by Shaun Usher
And I just blank.
That is, afterwards I could only remember one remark. The rest of the performance was a VOID (well, almost…a little poetic license). Then it was over. Everybody said I did great. The black guy who set up my mike asked if I might have been a little scared. “No, terrified! [General laughter throughout the set].” Wanda said I did great. We left via limo back to the hotel. I immediately called the Institute. They said I did very well.
Breakfast. Check out. Escape from New York.
Got to the office about 1400. Did some work, had a lot of calls to make. Everybody said I did great. Finally left and got home to see the video tape of myself.
I didn’t know I was that good-looking!
I really did do great!
Answered all the questions lucidly. Didn’t throw up, had my fly zipped even.
Now was it the valium, or me? I’ll never know.
One other thing. We now have three (3) invites to 1600 PA Ave. More to come.
Well, the 5th printing had been ordered some 2 week earlier, and on the weight of the Time article it virtually evaporated. a 6th printing of 10,000 was ordered, then upped to 15,000 (for a “∑” of 75,000 printed copies!) a day later.
The first paperback printrun I learned from Agent Gottlieb, will be 850,000. We’re getting into some fairly serious money here.
3/11/85
Tough work day, lots of crap left over from last week’s chaos. Learned that Hunt will be #15 on the Publisher’s Weekly BS list (this translates to #6 for fiction) on 3/22. Our first nationwide list. Wowie-Zowie!
Wednesday, 13 March.
I woke up thinking that THIS was THE DAY, and so it was. Usual morning routine, dropped off the girls at school, got the wagon filled up, got to the office. Mail was light. A few routine phone calls. We left for D.C. at 1020L.
Usual drive up, Rte 260 to Rte 4, left onto the Suitland Parkway into D.C., across the South Capitol Street Bridge, north to the Mall, left onto either Independence or Constitution–never can keep them straight–then right on 17th, north towards the White House. We were early, so we circled the White House once, then approached the gate. There were two, so of course I drove into the wrong one (an exit from the Executive Parking Lot), had to back up onto Pennsylvania, then went 20 feet to the Northwest Gate. Stop, get out, go to the guardhouse. I identified myself, they asked for ID. Had a bitch of a time getting my driver’s license out, and the guard went in to query a computer terminal.
We cleared the first hurdle, and I was instructed to pull through the gate. A fairly sturdy gate, though it might not stop something heavy and determined. I couldn’t decide how thick the vertical bolt (into the pavement) was. Okay, now Wanda and I both had to show ID and pass through a metal detector. It pinged on me twice, but tolerated my belt - buckle, gold pen, and tooth fillings. Next a German shepherd had to inspect the car, sniffing for explosives, I guess. I had mints in my briefcase. The dog queried them, but had only passing interest. Okay, we got our passes. As we later saw, even senior officials had such passes: “AA” superimposed and inverted diagonally, gray and black. We were told to pull down and park behind the limo, then to enter the door with the Marine.
Decided I didn’t have to lock the car, even though this was D.C.
The Marine corporal (E–4) was so spiffy-looking in his dress blues the only reason he can’t be on recruiting poster is that they might end up enlisting queers by mistake. He stands at parade-rest, hands in front. As we approached the door, he snapped to and saluted: “Good morning, Sir. Good morning, Ma’am.” Gee, my first salute! And from a Marine! (He probably needs the salutes, even for wimp civilians, to protect his arms from atrophe.) And like a good Marine, he opened the door, then went back to parade rest.
Into the west-wing receiving/waiting room. There was a nice 45ish secretary who logged us in, asking us to sit and be comfortable. Well, we carried out half of her instructions.
You know the famous picture of Washington crossing the Delaware, standing in the boat? That’s what Wanda sat under. An antique clock on the wall gave the correct time, 1130L. On a sofa by the west wall of the room sat a black chap with a do-dad in his ear and his coat unbuttoned. He pretended to read the paper. I probably have two circular red spots on the back of my neck from his eyes. The security force, uniformed and plain- clothes, is integrated, of course, with a high proportion of blacks. They all look alike: About as relaxed as a thoroughbred racehorse in the starting gate; as relaxed as the first pathfinder in the first stick of a combat parachute drop; as relaxed as Secret Service troops whose president, code-named “Rawhide,” has already taken one in the chest.
Nancy Clark Reynolds showed up at 1145L. A very charming, though rather aggressive (in a very charming way) lady who gave Rawhide The Hunt for Red October for Christmas. She took us east, where we met Mike Deaver, a senior presidential aide (deputy chief of staff). 50ish, 5–8, slim, looks like he works and worries too much (just coming off a medical problem; kidneys, I think), nicely dressed, coat buttoned. He led us eastward through the building, about a total of, oh, fifty feet. Started noticing people, all men, all tall, all alert, none of whose coats were buttoned, all of whom had do-dads in their ears (do-dads, clear plastic ear-pieces with wound cords disappearing down their jackets; one would speculate radios, unless they like listening to music on the job…); looking me over like a confirmed child- molester who just got out on a technicality despite a bloody videotape of the 18 little boys and girls I wasted. There were A LOT of such people, practically a physical barrier in the narrow corridors. The President, one said, was in the bathroom. Seemed like a good idea to me, too. [Joke.]
Got to the secretary’s office. In a side room off that was an Apple Macintosh. “Hey,” I said brightly. “A Mac!”
The Oval Office is in the West Wing, not part of the portico. A SS agent watched through a peephole in the door. The President evidently finished what he was doing. The SS guy opened the door. Deaver led us in.
You know that scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy goes from the wrecked house into Munchkinland? The transition from the secretary’s office to Ronald Wilson Regan’s office was rather like that. You go from real-world to magic-world.
The same scene you see on TV, exactly. The President of the United States was seated at his antique oak desk. Almost-navy-blue suit, white shirt, red tie with spots. We entered.
I had prepared myself for this mentally–despite this, well, quite a moment, guys.
An inch shorter than I am, exactly what he looks like on TV. Ruddy cheeks, potato-lump of a red nose, twinkling blue eyes, chest like a beer keg. There is gray in his hair if you look REAL close. Handshake firm but not overpowering.
Initial impression: This is a mensch! I expected Presence. I expected Star-Quality. I expected Charisma. There was more than I expected, by an order of magnitude. Partly this was my own reaction, of course, but part of it was an objective reality, three feet away.
Second impression: This guy could charm the fangs off a cobra. It envelopes you like a cloud, his charm.
Third impression: This is not an old man. He must have real Alpha+ genes, must drive his docs crazy. No 74-year-old man should move like this. I expected this, too, from reading about the guy–but it’s still astonishing to see.
OBSERVATION: If he can’t charm Garbage-ov, Ronnie can probably drive him into the pavement. No kidding, this guy looks like he could play ball.
So, he asked me where I got all my technical facts, and I said the really hard part was figuring the people out. He asked about the next book, and I told him WW3 at sea–had to repeat, he might be; well, he is a tad deaf, though Wanda says that I was speaking rather softly–and he asked, “Who’s wins?”
“The good guys,” I replied. General laughter. Nancy Reynolds had some anniversary presents for him, some saddle blankets and a cowhide. I helped unfold the latter. A nice cowhide from Argentina, different coloration from his own herd, he explained. While all this was going on a still p
hoto- grapher was blasting away on a Nikon, and perhaps also a video camera. I could feel the two SS officers behind me. I can dig it. The man is worth protecting.
A few more things, and someone reminded him that Henry Kissinger was waiting to have lunch with him. “Oh, [sigh] I guess that we we have to talk about the Russians.”
The guy really is like the image. Soft voice, very relaxed manner. Hard to imagine him angry, though that must be impressive as hell…from a safe distance. And smart. Dumb people have dumb eyes. His had the twitchy alertness of a fox. In short, this guy didn’t get the job by mistake. And I am pleased that I voted for him 4 of 5 times (in the 1980 primary, God forgive me, I voted Bush). (NOBODY’S perfect, guys!)
I guess it all lasted 5–10 minutes (relativity at work) and we were ushered out. I went to the wrong door, the one that looks like a door instead of the one that disappears into the wall
Oh, the windows to the Oval Office are THICK and multi-layered, as though to stop a RPG–7. God help the SOB who launches it. Or not.
Next we had lunch in the Roosevelt Room (Teddy, not Franklin). On the east-wall mantle is his Nobel Peace Prize (1907), and about the room are various wildlife bronzes, some rather–hell, expensive as God-knows- what. Present were Mrs. Reynolds, Mr. & Mrs. Deaver, Senator Mark Hatfield (rather a dovish chap, though polite enough to ask me to autograph his book), SECNAV Lehman, SECENERGY Herrington, LGEN Brent Scocroft, Charles Wick (USIA), Time, The Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Times. Jim Brooks, who did “Terms of Endearment,” and had flown from California to be here, and, one suspects, a few other things. A total of 18 folks, all of them hanging n my every word, or polite enough to seem so.
The discussion ranged from my book (Lehman’s first reaction to my book, he said, was, “Who cleared this!?!?!” and he was positive that no naval officer could have written this for security reasons; he said that Hunt is universally admired in the Navy [I kvelled]; I talked about the Crazy Ivan Turn, and how the USN never, of course, trails Soviet vessels, that they are, of course, engaged in “Oceanographic Research” [the official euphemism], “Counting the whales for Greenpeace” [laughter]), to the SDI (I voiced my approval since it adds a layer of uncertainty to the nuclear equation; general approval), to nuclear weapons use (here General Scocroft and I differed a bit; I don’t think a controlled nuclear war is possible; he does; Hatfield agreed with me; I hope nobody ever finds out).
When lunch broke up, Nancy Reynolds told a cute story. Seems she represents the US at some international women’s rights thing, and last week attended her last such meeting in Vienna. Her Russian counterpart is a man (of course), named Anatoly. She likes Anatoly, though she evidently regards him as a nerd–and a commie nerd at that! He always bugs her, she says, about disarmament, “like I’m going to fly right back here, barge into the Oval Office, and tell the President what to do, right?” This time he harranged her about Arkady Shevchenko–the defector whose recent book, Breaking with Moscow, is pure dynamite–promising to lay off the arms stuff.
“‘He was a boozer and a womanizer!’ Anatoly hissed, “ she said, doing a mimic number that my words cannot approach, “‘And nobody liked him! He did terrible things to his wife–but even he said in his book that we don’t want war!!!’ Of course, he broke his word,” Nancy smiled.
“‘Anatoly, I said,” she said. “‘This is the last time I’m going to see you, and I want to give you a present [holds up a gift-wrapped package]. This book is all over Washington. The President loves it, and I’m sure you’ll like it!’” A positively evil (but very charming) smile concluded the story.
“Well,” I replied. “If the KGB comes to kill me, it’s your fault!”
Next I talked with a girl named Alessandra Stanley, from Time. Ever see the Ann Klein II fashion commercials? That’s how she dresses. Well, the package was nicer than the wrapper, but who am I to comment on fashions? She was concerned that someone might have wanted to nuke Moscow after the 007 incident. (Over lunch it was said that lots of nasty things were discussed in the White House at that time.) I tried mightily to persuade her that nobody seriously–or unseriously–suggested nuking Moscow (!), or even making a Tu–95D “Bear” disappear on its way to Cuba. (“In the real world, you don’t do things like that.”) I don’t think she got the message. I really don’t.
I guess we left around 1330L. Had to loop the car under the–portico, canopy, whatever. The marine saluted me again. I returned it.
We dropped off the passes, they opened the gate, and as our 1982 Plymouth Reliant station wagon left, some people on the sidewalk looked at us, wondering who in hell we were to have been in in the White House, no doubt. I would.
Got back to the office to learn that Hunt will be on the New York Times best-seller list (#10 of 15) on 3/24/85. A good day, all told.
3/14/85
The 6th printing took the printrun to 75,000. The 7th was ordered at 30,000, and today was upped to 50,000 for Σ of, gasp, 125,000 copies.
The bad news is that a movie offer which was in this letter until I
(3/17/85, I heard yesterday that the actual 7th printing was ordered finally at 80,000, argh, and Σ is 155,000+! Eek.) Had another performance yesterday, at St. John’s College in Annapolis. This is getting tiring. (Having the flue didn’t help a bit.) Tuesday, we head to the White House again. Coffee with special guests of Mrs. Reagan at 0930, then greet the President of Argentina on the South Lawn. Head home, then back to D.C. again for a state dinner. Be glad when it’s all over.
3/19/85
Another day at the White House. Well, the usual morning routine–got up at 0630L instead of the normal 0655. Get paper, switch on TV, drink a pint of 2% milk + Instant Breakfast, out the door at 0805 for the trek to D.C. Same route as before, and the traffic was amazingly light.
This time we went in the East Visitors’ Entrance. This used to be a real street entrance, now blocked with those pre-cast concrete abutments and (large) circular flower pots filled with dirt. (Those damned Shiites– hmm, interesting how that looks in print, isn’t it?) A bunch of folks were there. We butted through the mob and identified ourselves. A Secret Service agent hustled us inside, leaving the peons in our wake [POWER!]. Nice chap, he had a bandage on his right index finger (“Squeezing the trigger a little hard, guy?”) (No, I didn’t say that). Through the metal detector–it pinged real hard on him–past another group of peons, and into a ritzie waiting room, where we waited.
Quite a room, dating back to the 1940s. Solid, honey-colored (maple?) paneling, more Early American (junk!) furniture. (Well, real Early American, hence expensive junk.) Also present were Mr. & Mrs. Mark Russell; Arnold Schwartzenegger (CONAN the BARBARIAN!) and his mommie (I’m 0.5 to 1 inch taller than he is, though he’s rather wider across the shoulders); Guilermo Villas (tennis star from Argentina); Gina Lollabrigida and escort ; and assorted others I don’t know, including, possibly Lyn Nofsinger (wrong, turned out to be Pete Fountain, the jazz clarinetist, see below), former presidential gofer and political operator. Nobody had coffee but Conan, who looked relaxed. (I have to wonder if the local SS contingent measured him up in their .357 sights, or decided for something heavier…like an M–72 LAWS rocket.)
Headed out to the South Lawn about 0952. Lots of people were already there getting cold. We were actually in the White House basement, going through a corridor with marble everywhere, various portraits of Presidents and their ladies, including Mrs. Peanut. Finally we arrived at yet another room with antique furniture and murals on the curvey walls. Herr Russell said the door we went out was the Moving Van door, the one to which the vans pull to move in/out the arriving/departing Presidents. Saw Ron’s military aides–you can tell at a glance, since their staff aigullettes (“loafer’s loops”) are on the right, rather than the left, shoulder. The Marine 0–3 looked especially formidable. Conan could have stood inside that guy, in all dimensions. Finally we went outside to join the peon
s.
Nice, brisk March day, clear sky, 15-knot breeze, about 40°F. The honor guard was composed of (left to right) Marines, Navy, Army, Air Force, each in about platoon strength, looking very spiffy indeed. The color guard was–I mean, God damn! impressive, all those streamers!
They do Parade Rest different from the way we did it at Loyola ROTC. The officers have their swords grounded. They might have been breathing, but I’m not sure.
The press photographers behind us (mainly the lady from Time who did the shot for the article) asked me to move–“You’re too tall.” Well, it’s nice to be recognized.
Mark Russell then said: “Remember everybody, today it’s the Malvenas!”
I nearly gagged. (That line rattled about in my head until the end of the friggin’ ceremony: Don’t laugh, Don’t Laugh…!) Mrs. Russell (30±; he’s 50±) commented: “I can dress him up, but I can’t take him anywhere…”
The Drum & Bugle team came out. Army, I think. 14 trumpets, two drums, one director; they settled on the bottom level of the South Portico.
Show time:
Honor Guard snaps to like one robot. When they ORDER ARMS, one (no crap, ONE) click. (I bet there’s only one real rifle there, all the rest being made of rubber…)
Ruffles and FLourishes!
The Honorable Ronald W. Reagan comes out the moving van door.
Hail to the Chief.
21 guns from the Washington Monument.
His Excellency the President of the Argentine Republic arrives. He and Ronnie mount the stand, about 15 feet from me. The national anthem of Argentina.
It’s too long, and changes cadence too many times, but the local Argie community sang it with restrained gusto on the other side of the lawn. Next came ours. Mark Russell sang it. Me, too. Rather a special feeling, what with Ronnie only a few feet away. Gee.
