President Donald Trump’s firing of the country’s most senior military officer on Friday night rattled the foundations of the armed forces. It also intensified an already furious game of “who’s next” among senior lawmakers and Washington officials, who have been trading information about the commander in chief’s likely targets.  

Trump fired Air Force General Charles Q. Brown Jr., known as C. Q., who was only the second African American to serve as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The president then tapped a relatively unknown officer to replace him—retired three-star Air Force General Dan “Raizin” Caine, who reportedly impressed the president with his swagger and bravado when they met in Iraq in 2018.

Brown’s dismissal, coupled with Caine’s improbable elevation, added to a sense of bewilderment that has prevailed across the national-security establishment in recent days, as the administration purges the upper echelons of career officers and civil servants. Trump also appears poised to remove several other top military leaders—focusing on Black and women officers—and replace them with his handpicked successors. And at the FBI, the CIA, the Department of Homeland Security, and other intelligence agencies, senior officials, as well as personnel who had only been on the job a few years, were bracing to be fired, multiple officials have told us.  

Many of the personnel actions seemed aligned with the Trump administration’s pledge to rid the ranks of “woke” officials whom the president thinks were promoted not because of their credentials, but due to their race or gender.

At the Pentagon, Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth announced that he was replacing Admiral Lisa Franchetti, who is the first woman to serve as the chief of naval operations, as well as General James Slife, the vice chief of the Air Force. A draft list of other officers who might be fired circulated this week on Capitol Hill among a small number of lawmakers on the armed-services committees in the House and Senate. The list isn’t final and is subject to the whims of the president and the defense secretary, cautioned two people familiar with it, who spoke on condition of anonymity to discuss sensitive personnel matters

Brown and Franchetti are on the list, as are other senior officers. A White House official told us that the futures of those officers were being evaluated but that the president hadn’t made a final decision.

A list has also circulated with the names of officers who might be promoted to replace those being removed. People who know those officers told us many were highly capable, and that they were serving in roles meant to groom them for promotion. But moving them up the ranks now was potentially premature and a break with military protocol.

If confirmed by the Senate, Caine’s appointment would break with a generation of norms and traditions governing promotion in the senior ranks of the military. In nearly 30 years, no one has risen to chairman without first serving as a member of the Joint Chiefs. Caine, who retired last year, would leapfrog all of the current members.  

Nothing in his résumé suggests that he was destined to become the highest-ranking officer in the U.S. armed forces. He has not commanded a large number of troops. He has never led a branch of the military. His last job was as associate director for military affairs for the CIA, from 2021 to 2024. The job is a liaison position that has more clout inside the Pentagon than it does at Langley. One thing Caine apparently did have going for him: a memorable encounter he reportedly had with Trump.

According to a New York Times profile, Caine impressed the president when they met, in 2018, because he claimed that the Islamic State could be defeated in a week, not two years, as Trump said his advisers had told him. Trump has told the story on different occasions, and while the details have changed, the conversation stuck in his memory. As, apparently, did Caine.

In a statement, Hegseth indicated that the military purge was not limited to top leaders, noting that the Pentagon was “requesting nominations” for judge advocates general—lawyers—for the Army, Navy, and Air Force.

Representative Jason Crow, a Democrat from Colorado and former Army Ranger, wrote on X that “the purge of senior officers at [the Department of Defense] is deeply troubling, but purging JAG officers worries me the most.” Those lawyers, he noted, interpret the law and determine the constitutionality of actions that commanders take.

Replacing those officers with “loyalists is so dangerous,” Crow said.

During his first term, Trump intervened in several military justice cases that revolved around the line between acceptable combat behavior and war crimes. In the most infamous, he reversed a decision to demote Eddie Gallagher, a Navy SEAL who had been convicted of posing with the dead body of an Islamic State prisoner. (Gallagher had been found not guilty of the prisoner’s murder.) Trump’s decision allowed Gallagher to retire as a SEAL.

Challenged by then–Joint Chiefs Chairman Mark Milley about the importance of military ethics and laws to combat troops, Trump responded that he didn’t understand “the big deal,” according to Milley’s recounting of the conversation to The Atlantic.

“You guys are all just killers,” Trump said, according to Milley. “What’s the difference?”

For years now, politics in Brazil have been the fun-house-mirror version of those in the United States. The dynamic was never plainer than it became last week, when Brazilian prosecutors formally charged the far-right former President Jair Bolsonaro, along with 33 co-conspirators, with crimes connected to a sprawling plan to overthrow the nation’s democracy and hang on to power after losing an election in October of 2022.

That the charges against Bolsonaro sound familiar to Americans is no coincidence. Bolsonaro consulted with figures in Donald Trump’s orbit in pursuit of his election-denial strategy. But the indictment against Bolsonaro suggests that the Brazilian leader went much further than Trump did, allegedly bringing high-ranking military officers into a coup plot and signing off on a plan to have prominent political opponents murdered.

In this, as in so many things, Bolsonaro comes across as a cruder, more thuggish version of his northern doppelgänger. Trump calculated, shrewdly, to try to retain his electoral viability after his January 6 defeat; Bolsonaro seems to have lacked that impulse control. He attempted so violent a power grab that the institutional immune system tasked with protecting Brazil’s democracy was shocked into overdrive.

The distortion in the mirror is most pronounced with regard to this institutional response. While American prosecutors languidly dotted i’s and crossed t’s, Brazil’s institutions seemed to understand early on that they faced an existential threat from the former president. Fewer than seven months after the attempted coup, Brazil’s Supreme Electoral Court ruled Bolsonaro ineligible to stand for office again until 2030. Interestingly, that decision wasn’t even handed down as a consequence of the attempted coup itself, but of Bolsonaro’s abuse of official acts to promote himself as a candidate, as well as his insistence on casting doubt, without evidence, on the fairness of the election.

The U.S. might have done the same thing. In December 2023, Colorado’s secretary of state refused to allow Trump’s name on the state’s primary ballot, following the state supreme court’s judgment that his role in the events of January 6, 2021, rendered him ineligible to run for president. Trump appealed the legality of the move, and the case came before the U.S. Supreme Court. The justices could have done what their Brazilian counterparts did—ruled that abuses of power and attempts to overturn an election were disqualifying for the highest office of the land. Instead, in March 2024, they voted unanimously to allow Trump to stand.

My home country, Venezuela, faced a roughly analogous situation in 1999, when President Hugo Chávez moved to convene a constituent assembly to rewrite Venezuela’s constitution, which contained no provision for him to do so. Cowed, the supreme court allowed him to go ahead. Venezuela’s then–chief justice, Cecilia Sosa, wrote a furious resignation letter, saying that the court had “committed suicide to avoid being murdered.” The result in Venezuela was the same as that in the United States: The rule of law was dead.

I can’t help but wish that U.S. jurists had shown the nerve of their Brazilian counterparts. In their charging documents against Bolsonaro, Brazil’s prosecutors don’t mumble technicalities: They charge him with attempting a coup d’état, which is what he did. Brazilian law enforcement didn’t tie itself up in knots appointing special counsels; the attorney general, Paulo Gonet, announced the charges himself. The conspiracy “had as leaders the president of the Republic himself and his candidate for vice president, General Braga Neto. Both accepted, encouraged, and carried out acts classified in criminal statutes as attacks on the … independence of the powers and the democratic rule of law,” Gonet said.

[Anne Applebaum: What rioters in Brazil learn from Americans]

Contrast that with the proceduralism at the core of the case against President Trump. After an interminable delay that ultimately rendered the entire exercise moot, Special Counsel Jack Smith charged Trump not for trying to overthrow the government but for “conspiring to obstruct the official proceeding” (that would lead him to lose power) as well as “conspiring to defraud the United States”—a crime so abstract that only a constitutional lawyer knows what it actually means.

In ruling Bolsonaro ineligible to run for office, Brazil’s elections court did not engage in lengthy disquisitions on 19th-century jurisprudence, as the U.S. Supreme Court did in the Colorado case: They said that he had serially abused his power, which is what he did, and which is what renders him unfit for office. This bluntness, this willingness to call a spade a spade, was something the American republic, for all its institutional sophistication, seemed unable to match.

As recently as 2014, one would have been hard-pressed to find anyone willing to forecast that Brazil’s institutions would prove more effective than those of the United States at protecting democracy from populist menace. Maybe Brazilians are just more comfortable with, and accustomed to, holding national leaders to account: The current center-left president, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, spent more than two years in prison for corruption after his last stint in power. (Lula was ultimately freed and allowed to stand for office again when courts ruled that the judge in his initial prosecution was biased.) Or maybe it was the speed of response: Rather than waiting months or years to move against the rioters who took over the country’s governing institutions, the Brazilian police started jailing them and investigating the coup conspiracy almost immediately after it took place.

But the biggest difference is that dictatorship is a much more real menace in Brazil, a country that democratized only in the 1980s, than it is in a country that’s never experienced it. Older Brazilians carry the scars, in many cases literal ones, of their fight against dictatorship. This fight for them is visceral in a way it isn’t—yet—for Americans.

Brazil has demonstrated how democracies that value themselves defend themselves. America could have done the same.