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An ophthalmologist was summoned to pluck out Reagan’s contact lenses. He found one in the president’s right eye and removed it by hand. He saw nothing in the left eye. Perhaps Reagan had not replaced it after his speech; it might also have popped out when the president was pushed into the limousine, or it might have been removed in the ER.

An anesthesiologist injected drugs into an IV line and within seconds Reagan was unconscious. Lichtman began the intubation process, which would make it possible for a machine to breathe for the president. First, he pressed his thumb and forefingers on a small ring of cartilage near Reagan’s Adam’s apple to close off the esophagus; this prevents vomit from getting into the windpipe and lungs, an important precaution because the president had just eaten lunch. Next, another anesthesiologist, George Morales, inserted a breathing tube into the president’s throat and slipped it into his trachea. A small balloon was inflated at the tip of the tube, sealing it into place. Using bags, anesthesiologists began pumping air into Reagan’s lungs; as surgery progressed, a machine could also be used to supply air.

For a moment, silence filled the room.

It was just after 3:08 p.m.

*   *   *

A
N HOUR EARLIER
, Richard Allen, the national security advisor, had been taking a rare midday swim at the University Club, an exclusive athletic facility near the Soviet embassy. As he completed his twentieth lap, his military driver, Joe Bullock, tapped him on the head and said he was needed at the White House because “something terrible has happened.” Allen bolted from the pool and was still buttoning his shirt when he dashed out the club’s doors.

When Allen’s driver pulled into the White House grounds just after 2:50 p.m., he nearly collided with the sedan ferrying Jim Baker and Ed Meese to the hospital. Inside, Allen’s first stop was the office of the chief of staff, where he witnessed Al Haig’s futile attempt to talk with the vice president on Air Force Two. Then the two men and a number of other Reagan aides headed for the Situation Room, where they could consult in a secure setting.

Located on the ground floor of the West Wing, the Situation Room was in fact a group of offices and high-tech communications areas where staff members monitored a steady stream of diplomatic cables and intelligence bulletins from around the world. The complex had been built in 1961 after President Kennedy grew frustrated by the slow arrival of information during the Bay of Pigs crisis. Two decades later, information from all over the government flowed into the Situation Room through secure phone lines, clattering teletypes, and advanced fax machines.

Central to the complex was the part the press and public thought of as the Situation Room, a cramped, wood-paneled conference room illuminated by bright fluorescent lights. At the center of the room was a nine-and-a-half-foot polished hardwood table surrounded by comfortable striped chairs on rollers. Mounted on the wall was a small color television, and there was a receptacle for a secure telephone. Richard Allen, whose office was just a few steps away and who used the conference room more than anyone in the administration, had personally ensured that the room contained no other televisions or even a phone. He didn’t want distractions: the room was a place for serious consultation, not mindless chatter.

At about 3:15 p.m., Allen sat down at the conference table across from the television. Haig took a seat across from him. Others joined them, including Donald Regan, the Treasury secretary; Fred Fielding, the White House counsel; and David Gergen, the White House staff director. Soon they were joined by William French Smith, the attorney general, and Dan Murphy, Bush’s chief of staff.

Everyone in the room was anxious to know what was happening at the hospital, but reports were scattered and incomplete. The White House Communications Agency was setting up a command post in GW, but for the moment the hospital’s phone lines were overwhelmed and sometimes went dead. In the meantime, Allen and Haig began analyzing a flood of information coming into the White House about the gunman, the status of U.S. forces around the globe, and the current movements of the Soviet military. They also asked Gergen to draft a statement that would reassure the American public and the world that the government was functioning smoothly despite the crisis.

By now, Allen and the others had heard from Jim Baker, who called from the hospital to report that the president had walked into GW under his own power, was in stable condition, and was being examined by doctors. According to Baker, surgeons were still weighing whether to operate. Allen had been relieved to learn that Reagan’s condition was stable, but he also knew that any gunshot wound had to be taken seriously. He prayed that the president would pull through.

Now, as he worked at the conference table, Allen’s attention was drawn to the television, where a newscast was replaying the shooting. “Oh, Jesus, God,” Allen said. The sight of James Brady lying on the sidewalk was particularly wrenching; the two men were neighbors in Arlington, and Allen often gave the press secretary a ride to work. In recent months, they had become good friends.

After the video replay ended, the national security advisor leaned toward Fielding, his closest friend in the administration. “Remind me to tell you a sensation, an incredible sensation I had,” Allen said. “I had a premonition.”

On his way to his swim at the University Club, Allen’s car had pulled alongside another. The driver of the other car had looked a bit shady, and for no reason at all Allen suddenly felt vulnerable.
You know,
he thought,
that guy could take me out if he wanted to.
Allen, who had declined government bodyguards, was a devout Catholic and an optimist, and he was not inclined toward paranoia. In fact, he couldn’t recall another time he had felt so exposed.

Haig, too, had watched the news report, but now he turned away from the television and brought everyone back to the work at hand. What’s important, Haig said, is that everybody stay together. “We’ll decide here what the hell we are doing. That’s the best way, always.”

Haig was particularly concerned lest any officials try their hand at “playing public relations”—to avoid creating panic, it was critical that the administration speak with one voice. But Haig and Allen both understood that this would be difficult, since the press secretary was gravely wounded and his backup, Larry Speakes, was with Baker and Meese at the hospital. That left Gergen and Frank Ursomarso, the director of the White House office of communications, to deliver the news. Each had dealt extensively with the media but never under such trying circumstances.

A moment later, Gergen appeared and passed a hastily drafted statement to Haig, who began to read it aloud. “‘This is to confirm the statements made at George Washington Hospital that the president was shot once, in the left side, as he left the hotel,’” Haig said, jotting notes as he went. “‘His condition is stable. We are informed by James Baker that a decision is now being made…’”

Haig paused, obviously unhappy with the rest of Gergen’s sentence.

Allen jumped in: “‘… as to the course of medical treatment’?” he asked. “Are we going to say the word ‘operate’?”

“‘Whether or not to operate now to remove the bullet,’” Haig said slowly, pausing as he made corrections on Gergen’s draft.

After a few more minutes of work, the brief statement was nearly finished. Before it was done, though, Haig made sure that it mentioned that the secretary of state was among those in the Situation Room.

*   *   *

O
UTSIDE THE HOSPITAL
, a growing horde of reporters was becoming impatient for news. At least two journalists had already slipped into the hospital and had had to be escorted out by officials. Scores of others prowled the grounds, interviewing patients, employees, bystanders—anybody who might have something to say about the shooting and Reagan’s condition.

Jim Baker knew that the administration had to provide some information about the president before things got out of hand. Skeptical that Larry Speakes, the deputy press secretary, could handle the assignment, Baker deputized Lyn Nofziger—a top political aide who had also made his way to GW—to talk to the media. Though Nofziger had handled press for Reagan when he was the governor of California, he was not an ideal spokesman in the television age. Gruff and quick-witted, he had bags under his eyes, wore a ragged goatee, and favored rumpled sports coats and loosely knotted ties. Still, he had a sharp mind, and he was easily the most experienced and unflappable public relations staffer at the hospital. Standing in front of a line of reporters not far from GW’s emergency entrance, Nofziger clutched notes he had scribbled on the back of pink hospital record sheets. A Secret Service agent shadowed his every move.

“We have this information,” Nofziger said, his voice grave but confident. “The president was shot once in the left chest. The bullet entered from the left side. He is conscious. He is in stable condition. That is literally all I can tell you at this time.”

“The president?” a reporter asked.

“The president.”

“Was anybody else shot?”

“Off the wires, I understand that three people were shot, including Jim Brady, the press secretary. I do not know how serious that wound is.… I have no information on the condition of the other persons.”

“Was the president’s heart endangered by the shot?”

“No.”

Nofziger began walking up and down the line of journalists, punctuating each answer with a quick movement of his right hand.

“Is the bullet still in his body?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in surgery?”

“At this moment, he is not undergoing surgery,” Nofziger said, although he had just seen Reagan being wheeled to the operating room. “I don’t know whether he will.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Did he seem seriously injured?”

“Obviously a wound in the chest is a serious wound.”

*   *   *

I
N
O
PERATING
R
OOM
2, Wesley Price, one of the doctors who had initially treated the president, prepared Reagan’s abdomen by bathing the area from his ribs to his groin in antiseptic. Though the belly tap itself would require only a small incision, Price sterilized a large part of Reagan’s body in case the surgical team encountered unanticipated problems. If they found damage below the diaphragm, for instance, they might decide to perform immediate abdominal surgery. As for the president’s chest wound, Ben Aaron was also preparing for the unexpected. He had ordered that a heart bypass machine be placed on standby, just in case Reagan’s heart had been nicked by the bullet and needed to be repaired.

Before the surgery got under way, a nurse changed the Pleur-evac container. It now held 2.275 liters of blood, about 35 percent of the president’s total blood volume. David Gens, standing at the foot of the operating table, was shocked. The bleeding hadn’t significantly slowed since they’d inserted the chest tube.

At 3:26 p.m., an hour after Reagan had been shot, Joe Giordano asked for a No. 10 blade and made an inch-long vertical incision just two inches below the president’s belly button. He then sliced through three layers of tissue and fat before poking through the peritoneum, the thin sheet of tissue that encloses the abdomen. Using forceps, he passed a needle trailing surgical thread through the tissue, creating a so-called purse-string suture, like the cord on a duffel bag. He inserted a small catheter into the hole and pulled tight on the thread, drawing the wound taut around the thin tube.

Another surgeon injected a liter of sterile saline solution through the tube and into the president’s abdomen. Nurses and doctors jiggled the president’s body to ensure the saline made its way around all the organs. If the solution came back clear, the president was probably free from abdominal injury. If it came back red or pink, the surgical team would learn that his wound was even more serious than they had believed.

For the moment, there was nothing to do but wait.

CHAPTER 12

A QUESTION OF AUTHORITY

At about 3:30, Richard Allen slipped out of the conference room and walked to his office, just outside of the Situation Room’s communications area. Joining him was the secretary of defense, Caspar Weinberger, who had arrived minutes earlier from the Pentagon. Together, they took a call from Ed Meese at the hospital.

Meese reported that the president was unconscious and that doctors were about to perform surgery, although Meese did not want that information to be made public yet. He then reminded Weinberger that the secretary of defense had command authority over all U.S. forces—that is, in absence of the president and vice president, Weinberger could deploy troops, planes, and nuclear weapons under certain circumstances or in response to an attack. The three men then discussed how to frame statements issued by the White House. They agreed to be as candid as possible, but they also wanted to downplay the extent of the crisis. It would be a mistake, they felt, to unnecessarily worry the American public or to send enticing signals to enemies.

“What we want to do is to mainly indicate that he is not in any major danger,” Meese said.

“You think this an appropriate time now to [communicate] with foreign governments?” Weinberger asked.