap!” He flicked his fingers in emphasis. Right in front of my rapidly heating face. “I will ask you again: What do you see?”

Obediently, I offered, “Safety?”

“Yes!” he said, smiling and raising two fists in the air like a TV evangelist wannabe. Even louder, he asked, “And who here could be a killer?”

I knew I should give him the answer he wanted. I knew I should resist temptation. But I couldn’t stop myself. With a smile as wide as Gavin’s, I pointed directly at his chest. “You!” I shouted.

The audience exploded with laughter. But old Gav was not amused. “The cook has a sense of humor,” he said without smiling.

Cook, again.

“How funny would it be if half the White House exploded on your watch?” he asked, pummeling the room’s mood into the floor. “Then who would be laughing?”

I started moving toward the steps. “Are we done here?”

“We’re only just beginning.” His drill-sergeant demeanor grew stronger with every snarl. He tugged my elbow, forcing me back to center stage. “And when we’re done with you-with all of you,” he said, facing the crowd, “you will all know better than to just trust one another blindly. Do you understand?”

I held my breath, almost expecting everyone to yell, “Sir. Yes, sir!”

Instead, they fidgeted.

A camouflage guy smiled up at me sympathetically as he handed Gavin a weighty item. It looked like a dirty bottle one might find at the seashore, with a desperate message tucked inside its opaque shell. Gavin held it in both hands as he stared down at it, almost prayerfully, for half a minute.

Come on, I wanted to say. Let’s get this show moving.

Keeping his head bent, Gavin’s eyes flicked up, encompassing the shifting, murmuring crowd. “Do you all know what this is?” He waited. “Does anyone know?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think you did.” His grip tightened, as did his lips. I wondered how many times he’d practiced that meaningful stare in the mirror. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is an Improvised Explosive Device-an IED. A bomb.”

With a collective gasp, and amid scraping chairs, staff members got to their feet. I jumped back.

“Sit down,” Gavin ordered. “I wouldn’t bring a hot IED into the White House.”

When everyone resettled themselves, he continued, holding the bottlelike item high over his head. “This is the device we found in the West Wing this morning.”

The West Wing. I’d been right.

“Although the exact location of the IED’s placement is not being broadcast at this time, I can tell you that this is not now, nor has it ever been, a danger to the First Family-nor to any personnel. So, yes, you may all breathe a sigh of relief. Anyone can see that this was designed to mimic the workings of an IED.” He hefted the bottle in front of himself now, frowning almost as though he were disappointed. “But it was never loaded with explosives. What that means, people, is that we have received a warning. Whoever placed it in the White House did so to test our diligence.”

I started to back away, eyeing my seat at the far end of the room.

Sensing movement, Gavin half turned and directed his next question to me. “And what do you think this warning means?”

What else could it mean? “That we have to be more conscientious going forward.”

The surprise in his eyes told me he hadn’t expected my answer. He recovered quickly. “You are correct,” he said, turning once again to face the audience and raising his voice. “What if this had been armed?”

No one answered.

“We don’t even want to think about the devastation a weapon like this could cause, do we? But before today, how many of you had ever seen an IED before?”

No one raised a hand. Gavin cocked an eyebrow. “What would you have done had you encountered this? We are fortunate that one of our military-trained experts came across it. If any of you had found this where it had been secreted, you may have simply tossed it aside, thrown it away.”

Watching him gesticulate as he paced the dais in front of me, I frowned. This guy didn’t know our staff. We didn’t take anything for granted. Perhaps none of us had ever seen something like this, but working in the White House taught us all not to take anything lightly. Finding a strange device in an unusual location would be enough to call for Secret Service support.

Gavin pointed to the camouflage-and-sniper contingent-the men were now standing at their tables, hands behind their backs, eyes staring straight ahead. Before them, they’d uncovered a display that resembled a collection of grammar school science projects.

“Today is the beginning of your training,” Gavin said. “Over there, my men are waiting to demonstrate a variety of disarmed IEDs for you. We want you to acquaint yourselves with some of the known designs. But remember that terrorists are always improvising, dreaming up new models every single day. You must be on your guard, always. Take your time and learn all you can. We will keep the display available to you here for the remainder of the day. We will then move this exhibit across the building to the Family Dining Room, to continue your training tomorrow and throughout the week.”

The crowd took their cue, getting up from their chairs. Some headed for the training tables. Others headed for the door.

I tapped Gavin’s shoulder. “Thursday is Thanksgiving,” I said.

Gavin twisted to stare at me. “So? Terrorists don’t take days off.”

“I realize that,” I said equably. “But we’re serving Thanksgiving dinner in the Family Dining Room this year.” I pointed west. “You won’t be able to set up there.”

“This is the White House,” Gavin said. “Don’t tell me you have nowhere else to serve dinner.”

“Mrs. Campbell requested-”

Before I could finish, Bradley stepped up to do what assistant ushers do best: He took control. “Let me handle this, Ollie,” he said. When he faced Gavin, he shook his head. “Can’t allow you to set up in the Family Dining Room. Sorry.”