“Goodbye, Joan.”
Shortly after midnight we boarded the motorcade for the Pentagon. The President wanted what he called a “no-frills” motorcade, so we went in just ten vehicles, not counting motorcycles. We reached the Pentagon seven minutes later, and a few minutes after that we were ushered into the National Military Command Center. It sometimes goes by the name “the War Room.”
“Welcome to Ground Zero,” said a general to me with a Disneyland smile. I suppose it was just his way of trying to make me comfortable, but I found it unsettling.
Behind a glass plate there were men working at computer terminals. In the center of them stood a gray metal box latched shut with seven padlocks, each one a different color. I didn’t even ask what was in it, but I had a pretty good idea. I noticed that each time the door to the NMCC opened, a sign lit up saying: THIS ROOM NOT SUITABLE FOR SENSITIVE CONVERSATION.
If truth be told, the place gave me the heebie-jeebies. I said to myself, Steady now, Wadlough, your country needs a cool head, but that only made me more nervous. I was beginning to think I might not be cut out for government service.
After a half-hour the motorcade was sent back to the White House with an advanceman sitting in the President’s car. Soviet intelligence monitors motorcade movements, and we did not want them to know we were staying at the Pentagon until Operations Desperate Molar and Urgent Laundry were complete.
At exactly 0207 hours Eastern Standard Time the President gave the go-ahead order. I felt a little chill as he said to Admiral Boyd, “Let’s do it.”
The Admiral had offered the President CVM, or Continuous Visual Monitoring of the operations. Small TV cameras with infrared capability embedded in the headgear of selected commandos could instantly relay the picture up onto the six screens in the NMCC. The President had declined, however; “This isn’t the Superbowl,” he’d said. He did agree, however, to CAM, Continuous Audio Monitoring. Through headphones we would be able to hear the sounds of Desperate Molar and Urgent Laundry.
The President was too nervous to listen to his brother’s rescue mission, so we both would be tuned in to Desperate Molar.
It started with a whop-whop-whop noise, followed by a zzzzzzt as the Alpha Group commandos rappelled out of the helicopters to the sound of heavy breathing. Then there was some thumping, followed by a most awful gurgling noise, which I took to be some wretch having his source of oxygen curtailed. I winced.
Steady, Wadlough, I said to myself.
More thumping followed. Then there was a series of noises that sounded like someone with a lisp trying to say “Stop.” A military aide explained that those were silenced machine-pistol shots. Each thupp was followed by an “Unh!” or, in some cases, an “Ah!”
There were quite a few more thupp noises. Then some muffled explosions followed by coughing. Then a voice.
“Who are you?”
I have never been so pleased to hear Marvin’s voice.
“Come on!”
“Wait a minute—”
“Hurry! Hurry! Keep down!”
“I can’t leave like this.”
Then there were loud explosions. An alarm. Barking. A siren.
“I’m in the middle of nego—”
That was the last we heard of Marvin. There was an abrupt “Unnnh!” followed by the sound of something being dragged. I deduced that something was Marvin. The major leading the operation had apparently elected not to stand about and discuss it with him.
Thereafter the soundtrack was chaos. Shooting and shouting and barking and screaming and a series of “Move it, move it!” After the most excruciating length of time the whop-whop-whop returned. Distant at first, it grew louder until it overwhelmed the explosions and shouting.
“His legs!” I heard through the whopping. Then, “Go! Go! Go!” as the helicopter blades grew louder, almost deafening.
Suddenly there were two shots, close together. A groan. Someone shouted, “Major!”
There was a crunch that jolted me. The sound of breath going out. The whop-whop of the helicopters faded and soon there were only voices, a distant barking, and the croaking of tree frogs.
“Sir? Mr. Wadlough? Mr. Wadlough.”
I opened my eyes. A colonel had his hand on my shoulder. He gently lifted the phones off my head.
“They’re safe,” he said. “They’re on their way back to the carrier.”
I looked over at the President. He had never before sent men to their death, nor had I ever seen him weep before.
I whispered at one of the generals to find out if the President’s brother was safe yet.
He shook his head and asked me if I cared to listen in. I wasn’t especially anxious to, but if something went wrong, I felt it would be better if the President heard it from me.
The First Brother was in another house, the former Cabinet building on Front Street. It was even more heavily guarded than People’s House. Of the two missions, it was the dicier.
I put on the earphones and right away heard a lot of thupping. Doors were being kicked in to the accompaniment of shouting. They hadn’t found him yet.
Wincing at every “Unh!” that indicated a deceasing BUPI guard, I listened as the Alpha Group team swarmed through the rooms. It was almost as harrowing as being there. Little droplets of perspiration beaded over my upper lip.
Presently I heard what sounded like several zippers being rapidly fastened at the same time, followed by a spate of “ooh”s and clumping sounds. Then two loud phoomps—concussion grenades, so the General said—went off.
Burst of thupp noises.
“We’re American! It’s all right!”
I could not make out the next words, but they sounded like chanting of a religious sort. Then I realized: it was Dan. He was safe!
“Put that down, Mr. Tucker!”
“Oh light, oh truth, oh, Baba.…”
Baba?
“Don’t do that, Mr. Tucker!”
“Baba—AHHHHH!!” There was a whoomp. The sounds of scuffling. A great phooshing; then nothing but heavy breathing and running footsteps. Two minutes later the audio was drowned out by helicopter blades.
The General explained that the Alpha Group team had anticipated that Dan might try to set fire to himself on the spot, so they had equipped themselves with fire-extinguishers. I was able to inform the President that his brother was singed but safe. As we left the War Room, I made a note to ask the Attorney General to look into this Bhagwan fellow. I have always been a stout upholder of freedom of religion, but I take a dim view of pukka sahibs of any stripe whose followers go about setting themselves on fire.
33
AMERICA GOES TO WAR
M-and-M apparently in a rage. Am delighted.
—JOURNAL, OCT. 17, 1992
The President and I left the Pentagon a little after four a.m. He asked the Secret Service not to use their sirens so we wouldn’t wake anyone up. The Potomac looked beautiful and calm in the moonlight. The President didn’t say anything until we pulled up in front of the South Portico.
“You want a drink?” he said.
He poured two large bourbons. I started to decline, but he seemed to want company, so I accepted my first drink of hard liquor. I confess it wasn’t all bad. We sat in the Yellow Oval Room with the lights out.
“It’s pretty from here,” he said finally, looking down at the fountain. “I’ll miss this.”
I made a noise to the effect that it wasn’t over till it was over.
“No,” he said. “My lease is up.”
We continued staring out on the Ellipse. “Until a few hours ago I could claim something few Presidents could.”
I said, “You were trying to save lives.”
“I wonder how the others felt. Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon.”
“Worse, I suppose.”
“The death of millions, a statistic. Show me the death of one man—now, there’s a tragedy.”
I thought about this for a moment. “That’s not bad, you know,”
I said. “We might use that sometime.”
He smiled. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“It’s one thing to be progressive. And I think I have been progressive. But I don’t think we ought to be quoting Lenin.”
“Oh,” I said. “No, I guess not.”
He winked at me. “At least not before November 4.”
I slept on the couch again. Mrs. Metz arrived at 6:30 a.m. with a clean change of clothes. Alcohol leaves peculiar aftereffects. The inside of my mouth tasted like a used Dr. Scholl insole pad.
By about 7:15 my phone was ringing constantly. Mostly it was White House staffers who considered themselves more senior than they actually were, demanding to know why they hadn’t been let in on the extraction missions. Some of them had already had calls from the media and were obviously having a hard time pretending they knew anything about it. I told them I’d give them a briefing at the regular 8:00 a.m. staff meeting in the Roosevelt Room.
Ambassador Kritkin called, full of de rigueur outrage over the “acts of war,” etc., etc. I listened blearily. Finally there was a lull in the monologue, during which I stuck in an “Oh, go stick it in your samovar, you old fraud.” I just didn’t care anymore.
I expected him to resume bellowing at me in Russian, but instead he started to laugh. Great, aspirated, phlegmy, loud sounds. Not a pleasant sound, especially.
“That was a clever maneuver with the limousine, Herbert,” he said, wheezing.
“I thought you’d like it, Vassily. Actually, the President forgot the nuclear codes for bombing your country. We had to send the driver back for them. By the time he got back to the Pentagon it was too late and he was tired. But we’re going to do it tonight. Would you like to come? We’re having a few people over.”
He found this amusing. “You make jokes!” he chortled. “Like Reagan!”
He said he must talk with the President. I told him he could have ten minutes around eleven.
At nine I had a call from Marvin, aboard the Eisenhower. He was furious, saying he’d been trying to get through to the President all morning. He wanted to be flown back immediately. Moreover, he thought it would be “appropriate” if he were helicoptered from Andrews Air Force Base to the South Lawn and greeted by the President. I took the greatest pleasure in telling him I’d have to get back to him on that.”
“Whose idea was it anyway?” he demanded angrily.
“You won’t find too many people taking credit for it, Marvin,” I yawned. “There wasn’t much of a consensus about rescuing you, frankly.”
“But I didn’t need rescuing!”
“No,” I said. “I’m sure you had everything under control.”
“I had a dialogue going!”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. Frank, candid, constructive—”
“I need to speak to the President.”
“Well, he’s awfully busy, Marvin, mopping up after your diplomatic triumph down there. He thought he might tie up a few loose ends for you. He doesn’t want anything to get in the way of your Nobel.”
“Now, Herb,” he said, “I’ve got to debrief him.”
“Absolutely. But you’ve been through an ordeal, Marvin. The Navy doctors want to keep you under observation for a while.”
“But I’m fine!”
“What can I do? Doctors’ orders. Anyway, the salt air will do you good.”
“Salt air? You’re not leaving me out here!”
“Goodbye, Marvin.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not good on boats. I get sick. I threw up once in a rowboat on Central Park Lake.”
“Goodbye, Marvin.”
“Herb!”
The day was improving. Sometimes public service can be enormously rewarding.
As for the First Brother, the Navy people informed me he was in deep meditation with his legs pretzeled under him in a meditative posture. Just the same, he was being kept under the watchful eye of a stout chief petty officer named Collins.
I decided it would also be best for Dan to enjoy the salt air for a while. Feeley and I worked on a statement saying that both he and Marvin were experiencing “trauma” associated with the rescue mission.
Vassily came in to talk to the President just after eleven. On the way in, he gave me a chuck in the ribs—in one of my bad ribs.
The President greeted him with a grin and, after we sat down, told him, “Let’s cut through the usual horseshit today, shall we, Vassily? Now what can I do for you?”
Vassily, a man of high-protocolarian nature, was momentarily taken off balance. Then he announced that the Soviet Union would “view seriously” any further military operations on Bermuda.
The President digested this and said, “Vassily, I view movies seriously. Do you mean you’re going to send aid to this asshole?”
Unaccustomed to such parlance, Vassily could only nod at the abrupt short-circuiting.
Tucker smiled. “I’m going to make an announcement this afternoon. You’re not going to like it. But I hope you’ll still come by. I enjoy our little visits.”
Shortly after noon the President took a call from Admiral Boyd saying that the last of the C-7As had flown out of the base. Everything was in place—or rather, out of place.
At 12:35 that afternoon the President went on television and made the announcement that even today causes stimulating discussion.
I was in the Oval, standing to one side as he made his historic speech.
“Under the terms of the lease signed by President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Winston Churchill,” he said, “the 694.33 acres on St. David’s Island will remain the property of the United States government until the year 2039.
“This arrangement, which the new Bermudian leadership seems not to comprehend, is as binding upon them as it has been on the successive American administrations.
“However, recognizing that the presence of a U.S. military establishment has given the present leadership a pretext for aggressions such as those which the events of this morning were necessary to remedy, I have taken the following measures.
“After due consultation with the Joint Chiefs and the congressional leadership, I have determined that our satellite submarine-detection capabilities are sufficiently viable to warrant the dismantling of those present facilities.
“The military is, however, in need of other kinds of facilities. Given the present climate in Bermuda, the land now under dispute highly recommends itself for a new purpose.
“Accordingly, as of noon tomorrow, the U.S. Naval Air Station Bermuda will officially cease to exist. At that time it will become, officially, the U.S. Naval Air and Sea Practice Target Range Bermuda.
“All Bermudians, and I address this especially to those currently attacking that facility, are advised to remove themselves from the immediate vicinity. Failure to do so may result in sharing the defunct status of the present air station.
“I realize this decision will have the effect of depriving Bermuda of an airport. The U.S. has always permitted commercial aircraft to land on the base, and to service Bermuda’s once vigorous tourist industry. That tourist industry is, however, now non-existent, in accordance with the country’s new policies. Bermuda will therefore find itself less in need of an airport than before.
“Perhaps their Soviet allies will build them a new airport on some other part of the island. While they are at it, they might also build them some new concentration camps. The Soviet Union is expert at this form of architecture, having built so many of its own. Mr. M’duku seems fond of concentration camps, to judge from the ones the world had a chance to view last week before my adviser, Marvin Edelstein, was taken hostage. He will probably be building more. This is customarily the case with dictatorships that forge close ties with the Soviet Union.”
A change came over the President after making that speech. He seemed more relaxed than he had been since assuming the Presidency. Perhaps it was the relief of having made a decision. But I think it must have be
en something else too. None of the ensuing criticism—and there was, Lord knows, no small amount of it—reached him. He seemed content.
George Bush, whose sense of patriotism—we never denied he was patriotic—now permitted him to go on the attack, called it the “moral equivalent of filling in the Panama Canal,” and promised to reverse the decision if elected. At this point, unfortunately, there was little doubt that he would be, since we were now seriously behind in the polls.
There was something in the crowds too that had changed, especially among the young. They liked the line in his speech about beating swords not just into plowshares but into fields, which, indeed, the former naval air station had begun to resemble following the rather vigorous target-practice sessions. I think these young people saw in Thomas Nelson Tucker a leader who went beyond all the idle talk about disarmament. Here was a man who turned the weapons on themselves.
The night of November 4 was not a suspenseful one as election nights go. We were buoyed by the decisive vote in the Virgin Islands, toward whose statehood the President had devoted so much energy, as well as by the news that we would only lose Massachusetts by a margin of 400,000 votes. (Respectable: Gerald Ford had lost the state by the same margin to Jimmy Carter.) And of course we were immensely pleased when we squeaked over the top in Idaho. It is always gratifying to carry your home state.
The atmosphere at Tucker headquarters in the Boise Sheraton has been described in the press as “funereal,” but I think this was an exaggeration. Certainly people were tired—who wouldn’t have been after such a grueling campaign?—and obviously no one was gladdened by the fairly dismal returns. But as I looked about the ballroom, I felt there was still a sense of purpose and idealism in the air. I kept saying, “It’s not over until it’s over,” to the reporters. The press said I was “oblivious to reality,” but I was only trying to keep up morale.
Petrossian, Feeley, and Sig Beller were in a corner of the suite going over the concession statement.
“No,” said Sig. “No, no, no. It makes him sound like Walter Cronkite leaving the air. Let’s just end it with ‘God bless you.’ ”
The White House Mess Page 23
