by Bob Spitz
As the meeting drew to a close and the guests left the room, Tip O’Neill turned back to Ronald Reagan for a ceremonial handshake. “I’m not confident,” he said, clasping both hands in his, “but God bless you, Mr. President. It’s your war.”
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As wars go, it was over before it had even begun.
The next morning, October 25, shortly before dawn, nineteen hundred Marines and Army Rangers were dropped onto the coastline of Grenada. Prowling the route to the capital in jeeps was a surreal experience, with only two paved roads serving the entire nation. Fairly quickly, the assault force gained control of the island’s two airfields, including the 10,000-foot runway under construction at Point Salines. The students at the medical school were also evacuated. But the operation itself did not go down without a struggle. Two U.S. helicopters were shot down and American soldiers withstood “fierce house-to-house combat,” taking heavy fire from Cuban “construction workers.” When the fighting stopped and the insurgents were neutralized, nineteen Americans lay dead and more than a hundred were wounded.
The American public was stunned by news of the affair. Most people had never heard of Grenada, much less knew where it was. Why would the United States invade a tiny Caribbean nation? And only days following the tragedy in Lebanon? It was too much to comprehend all at once. In a speech, the president presented it as a vital national security measure, indicating he took action to forestall “another Iran or another Beirut.” “I had no choice but to act strongly and decisively,” he said, worried, as he was, that “a brutal gang of leftist thugs” were a strategic concern to the United States. Much was made of possible hostage-taking, what with 650 American medical students stranded in Grenada. They put a human face on the operation, providing justification.
Most members of Congress had been caught totally off guard, but at the outset of the operation, they reserved judgment, declining to criticize the president or publicly question the wisdom of the attack while American troops were in jeopardy. “I have no intent to get into any type of dialogue critical of my government at this time,” Tip O’Neill announced to a conflicted legislature. For the most part, bipartisan leadership supported the operation, though there were strong misgivings among the opposition and even some Republicans who were still processing the Lebanon debacle. American lives were piling up. To anyone expressing doubts, Cap Weinberger was quick to remind them, “The price of freedom is high.”
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It was time to pay the piper.
At President Reagan’s request, Bill Casey delivered unequivocal intelligence detailing exactly how the attack on the Marines in Lebanon was planned. “We had imagery of the Sheik Abdullah barracks, a mud-and-brick structure in the Beqaa Valley, near Baalbek, surrounded by sand,” recalls John Poindexter, the deputy national security adviser. “It was a Hezbollah camp, and we could see from the overhead photos how they had been training.” Oil drums were positioned across the perimeter of the camp, the geometry of which replicated a blueprint of the embassy in the suburbs. Beside the oil drums were tire tracks that indicated that a truck had been practicing high-speed turns.
On November 16, 1983, after viewing the surveillance, Ronald Reagan approved a retaliatory strike. From the outset, Cap Weinberger lobbied against it. Objecting “very vigorously” at a meeting with the joint chiefs in the Cabinet Room, he demanded of Bill Casey, “Can you guarantee to me there are no civilians in the Sheik Abdullah barracks?” Casey ignored the secretary of defense, displaying the evidence to the president, photograph by photograph. Weinberger continued to raise objections. As a matter of courtesy, Reagan polled those around the table, including George Shultz, Bud McFarlane, and George Bush. “All right, I’ve heard everyone’s argument here,” the president said. “We cannot let this stand. I want you to go ahead and launch, but do it as soon as possible.”
The mission was to go off the next morning, before sunup, so that pilots, lifting off the aircraft carrier Foch in the Mediterranean, would not be flying into the sun. “Everything was teed up,” Bud McFarlane recalls. “The French were with us because they’d lost men—the Italians, too.” Planes were already in the air. Suddenly, word came down through the chain of command: Abort.
How was this allowed to happen? It took McFarlane, who was “white-knuckled, livid,” years to get to the bottom of it. As late as 2013, he discovered that Weinberger called the president the night of the mission. “But he didn’t call through the White House switchboard,” McFarlane recalls, “knowing they would have alerted me or Jim Baker.” Instead, the call was placed to an office in the East Wing answered by the military aide who carries the football. As a result, it bypassed everyone in the chain of command. He reiterated his concern that any retaliation would kill innocent civilians. “And he persuaded the president to call off the mission.”
“All right, Cap. If you think it’s the right thing to do.”
Instead, it was left to French warplanes to attack installations belonging to Shiite Muslim militiamen; Israeli jets took out the Sheik Abdullah barracks and nearby terrorist positions.
McFarlane couldn’t contain his anger. The next morning, he told Ronald Reagan, “You approved this operation, and Cap decided not to carry it out. The credibility of the United States in Damascus just went to zero.”
“Gosh, that’s really disappointing,” responded the president. “That’s terrible. We should have blown the daylights out of them.”
Weeks later, on December 3, another mission was launched to revenge the attack, but Poindexter says, “It was so poorly ordered that it was incredible. Somewhere between Weinberger and the task commander, the launch time was delayed.” The Navy pilots had to quickly reroute and circle until new coordinates were delivered, allowing them to be picked up by Syrian radar. Now they were flying into the sun. An American A-6E was shot down and a pilot was captured. Later that day, eight Marines were killed by Syrian artillery fire.
The situation in Lebanon continued to deteriorate. Hopes of achieving a stable Lebanon had essentially collapsed. What’s more, there was no central government left in the country; its political landscape had been ravaged by sectarian conflict and what amounted to civil war. The president insisted that America would not “turn tail and leave,” but congressional support was eroding. Washington had what George Shultz referred to as “pullout fever,” with Tip O’Neill leading the charge. “He may be ready to surrender, but I’m not,” the president demanded. But by the beginning of 1984, the handwriting was on the wall. Even leading Republican legislators petitioned him to end the deployment.
The president grew increasingly frustrated. He railed against “second guessing” on Lebanon, saying it had “severely undermined our policy” there. In a last-ditch attempt to convince a wary American public that Lebanon was a worthy cause, he claimed in a special address, “We have information right now that they have marshaled a force, particularly of Iranians in Lebanon, that numbers up to 1,000, who are all willing to sacrifice their lives in a kamikaze attack.” But nothing could win over skeptics. “Our policy wasn’t working,” he eventually admitted. “No one wanted to commit our troops to a full-scale war in the Middle East.” On February 1, 1984, Reagan decided to evacuate the Marines to ships anchored in the Mediterranean. The last patrol pulled out on February 25, leaving the Lebanese to fend for themselves.
The Lebanon retreat dealt a severe blow to the administration’s foreign policy prestige. “America is back—standing tall,” the president had announced in his State of the Union address on January 25, 1984, but the reality didn’t measure up. Continual stalemates in the Middle East and the lack of breakthroughs in Central America did little to burnish America’s stature. A special commission appointed by the Defense Department examined the various actions and came to the conclusion that “a more vigorous and demanding approach to pursuing diplomatic alternatives” was needed. Ronald Reaga
n had always preached a gospel of renewed military strength, but actions spoke louder than words, and America’s recent efforts had made a lot of noise to little effect. The president had read Moscow the riot act over the downing of the Korean airliner without extracting any real payback. He’d moved the battleship New Jersey into the Mediterranean as a warning to Syria, but failed to avenge the attack on the Marines. The invasion of tiny Grenada had served as one small demonstration of America’s power, but no one argued for that mission’s lasting importance.
The Soviet Union played a decisive role in every one of the conflicts. Relations with the Russians were at an all-time low. It was not enough to label the Soviet Union the Evil Empire without endeavoring to ratchet back its aggression by negotiating a reciprocal arms pact—to pursue, as the Defense Department report suggested, diplomatic alternatives. But in a televised speech to the nation on January 16, 1984, diplomacy was in short supply on Ronald Reagan’s agenda. Most of his remarks were directed at castigating the USSR for its warmongering and global overreach, but he refused to close diplomatic doors. “We don’t refuse to talk when the Soviets call us imperialist aggressors and worse,” he said, “or because they cling to the fantasy of a communist triumph over democracy.” Despite all that, he expressed his intentions to pursue all diplomatic efforts to achieve peace, to find some common ground, perhaps even with his Soviet counterpart, Premier Yuri Andropov.
“Andropov,” by George Shultz’s assessment, “seemed to want something going.” Shultz thought the premier “projected immense intelligence and energy.” He’d even shared Time’s 1984 “Men of the Year” cover with Ronald Reagan—obstinate adversaries, but the world’s last best hopes for peace. Unfortunately, Andropov hadn’t been seen in public for almost half a year. Efforts were made to approach him through diplomatic channels, without the courtesy of a response. On February 10, 1984, the reason for his silence became clear. The Kremlin announced that Andropov was dead.
It was suggested by Jack Matlock, the NSC’s Soviet specialist, that the president might want to attend Andropov’s funeral in Moscow, signaling a willingness to engage with the next premier. Reagan had no such intention. “I don’t want to honor that prick,” he snapped. Bud McFarlane had advised the president “to stress in public your call for dialogue and your desire to reduce tensions and solve problems,” but Reagan wouldn’t be goaded into paying tribute to a Soviet leader who had continued to subvert democracy, interfere in the affairs of the Americas, and threaten the security of the United States.
Whoever succeeded Andropov, the Soviet Union promised to remain a keen and constant irritation, to say the least. Reagan devoted an inordinate portion of his presidency to the issues it presented. In just three years he had dealt with Soviet interference in Poland, Libya, Angola, Grenada, Nicaragua, and the Middle East, to say nothing of its ever-growing arsenal of weaponry. Reagan saw no escape from the situation.
Ronald Reagan loathed the Soviet Union and all it stood for, but if he intended to run for a second term, if he intended to make good on his litany of campaign promises that remained unaddressed, he’d have to find a way to tame his great Soviet nemesis.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“TEFLON MAN”
“Government is like making sausages. Even if you like the end result, it’s best not to look too hard at the process.”
—OTTO VON BISMARCK
By January 1984, the presidential sweepstakes was already well under way. It seemed inevitable that Ronald Reagan would run for reelection, but the White House was uncharacteristically mum on the subject, minus even the usual leaks. The president’s closest aides were kept in the dark when it came to his intentions. Reagan dodged the question every time it came up. “We’ll see,” was all he’d say. But the party faithful had been hard at work since the fall of 1982, plotting reelection strategy. The GOP enlisted Edward J. Rollins, a seasoned campaign gladiator, and his boy wonder, Lee Atwater, to set the table for another Reagan run. “No matter who we have running for president,” Rollins said, “we cannot ignore the Democratic attacks that will start long before the campaign season begins in 1984.”
There were enough issues for the Democrats to exploit. Reagan’s Economic Recovery Program was still far from a triumph; unemployment remained stubbornly high. Reagan’s failed effort to revamp Social Security was another target. As was fairness—a loose buzzword that encompassed everything from tax cuts for the rich to budget cuts for working women to new china for the White House. “No matter what we do in the interim, the public’s sense that this administration is ‘unfair’ will linger,” Rollins wrote.
In early 1983, Reagan’s Gallup poll approval rating had reached a low of 35 percent, but since then it was making steady gains. Despite that, the GOP had its work cut out for it. There were three strong Democrats circling the nomination: John Glenn, Walter Mondale, and Edward Kennedy. Each possessed his own strengths: Glenn, the American hero; Mondale, labor’s ardent champion; and Kennedy, the charismatic Senate workhorse, with his fabled heritage. Rollins and Atwater predicted that “Kennedy will cruise to the Democratic nomination in 1984,” but Kennedy shocked supporters when he succumbed to his family’s fears for his personal safety and withdrew in 1983. And John Glenn’s glow faded fast. As the Democratic hopefuls headed to Iowa for the caucuses, Gary Hart, a rising star from Colorado, and Jesse Jackson were picking up steam.
The only person in Reagan’s inner circle who was ambivalent was Nancy. “She was hesitant because of the assassination attempt,” says Stu Spencer, the Reagans’ longtime confidant. “She was petrified by it.” And there was her general disdain for the Washington hothouse.
Nancy Reagan knew she hadn’t gotten great reviews for her role as First Lady, and it rankled. There remained a perception of imperiousness to her manner, an iciness, that didn’t play well at the president’s side. Ronald Reagan’s persona shouted Man of the People, someone who had the common touch. He was often photographed on his ranch, in a rumpled work shirt and blue jeans, mending fence posts and cutting sagebrush. He relished talking to his constituents—people whose situations were all too familiar from his humble Midwest upbringing. Nancy couldn’t shake the label of the socialite who traveled in wealthy Beverly Hills circles and attended functions in thousand-dollar designer Adolfo, Galanos, or de la Renta dresses. She was clearly uncomfortable milling among the general public—it came through in her body language and icy smiles. The public perceived her as vain and ambitious—not at all like Jackie Kennedy, whose wealth and sophistication were tempered by her extreme vulnerability and grace; not like Lady Bird Johnson, who projected homespun warmth and traveled extensively to promote the American infrastructure; not like Pat Nixon, who undertook numerous solo goodwill missions in Africa and South America, while promoting volunteerism at home; not like Betty Ford, whose courage to voice support for the Equal Rights Amendment, a woman’s right to choose, and gun control flew in the face of her husband’s policies; and not like brainy Rosalynn Carter, a tireless public-policy crusader, advocate for mental-health issues, and champion of women’s rights. “Everybody does it differently,” Nancy insisted of the job, but the unflattering comparisons to former First Ladies persisted.
Nancy Reagan’s official undertakings seemed to come up short. She’d originally focused on a foster-grandparents program but realized it couldn’t sustain a viable image campaign. Her antidrug initiative—“Just Say No!”—was regarded as simplistic and naïve. According to her press secretary, “The staff didn’t know how to get its hands around the issue.” Without the appointment of a drug czar and official policies supporting drug-abuse issues, the program lacked muscle—and credibility. This backfired in terms of building the First Lady’s image. Her reputation as a “tough interview” didn’t win her media support; she often came across in print as a scold. Other stories appeared regularly detailing how she interfered in White House business and imposed her will on administration officials, creati
ng tension among the staff.
At some point, the press got wind that Nancy Reagan relied on astrologers to predict the best dates to schedule her husband’s obligations. In Sacramento, she’d relied on Jeane Dixon, a syndicated columnist with conservative roots, who fed the Reagans a diet of warmed-over prophecies, until she fell out of favor. Later, Merv Griffin, with whom Nancy Reagan regularly exchanged show-business gossip, introduced her to Joan Quigley, a noted San Francisco socialite and astrologer to the rich, who was a frequent guest on his TV variety show. Quigley became known as the “White House astrologer,” charging $3,000 a month to read the Reagans’ charts. On Quigley’s advice, Nancy Reagan rearranged the dates and times of the president’s events, occasionally canceling his trips, while carving out chunks of time from his agenda that were marked “stay home” or “be careful” or “no public exposure.” The backlash contributed to more bad press.
Nancy Reagan was ready to call it a day. “I yearned for more family time, and more privacy,” she acknowledged. She missed California and her circle of well-to-do friends, and she was more than a bit concerned about her husband’s safety. How many John Hinckleys were out there on the stump, waiting to take a shot at the president? It unnerved her. More than anything, she loved her husband, and her private role as First Lady superseded anything she owed to the public. For Ronald Reagan, she was the perfect First Lady. She gazed at him adoringly, listened to his problems, served as a good sounding board, defended his private time, provided him with restful company during the evenings, and evaluated every situation with an eye on what was best for him, personally and politically.
