by Bob Woodward
Kelly explained all this to Thurman when the new CINC-SOUTH came by his office. It was immediately clear to Kelly that he was wasting his time because Thurman said he had already decided how to take care of it.
Stiner? Kelly asked.
Of course.
Very wise move, Kelly thought.
Both men realized that Bush’s order to conduct exercises asserting the canal treaty rights could set something off in a second. Thurman wanted to know more about the PRAYER BOOK contingency plans and what General Stiner could really do. So he set off for Fort Bragg.
Stiner was not there, but Thurman had managed to get Woerner to send some Southern Command staff planners up to Bragg from Panama. They briefed him for about eight hours on the targets that would be hit, the intelligence and the sequence of events.
Thurman was appalled. The plans were built around the forces in place, and the reinforcement, if things really got bad, was expected to take five days! That guaranteed that operational security would be blown; Noriega would surely know that the Yankees were coming. It was contrary to two of the basic requirements of successful warfare: surprise and speed.
But the five-day buildup was intentional—all part of Woerner’s strategic plan. Woerner felt that if the PDF leadership saw the United States mobilizing for offensive action or moving in an invasion force, there was a 50–50 chance they would overthrow Noriega on their own.
Even if that were true, 50–50 wasn’t good enough for Thurman.
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9
* * *
IN THE MONTHS SINCE HE left the white house, Colin Powell had seen his life transformed. After living two years at the center of the policy storm, he was floating in calm, uneventful waters at Forces Command in Atlanta. When he relinquished the national security job to his successor, Brent Scowcroft, Powell had observed an old Army tradition—when relieved, you salute, leave the post, and never call back. He had not spoken with Scowcroft since.
There were occasional reminders he hadn’t been forgotten. At the end of March 1989, he’d received a handwritten note from the President on one of Bush’s personal heavy-stock note cards. Addressed simply to “Colin,” it was a one-sentence congratulation for pinning on the “4th bright one,”—referring to Powell’s fourth star. This was pure Bush: to recognize an important personal event, such as reaching the top Army rank, by dashing off a line or two. Powell set it aside for his scrapbook.
He was spending much of his time crisscrossing the country visiting the various units in Forces Command, a kind of umbrella organization comprising the service’s entire strategic reserve of 1 million active-duty, Reserve, and National Guard troops. Powell was shocked to see it was business as usual, as if nothing in the world had changed. Communism was collapsing in eastern Europe, and the Army’s freezers were still making ice for the Cold War. Listening to the commanders, officers and troops talk, and watching them operate, you would think the Soviet threat had not been altered one iota. Planning and training were still centered on the scenario of a large, World War II—style reinforcement of Europe—hundreds of thousands of U.S. troops—to counter a massive Soviet invasion.
There was a kind of free-for-all within the administration on the question of change in the Soviet Union, Powell knew. Cheney had publicly predicted that Gorbachev would “ultimately fail” and would likely be replaced by a leader more hostile to the West. The White House had openly disagreed.
For his part, Powell thought the Warsaw Pact was in jeopardy; it was an unholy alliance, and the Soviet Army was just an occupying force. The Soviet Union itself was changed almost beyond recognition. In a speech he gave that spring to a group of Army officers and contractors, Powell had said he “wouldn’t bet on” Gorbachev’s successor moving to threaten the West. “The bear looks benign,” Powell had said. “If tomorrow morning we opened NATO to new members, we’d have several new applicants on our agenda within a week—Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, maybe Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and maybe even the Ukraine.”
Powell told some close friends and associates that he had taken a big risk with this speech, particularly in contradicting Cheney. Powell was used to having his public statements combed for nuances, and now he said he expected to be zinged. But the speech made no waves. He saw that for the first time in years his words didn’t make any difference. It was humbling, but also liberating.
On Sunday, August 6, 1989, Powell arrived at Belmont House, an estate outside Baltimore that had been turned into a conference center, for a three-day meeting of top Army generals called annually by Army Chief Vuono. The morning of the second day, Powell read with some distress a story in The New York Times headlined “Scramble On to Succeed Chairman of Joint Chiefs.” It was accompanied by photos of Powell and the JCS Vice Chairman, General Robert Herres, and reported they were the leading candidates for the job. “General Powell,” the story stated, “has been keeping in touch with Mr. Cheney through frequent letters.” The implication was obvious—Powell was campaigning.
He had written only one letter to Cheney, and that was a routine quarterly report to the Secretary required of each of the ten CINCs. Apparently some officials wanted to send the message that Powell was engaged in some out-of-channels courtship of Cheney. Not only was he not lobbying for himself, he wasn’t encouraging anyone else to push him either, though he was aware Frank Carlucci was promoting him to Cheney and to everyone all over Washington as the ideal candidate.
Powell’s personal assessment was that he had lost out to Herres, who was backed by Admiral Crowe. Further, Powell assumed that Scowcroft would be uncomfortable with a former national security adviser coming in as Chairman and maybe second-guessing him. Nor was Powell sure that Cheney had the most favorable view of him. The two had worked together in 1987 and 1988 during the various congressional debates on support for the Nicaraguan contras, Cheney’s pet cause. Representing the Reagan White House, Powell had concluded finally that the contras were of no military significance and had worked out a compromise with the Democrats. He suspected that Cheney thought he had not been sufficiently stalwart. For right-wingers like Cheney, the contras were a litmus test, and Powell imagined he probably had flunked.
Having closely observed or participated in the selection of dozens of people for senior military and civilian posts, including the three previous chairmen of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Powell knew there was nothing scientific about the process. He had been at meetings in the Secretary’s office or the White House when someone would mention a single fact about a candidate for a top job—perhaps his status as a “good guy,” or that he had the backing of someone important—and it would transfix the group as it sailed across the table, instantly becoming the basis for his selection. Often there was nothing even approaching a talent hunt.
Since Powell had heard nothing from Cheney himself or from his numerous Washington contacts—there was not a single tomtom sounding in the distance—he concluded it was over.
• • •
Even before he’d been confirmed as Secretary, Cheney had been thinking about Powell for Chairman. The new Chairman would be the fifth player in the national security team of Bush, Baker, Scowcroft and Cheney. They had to get the right person.
Cheney had twice talked at length with Frank Carlucci, the biggest Powell booster, who argued essentially that Powell was one of Washington’s best problem solvers. No matter how large, small, routine or extraordinary the task, Powell was a right-hand man who delivered results, generally without ruffling feathers. For the last six years, as Weinberger’s military assistant, Carlucci’s deputy at the NSC and Reagan’s national security adviser, he had probably not made a single major misstep. No one was more steeped in foreign policy, defense and military issues. Powell had strong views and would push for them, Carlucci said, but he knew when to follow orders and fall in line with the boss.
Carlucci also said that Powell seemed never to tire or lose his enthusiasm. He had remarkable endurance and could handle
vast amounts of work.
Like nearly everyone, Cheney found Powell charming and likable. He recalled Powell’s negotiations with the Democrats during the contra aid debate. Though Cheney had disagreed, he felt that Powell was carrying out President Reagan’s wishes, not going off on his own. Now he wanted to find out for himself more about Powell, to make sure Powell would strengthen his hand at the White House, with the uniformed military, and in the building.
He was seeing confirmation of his belief that filling the top posts was perhaps his most important task. One of the problems in the building was the number of people at all levels who spent time trying to do someone else’s job. Often, the military could be found trying to do civilian jobs, and vice versa. Cheney didn’t want a chairman who would try to be Secretary. Given Powell’s rather remarkable background in both Weinberger’s office and the Reagan White House, the temptation might be there.
Over the summer Cheney arranged a short-notice stopover to see Powell at Fort McPherson, Georgia, the headquarters of Forces Command. One of the questions on his mind was whether Powell was susceptible to what Cheney called the “Haig Syndrome.” In 1969, Army Colonel Alexander Haig had gone to work for Henry Kissinger in the White House, stayed in the political world for four years and returned to the Pentagon as a four-star general and Army vice chief of staff. Haig’s rapid advancement, thanks to the patronage of Kissinger and President Nixon, had not gone down well at all in the Army or the building. Haig had worn his White House connection like a badge of honor, leaving a strong impression that the power had gone to his head.
Cheney drew an analogy to his own experience as a former White House chief of staff who became a freshman congressman. Many viewed it as a come-down, but he had never looked at it that way. He was comfortable as a freshman member, and tried to let everyone on the Hill know that he didn’t miss his White House past or think he was more important because of it. He wanted to make certain Powell was similarly satisfied with his lot in life, and was not a disgruntled former presidential adviser overeager to get back inside the Beltway.
In Atlanta, Powell put on an impressive briefing that showed he was fully absorbed in the job at hand. His people seemed to love him, and he was tending to the nuts and bolts of being the Forces Command CINC—spending time with the troops, worrying about the National Guard and the Reserves. Over lunch at Powell’s antebellum official residence, the two discussed the Army’s future and their overall defense philosophies.
As he watched and listened, Cheney saw that Powell was feeling good to be back in the Army and had none of the post-Washington hang-ups, like unhealthy curiosity about power plays in the administration.
They didn’t discuss the Chairman’s job.
• • •
Cheney still hadn’t finally settled on Powell. Mulling it over, he weighed Powell’s drawbacks. One was that he was not only the junior CINC but the most junior of all the fifteen eligible four-stars. Even if Powell wasn’t afflicted with Haig Syndrome, Cheney knew there would be some resistance in the military to the idea of choosing someone whose senior posts had mostly been in staff and political assignments. With this problem in mind, Cheney had looked hard at Bob Herres, the Vice Chairman, as another possible candidate. But Crowe had recommended Herres and, all other things being equal, Cheney did not like the idea of Crowe effectively naming his successor. Civilian control would be enhanced if the civilian leaders—the President and the Secretary of Defense—picked their own Chairman.
Cheney finally made his decision in favor of Powell. He did not share this with anyone until early August, when he quietly went over to the White House and talked to the President. His goal was to grease the skids and avoid a major struggle over the chairmanship within the administration. Cheney did not want Scowcroft, Baker or Sununu to come up with other names. He told Bush he’d looked at the entire pool of candidates—the CINCs, the four chiefs and the Vice Chairman. Both Herres and Powell were on the short list, he said. His own recommendation was Powell.
Bush was also high on Powell, but he wanted to be certain that the elevation of a man who six months before had only been a three-star did not offend those in the upper ranks of the military, where these seniority questions were taken very seriously. The President asked Cheney to talk to Powell specifically about that.
On the third day of the Army commanders’ conference at Belmont House, Powell was in a meeting at about 2:30 p.m. when he was handed a note asking him to call Secretary Cheney. By 5 p.m., Powell, wearing casual civilian clothes, was seated in Cheney’s office.
The Secretary went right to the point. You are on the short list for Chairman, he told Powell. Suggesting that he associated Powell with the two Reagan Defense secretaries, Weinberger and Carlucci, Cheney explained that it was a new regime. He was going to be a different kind of secretary. One hallmark of his Pentagon would be increased civilian control.
Powell made no argument, so Cheney popped the question: Are you interested in the job as Chairman? Is this a job you want?
Powell said he was, but added, “I do not seek the job. I’m happy where I am. If you pick someone else off the short list, I would not be upset at all. If you and the President want me, I’ll do it.”
Cheney ticked off what he believed were Powell’s qualifications for the post: (1) you know the building; (2) you know the White House; (3) you have punched the proper tickets in the Army and have the credentials; (4) you know arms control—a topic that will be important in the coming years; (5) I know you, and worked well with you when I was in the House leadership.
The one problem was that Powell was the most junior of the eligible four-stars. Will you have problems being jumped over so many senior officers? Cheney asked directly.
Powell had the impression that the question came from the President. He replied that this was a fair question, but he thought he would have no problem dealing with the chiefs and CINCs. He knew most of them well, and had worked with them. He had carefully weighed the issue already, he said, and if he thought it were insurmountable, he would say so.
Cheney agreed, and said he wanted Powell for the job. “This will be my recommendation to the President.”
Powell left the Pentagon feeling it was a done deal. Cheney wouldn’t have put himself in the position of saying he was taking Powell’s name to the President if there was any chance he would have to come back and say the President said no. He would have cleared the choice right up the line to the commander-in-chief before talking to him.
Cheney went back to the White House and reported Powell’s answers to Bush. Bush approved his selection.
Cheney called Powell the next day, August 9, to say he had talked with the President and they both wanted Powell as Chairman. Cheney then formally offered him the job. Powell accepted.
One of Powell’s first telephone calls was to Army Chief Vuono; the two had agreed previously that they would let each other know if they heard even a low-grade rumor about the debate over the next Chairman.
“You and I made a deal that I’d call you,” Powell said, “and I’m calling you.”
Vuono, who had been senior to Powell for the last 31 years, was now going to be the junior.
“The chiefs will support you,” Vuono said, after offering his congratulations. “The only thing they want is to know what’s going on. The only thing you do, if you’re going to err, err on the side of keeping the chiefs too informed.” He told Powell that as Chairman he would be the one to carry the chiefs’ freight across the river to the White House. The chiefs would rely on him for this, Vuono said, because they did not attend the all-important NSC meetings.
Later that day, Cheney went to the Tank and informed the chiefs. Word of the Powell appointment immediately leaked out all over the building and to the news media.
Crowe called Powell in Atlanta to say congratulations. Since Powell had to come to Washington the next day for the official announcement at the White House, Crowe invited him and Alma to dinner.
The Powells arrived at Quarters 6, the Chairman’s official residence, an unremarkable red brick house at Fort Myer, Virginia, at 7:30 p.m. As the couples talked about the personal details of the Chairman’s life—the house, the aides, family, the protocol, the routine—Crowe looked listless, even sleepy.
But he bounced back when he started talking about his friend Marshal Akhromeyev. Now a top Gorbachev adviser, Akhromeyev had been in the United States just two weeks before to testify before the House Armed Services Committee and give some speeches. Crowe, who had accompanied his Soviet friend to Chicago, began offering Powell a few thoughts about the marshal, and the importance of having a direct line into the Soviet military.
“Oh, I’ve met Akhromeyev,” Powell interjected, with a slight, dismissive shake of his head. Powell was determined not to treat the Soviet relationship as Crowe had—no tripping around the country with Akhromeyev. It didn’t make public relations sense for the Chairman to be publicly chummy with a Soviet marshal when the Pentagon was trying to fund new strategic weapons like the Stealth bomber to meet the Soviet threat.
Crowe thought: there is not much you can tell a former national security adviser.
Later that month, Bush went to Kennebunkport, Maine, for a two-and-a-half-week vacation at his summer house on Walker’s Point. While he was there, he received a friendly phone call from P. X. Kelley, the retired Commandant of the Marine Corps, who was also vacationing in the area. Bush invited Kelley over to Walker’s Point for dinner and asked the former member of the Joint Chiefs how he thought Powell would be received among the upper ranks of the military, the officers who had more seniority than their new Chairman.
